Chapter One: Decisions

A/N: I have taken some dialogue verbatim from Tolkien. I am referring to the conversation between Thranduil and Thorin, which comes from Chapter 8 “Flies and Spiders,” specifically page 153 of Houghton Mifflin’s paperback edition of The Hobbit.

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“Explain to me again why the dwarf must be kept imprisoned.”

Thranduil sighed at his fourth child. The elven-king had been scouring his own mind for an answer to this very question, but he did not like to be pressed by his children. What else am I supposed to do with it? Thranduil demanded of himself. He could not very well let the dwarf go crashing mindlessly through the forest, attracting spiders and Valar knew what else near the settlements of his people, much as this particular dwarf and his group of half-witted companions had already accomplished the previous night. He would eat his staff before he actually accorded a dwarf the honor and respect of being a guest in his halls. Furthermore, the dwarf was lying to him.

Elves are keenly observant beings and can readily spot falseness in the voice and manner of those treating with them. Thranduil was an elven-king and so had honed his perceptiveness to a truly frightening caliber. The king of the Woodland Realm knew without a flicker of doubt that this dwarf was hiding information. Still prevaricating on an answer to his son’s question, Thranduil recalled to mind the events of the night before.

Thranduil had not yet been asleep, but had nevertheless been peeved to be disturbed so late at night by an urgent summons from his guards. He had been informed that a group of dwarves had been brash enough to three times surprise a party of wood-elves making merry below the stars. This circumstance alone was enough to annoy the king. He had expressly forbidden such gatherings of his people beyond a safe distance from their settlement, especially so late at night. Thranduil was aware that certain of the younger elves thought themselves invincible and so took it upon themselves to make mischief in the dark. He had had choice words for those individuals last night, especially as he discovered that certain of the bolder youths had thought that impersonating the elven-king had been a commendable activity.

Then, came the reality that the dwarves had not been marked until they had entered the light thrown by the elves’ fire. Dwarves are not capable of stealth or silent maneuvering. This was a fact. Furthermore, elves are gifted with exceptional hearing and sight. This was another fact. And yet, to Thranduil’s intense mortification, the dwarves had managed to steal upon the wood-elves unawares. The logic presented itself in his mind that the young elves engaged in the foolish business had been drinking heavily and so might have had their senses slightly dulled by strong wine. Nevertheless, the elven-king was incensed that not only had the stunted creatures managed stealth, but also that the rest of them had escaped.

For it was only too true. The elves—elflings, Thranduil corrected himself—in the forest had only managed to return one dwarf to the king’s halls. Oropher’s son surmised this was because the dwarf had helpfully fallen asleep and the wood-elves had practically tripped over the creature in their haste to flee. Thranduil had borne impatient witness to the group of elflings as they had fearfully described, “countless dwarves attacking them” in the dark of night. His guard had already corrected the estimate to a mere twelve dwarves. The young elves had been reprimanded and were no doubt enjoying further punishment courtesy of their parents. Despite their successful capture of one dwarf, the merrymaking youths were hardly worthy of congratulations.

And this left Thranduil with one lying dwarf. An honest dwarf would be a contradiction in terms, the king mused. His eyes narrowed as he remembered the conversation between himself and the creature in question.

“Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?” Thranduil had decided to omit extraneous information, such as the age of the merry elves in question, as well as the unlikeliness of the dwarves’ staging an attack at all. The elven-king had inherited a particularly low opinion of the children of Aulë, but he did not yet believe them mad enough to propose to assail a group of elves within their own land. Nevertheless, Thranduil often thought it best to begin interrogations with an especially black circumstance and see if the victim could manage a redeeming explanation.

“We did not attack them,” the dwarf had replied, “we came to beg, because we were starving.”

It was thusly that the creature had begun to lie. Thranduil knew that above all else, dwarves were proud and stubborn beings. As such, he was certain that a dwarf would never beg unless death was the only option. The king considered a moment and revised that opinion: dwarves would never beg from elves despite death being the only alternative. Satisfied with this conclusion, Thranduil had regarded the creature in front of him. True, it looked slightly emaciated for a dwarf, which may have supported its claim to lack of food. However, despite the impression made from the dwarf’s slightness, greater still was the mark of its pride.

For this particular dwarf would not be cowed. The creature had puffed itself up to its full height, or lack thereof, and pride had blazed out of its eyes and in the commanding ring of its voice. Thranduil had wondered whether the creature was indeed a leader of others, and how he dared presume to assert his authority here, in the halls of an elven-king, whilst a prisoner. Intrigued despite the circumstances, Thranduil had pressed the dwarf further.

“Where are your friends now, and what are they doing?” The elven-king was actually well aware of the location and activities of the rest of the group, as he had set spies upon them as soon as he had been apprised of the situation. He knew that twelve dwarves were asleep, huddled together under the trees. He was curious to test the creature and discover if it would continue in falsehood.

“I don’t know, but I expect starving in the forest.” The dwarf had glared angrily at Thranduil.

The king of the Woodland Realm had raised an eyebrow. He sincerely doubted whether the greedy creatures would actually succumb to total starvation and expire in the forest. True, game was scarce, but there were nuts and berries aplenty if one knew where to look. Dwarves had obviously never bothered with basic survival techniques, and Thranduil could not say he pitied them. Still, the dwarf’s answer was not entirely misleading, and so the elven-king chose to relieve his most urgent doubt.

“What were you doing in the forest?” For this problem had been nagging Thranduil ever since the first word of the dwarves' invasion had come to his attention. Dwarves did not travel through Mirkwood, and they never, ever came from the south. If a dwarven party should brave the forest, as every few odd decade or so they happened to do, then they would venture from the east and creep cautiously along the elven path running west to east through the trees. Or they would be spotted much farther north, on the very borders of the forest, skirting furtively and avoiding the goblins and orcs hailing from the Grey Mountains.  

But to come from the south…this should not be. Thranduil deeply mistrusted the purpose of these creatures to be discovered so far east in the forest, and yet clearly working their way northwards. Perhaps the group had been waylaid on the Old Forest Road and scattered from their original direction? Thranduil’s mind refused to accept this possibility. That Road had become impassable almost two-score years ago and the dwarves were well aware of this fact. Nay, to come from the south could only suggest one origin: Dol Guldur.

The name itself was painful to Thranduil and he could feel the whispers of darkness in the edges of his mind. He knew what force lived in the dark tower and bred the spreading evil that poisoned what once was Greenwood and had become Mirkwood. The White Council had denied reality for longer than Thranduil had had patience to accept. Saruman had hesitated too long. Mithrandir, Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel, Radagast…all of them had trusted too long. Dwarves had allied with the Enemy before, and as far as Thranduil could see, they had done so once more.

All of these thoughts had raced through the elven-king’s mind in the barest of seconds it took for the dwarf to answer his question.

“Looking for food and drink, because we were starving,” the dwarf had challenged.

Thranduil’s eyes had narrowed, and he had gifted the dwarf with one of his darker and more piercing glares.

“But what brought you into the forest at all?” the king had demanded with his last shred of patience and goodwill in actually accepting the dwarf’s story.

The dwarf had remained silent. His eyes had glinted with an unspoken threat, and beneath their fiery gaze, Thranduil had discerned a flicker of mockery, of fear, and most puzzling of all, of longing. The dwarf’s obstinacy had pushed the king of the Woodland Realm to his decision.

“Very well!” Thranduil had barked to his captive. “Take him away and keep him safe, until he feels inclined to tell the truth, even if he waits a hundred years.” He had motioned to the guards, who had quickly bound the dwarf’s hands behind his back and had led him from the hall.

Who are you and what is your purpose, dwarf? Thranduil had silently asked the creature’s receding figure as it was taken from his presence. More alarming was the information being kept from him, and the elven-king did not relish surprises in these darkening days. This was why the dwarf was now being kept in the lower halls, locked in an empty storeroom.

Jerking his mind away from the events of the night before, Thranduil forced himself to focus on his fourth child. To his credit, Hananuir was waiting patiently for his father’s answer.

“The dwarf is withholding information. He lied to me last night and if his purpose were indeed honest, he would have had no need for concealment.”

Hananuir snorted, “Adar, would you make a clean breast of your actions if you had been captured in a dwarven realm?”

Beside Hananuir, his elder brother Girithron rolled his eyes. “The situation could not possibly ever be reversed, muindor.”

As Hananuir shifted his glare to his brother, Thranduil smiled for the support of his third-born, and, after Dagorlad, his heir. An elf would never be caught anywhere near a dwarven realm, much less would an elf actually be captured by the loud and clumsy earth-diggers.

“No matter,” Hananuir continued, “if the dwarf is not telling us all, then is keeping him locked up going to improve his humor? Perhaps if we released him, he would be more willing to provide information?”

Thranduil had already thought of this and ultimately decided against it. The dwarf’s pride would not be easily smoothed with a change of rooms and a sudden smattering of courtesy.

Ignoring his brother’s comment, Girithron addressed his father. “Perhaps one of the other dwarves might have a looser tongue?”

Thranduil did not need to be goaded, as he had been debating this particular decision since yesterday night. For now, he had been content to let the other dwarves remain unknowingly guarded since he had not been quite sure what to do with the lot of them. He had been hoping that their leader would have provided some reason upon which Thranduil could act, but the dwarf had remained stubbornly mute. Still undecided, the elven-king turned to his only daughter.

“Gwiwileth, what say you?”

Greenwood’s princess had once been fair, full of light and beauty. Yet, she had been born long before the tumultuous events that ended the Second Age, and sorrow was writ clearly in all her features.

“The dwarves were found heading north,” she replied quietly. “It would not be prudent to let them leave without first understanding their purpose.”

Gwiwileth often spoke in riddles and subtle hints. Thranduil suspected that she could no longer bear to confront the harsh truths of their existence, and he lamented that he would soon lose her to Valinor.

The king nodded at his daughter before turning his attention to his youngest son. The last prince of the Greenwood was substantially younger than the rest of his siblings, and Thranduil knew this last son often complained of having three fathers and one mother, rather than one father, two brothers, and a sister.

“Legolas?” the elven-king inquired. “What are your thoughts on this matter?”   

The fair-haired elf started at being included in the discussion. He scanned his family members, and with apparent reluctance, addressed his father.

“It is strange to find a group of dwarves wandering through the forest without keeping to the path,” he admitted, “but were they truly in service to the Enemy, they would not have behaved as they had.”

“Oh no? You think that it was not their intent to attack the youths who were feasting?” Girithron challenged.

“But they did not attack!” Hananuir gestured impatiently.

“Know you their purpose, muindor?” Mirkwood’s crown prince suggested darkly.

“Nay, but— ”

“Then how can you conclude they mean us no ill?

“I made no such assertion! My idea is simply that whatever the dwarves are up to, we will not find it out if we keep their leader locked in a storeroom!”

“Enough!” Thranduil silenced Hananuir and Girithron, who usually ended up at odds in any debate.

In the quiet that followed, Legolas spoke again. “Perhaps the scouts have learned aught of their intentions or plans in the time since the watch was set.”

Thranduil nodded at his youngest. It had not escaped the elven-king that Legolas often betrayed an insight at odds with his relatively youthful experience. Having not quite reached his first millennia, Greenwood’s third prince was usually overlooked in important matters, and Thranduil had recently begun a campaign to end that neglect. It was the father’s belief that evil aged elves faster than the course of time.

Thranduil was about to open his mouth in praise when the captain of his guard strode into the small breakfast chamber the family usually occupied for private discussions.

“My lords, my lady,” Malaithlon nodded tersely and spoke rapidly. “We have pulled our watch from the dwarvesfor we have been beset by many spiders. Seeking to distract the main body, our scouts have led them north, but they were too many for us. Apparently, a group split off from the host with which we battled and returned to the dwarves. They have been captured. Further, before we could kill all the spiders that we fought, the creatures suddenly abandoned the fight and retreated. We dared not pursue them, for our numbers were too few. I await your orders.”

Thranduil stiffened upon hearing the news and quickly sought Girithron’s gaze. The time for discussions was over. As the Crown Prince, his third-born commanded Mirkwood’s warriors.

“How many spiders?” Girithron demanded Malaithlon.

“From what we observed, not less than two hundred.”

Girithron cursed, sharing Thranduil’s horror that so many spiders had amassed unchecked this close to the king’s halls. However, explanations would have to wait.

“Malaithlon, gather your scouts, as well as the auxiliary guard company and meet us at the bridge.” The elf nodded and departed immediately. “Hananuir and Legolas, group your patrols and be at the Gate ready for battle. I will do the same. We will leave none alive.” Girithron pounded his fist on the wooden dining table.

“To the Gate, then.” Thranduil rose fluidly as he sons sprang into action. The proud dwarf would have to wait. As for the dwarf’s companions, Thranduil grimaced. He was not about to risk the lives of his people to save a few odd dwarves. However, he could not let such a large army of spiders remain unchallenged, and he would not allow the dark creatures to feed and grow stronger. As was usual in dark times, Thranduil’s decisions were being made for him. It seemed that ere nightfall, the wood-elves would have to empty twelve more storerooms, as they would soon be holding thirteen dwarves captive.

***

Translations:

Adar: Father

Muindor: Brother

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

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More notes! Thank you for reading! It has been a while since I’ve written any fanfiction, so in the spirit of deep humility, I have mustered the courage to ask if anyone with some free time would like to beta? Not only would I appreciate the writing edits, but also it’s always nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of before I get too invested in them and belatedly realize they don’t make sense. Please don’t post in the comments, but rather email me estel_mi_olor@hotmail.com if you’re interested. That way we can keep everything all nice and anonymous. And I apologize if this isn’t the proper way of going about soliciting betas, but I’ve been too removed from SoA in the past few years to know the changes. Sorry that was long…

Chapter Two: A Song Amidst Cobwebs

A/N Once again, I have taken some material directly from The Hobbit.  I am referring to the two songs that Bilbo sings in “Flies and Spiders,” which are on page 145 of the Houghton Mifflin paperback edition.

Special thanks to Kayson135 for betaing this chapter.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Members of Legolas’s Patrol: Calethor, Tuinir, Sarnon, Raenlas, Aewenor, Galadthor, Lithanuir

Helediron—elf in Hananuir’s Patrol

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Legolas whistled twice as he veered sharply to the left, knowing that the elves fighting under his command would fan out according to the signal. He stopped running and drew an arrow to his bow. He waited until an answering whistle from far to the right denoted that the warriors were in place. Relaxing his fingers slightly, the prince of Mirkwood sent an arrow whistling to crunch into his victim below.

Suddenly, the previously still forest was alive with the crashing bodies of spiders as they fell from the trees, caught completely unawares by the elves. Screeches and hisses filled the air as the spiders manifested their hatred and sought to reorganize themselves. The sounds of clacking pincers and too many legs skittering across branches became overwhelming.

Legolas spun quickly as a spider dropped suddenly from the branch above his head. Drawing a knife, he swiftly impaled the creature before it could sting him. The young archer grimaced as he turned to meet ten more spiders, materializing out of seemingly nowhere in the tree in which he was perched. The prince still remembered a time when battling spiders during the light of day did not exist. Many years ago, the foul creatures would merely hide by day and wait until the dark of night before pressing an attack. That was also before spiders learned group formation, Legolas mused as he remarked upon the odd coordination of the spiders advancing upon him. He had dispatched four of them, and the elf briefly wondered where the others had gone, when a sudden sticky substance falling on his head provided the answer.

With a shout, Legolas leapt nimbly from the tree. Jittering excitedly, the spiders hurried behind him, believing they had successfully cornered their prey. Barely touching the forest floor, the prince spun and shot two of the oncoming spiders before they had arrived fully on the ground. The other two became knife-work but were quickly destroyed. Legolas paused and registered that the last two spiders had not followed him out of the tree. He rotated himself rapidly, checking the position of the others in his patrol. Spider carcasses were piling up quickly, and Legolas nodded grimly as he ascertained that no elves had yet been injured.

And yet, more came. The prince found himself back to back with his second in command, as Legolas hacked at spiders with his knives, and Calethor skewered the creatures with his sword.

“Think you Girithron is herding them south?”

Legolas tore cobwebs from his hair with a free hand, as he answered, “Nay, for he would have sought to warn us!”

“Then Malaithlon’s estimate is short!”

The prince did not answer as he suddenly lost hold of the hilt of one of his knives. The weapon was buried in a spider’s body, and Legolas had not been able to twist it out fast enough before the creature had collapsed backwards, only to be replaced by another spider.

“Legolas! Calethor! Dive!” Tuinir’s cry prompted the prince to duck before the oncoming spiders and roll toward the sound of the voice. Calethor had done the same, and over their heads Legolas registered the familiar whoosh of elven arrows and the crunching thud of a well-met target.

Straightening immediately, Legolas pivoted and turned his attention to an elven cry of surprise. He cursed as he realized that one of the youngest elves had been ensnared by the spiders and was trapped in their sticky web. Running towards the spiders converging on the helpless elf, Legolas noted that all of his warriors were outnumbered. The prince realized that he was on his own to free Sarnon, and this sobering fact provided the extra burst of energy he needed to arrive seconds before the spiders could poison their victim.

Shouting fiercely, Legolas hoped to momentarily distract the creatures before they could carry through their feeding ritual. The trick worked, and he was able to fell two spiders before the others were able to reorganize. The prince wedged himself between the body of his warrior and the other spiders. Legolas stood with his knives drawn in tense preparation for the spiders’ advance. However, they did not press in upon him as he anticipated. This was unusual behavior for spiders, he noted, since they usually attacked without a plan in a mass of eagerness, which inevitably resulted in fatal confusion. A sudden jeering cackle behind him made Legolas suddenly realize that he had been surrounded. He sifted through the sounds of battle around him to reveal the specific noises of eight spiders that now grouped around him and Sarnon.

The spiders began to clack their pincers, and Legolas set his teeth against the black language that evil creatures speak. Another elven cry sounded from farther away, and the prince decided he had been waiting long enough. Lunging to his right, Legolas impaled a spider, before whirling and stabbing its neighbor. The elf spun and ducked, knives flashing, in a macabre dance of death. As soon as the prince could boast an advantage, he slashed through the webbing binding Sarnon. The younger elf gasped for air as he fell forward on hands and knees from his sticky prison.

Legolas took up a protective stance before his warrior and waited grimly for another attack. It did not come. The prince bent and wiped his blades clean on the ground as he noted that the others in his patrol had also stopped fighting.

The spiders had been defeated.

Legolas raised his hand and the other elves grouped toward him. Sarnon was on his feet and blushed at his captain’s look of concern. Legolas nodded to the novice of the group, trusting that Sarnon had learned how to expect an attack from above when fighting spiders. The young captain then surveyed the faces of his warriors: none were seriously hurt. Legolas noted a few scratches, where the spiders’ sharp pincers had grazed the skin, as well as an array of cobwebs matting faces, hair, and clothing. Satisfied, Mirkwood’s last prince then eyed the bodies of the slain. Indeed, as Calethor had suggested, there were far too many spiders.

A slight breeze rustled among the warriors, and at any other time, Legolas would have been grateful for a breath of life amid the closeness of the forest. However, the wind rattled through the bodies of the spiders, serving as a reminder of the clicking and clacking sounds the creatures emitted in life. Eerily hollow noises filled the forest as the dead bodies were almost reanimated by the breeze. Besides the sounds of spiders, the wind also conveyed their smell. A dark stench was beginning to emanate from the corpses. The smell hinted at blood and rot and something acrid, which Legolas had always surmised belonged particularly to spiders.

The prince did not realize he had been holding his breath until the wind died away, and the elves were left in deep silence.

Exhaling softly, Legolas indicated that the elves should now retrieve their arrows. As his patrol spread out, the prince turned his attention to the runner of his patrol. “Raenlas?” A very slight elf bowed. “Report to Hananuir. Tell him also that we will veer west, and if he can, ask him to cross the river and meet us by the fork. If you can gather news of Girithron’s group, that would be well.”

As Raenlas retreated into the treetops, Legolas allowed himself another grim moment of surveying the dead. The sheer number of spiders was especially disgusting, and he felt his stomach twist and clench.

Suddenly, Legolas stiffened and felt his warriors imitate his actions. For borne on another wisp of wind, barely discernible, and at the limits of his hearing, Legolas heard…singing.

Indeed, the voice was coming closer and the elves began to understand the words to the song.

Old fat spider spinning in a tree!

Old fat spider can’t see me!

      Attercop! Attercop!

            Won’t you stop,

Stop your spinning and look for me?

Legolas had never heard anything so ridiculous in his entire life. He practically gaped at Calethor, who stared back in absolute confusion. Astonished murmurs betrayed the feelings of the rest of the group. Despite his utter bafflement, Legolas signaled silently for the elves to take to the trees. The young archer could not begin to imagine what kind of creature would be responsible for the song, but he would not be caught off-guard, as the voice appeared to be approaching. The words of the song wove an irregular path through the trees, and Legolas half suspected the creature responsible had been drinking.

Old Tomnoddy, all big body,

Old Tomnoddy can’t spy me!

     Attercop! Attercop!

            Down you drop!

You’ll never catch me up your tree!

From his vantage point on a sturdy branch, Legolas had to fight an insane desire to laugh. He imagined himself gasping for air as he fell against the tree trunk, helplessly victimized by his mirth.

However, the prince did not succumb to the hilarity of the moment, and instead strained his hearing further to try to discover the source of the voice. But Legolas did not achieve his purpose, as the rapid scuttling of more spiders announced that the battle was far from over.

Doubtless, the spiders are attracted to that inane song! Legolas silently cursed the being that was perhaps unwittingly betraying their position.

The prince did not have to bother to wait to signal his warriors, for twenty spiders closed in quickly. The fight was entirely one-sided, and the spiders had barely a chance to turn and face their attackers before seven elven bows sounded in unison.

Legolas narrowed his eyes as the sound of more singing could now be distinguished. Gesturing silently to his warriors, the prince began to close the distance between themselves and the voice. He did not need to urge caution, for the elves moved soundlessly through the trees, with barely a whisper or rustling leaf to announce their presence.

Breathing softly, Legolas lead his patrol forward, all the while listening sharply to the unseen voice. The elves crept silently through the trees, and Legolas sensed they were closing in upon the voice. As it began to sing once more, the prince was certain that in another few seconds, the patrol would meet the creature head-on.

Lazy Lob and crazy Cob

Are weaving webs to wind me,

I am far more sweet than other meat,

But still they cannot find me!

Shaking his head and deciding that the singing creature was apparently suicidal, Legolas briefly entertained the notion that one of the renegade dwarves from the previous night had lost its mind. He knew that it was not a dwarven voice, however, since the depth and timbre were much shallower than a dwarf’s usual bass or baritone. Nor was it an elven voice since the accent was decidedly foreign. Could it be a man, then? 

Here I am, naughty little fly;

You are fat and lazy.

You cannot trap me, though you try,

In your cobwebs crazy.

Legolas’s musings were abruptly cut short as the elven patrol suddenly found itself practically colliding with an entire army of spiders. Recovering from the surprise much faster than the enraged spiders, Legolas and his archers quickly took action. Cursing himself for falling prey to the distraction of the song, Legolas knew he should have heard the spiders’ approach. Half expecting to spot a man amidst the spiders, Mirkwood’s youngest prince drew unusually careful aim. He noted that his warriors were also searching for the source of the voice. Satisfied that the victim would not escape them, Legolas allowed himself to relax slightly under the circumstances.

Barely a few minutes into the battle, the spiders began to retreat. The creatures hissed and sputtered as they careened into each other and the tree limbs in their mad haste to escape the deadly rain of elven arrows.

Whistling thrice, Legolas indicated for his patrol to pursue the fleeing spiders. The prince drew, aimed, and released automatically as his feet found secure footholds in the tree limbs without the help of his eyes. He had spaced his warriors close enough together that none would be able to pass through their ranks unawares. Confident that the singer was trapped in the melee, Legolas focused on the clicking mass of creatures in front of him. The prince let his eyes range over the army, in an effort to gauge their numbers, and in horror, he suddenly noticed that more than half of the spiders were retreating into the forest.

“Quickly! They are fleeing!” he shouted above the din, hoping to increase the rate of death his warriors were doling out.

The remaining spiders pressed forward, and Legolas knew that his small patrol could not possibly kill them fast enough to engage the ones that were retreating. Taking a gulp of air, the prince forced his mind to focus on the task at hand. Concentrate on what is essential. Prioritize, his mind told him. Legolas had intoned these words over centuries, and yet he often found himself pacing the worn road of the lessons to avoid panic during battle. His ritual worked, and he felt sharpness and clarity enter his mind. With the barest hint of a sigh, the prince allowed the retreating spiders to pass beyond his sight. He prayed that his brothers’ patrols would defeat them.

Drawing and aiming easily, Legolas killed off two more spiders. It occurred to the young captain that the spiders were fighting more half-heartedly than usual. The creatures possessed an especial hatred for elves, and the feeling was most definitely mutual. However, the prince began to suspect that something besides the elves had managed to spark the spiders’ ire today.

With a final hiss, the last spider died. The elves were left in silence. Now it was time to find the owner of the voice.

Legolas dropped silently out of his tree and noted that the elves had arrived in one of the clearings of the forest. His eyes narrowed as he observed that the spiders had woven webs between the trees, effectively seeking to cut off escape for any caught within the circle of trees. However, Legolas, frowned, the spiders had been unaware of the patrol. The creatures’ total shock at finding themselves opposite elven archers was testimony to that fact. Furthermore, elves did not usually travel on the ground, and the webs were all placed low. The sticky trap was not intended for elves.

This could only mean that the spiders had been chasing the singer, much in the same way that the elves had been seeking to track the stranger. Legolas felt tension in his shoulders as he studied the surrounding trees.

“There is nothing in the forest, Captain.” Tuinir voiced what each of the elves had undoubtedly realized. A brief scouting run confirmed the fact.

The owner of the voice had simply disappeared.

“What if it waited until we were occupied with the spiders to flee in the opposite direction?” Calethor suggested half-heartedly.

“And what about the spiders that retreated?” Sarnon added timidly. “Do you think they could have been chasing the singer?”

“Then you suggest that either the spiders or we ourselves crossed the singer without seeing it before it could double back.” Aewenor sounded skeptical.

“It did not pass us. Of this I am certain!” Galadthor was by far the veteran of the group and none challenged his assertion.

“But how did it then slip past the spiders? There were too many of them gathered to miss their prey.” Lithanuir gestured to the pile of spider carcasses.

Silence stretched among the patrol as each sought to compose a plausible explanation.

“Nay, we did not miss it,” Legolas reiterated glumly. “I fear,” he said reluctantly, “that the Enemy has employed some new magic in his attack. We will go no further today.” He realized that the afternoon shadows were fast waning and the day was closing. Legolas shook his head: the day had flown by with unusual haste and he was deeply confused by its events.

Suddenly, a sharp long whistle and a short whistle snapped the elves back to attention.

“Raenlas! They call for aid! Move!” Legolas bounded into the treetops and heard the warriors following suit. He cursed himself for having allowed such a large group of spiders to retreat into the forest and hoped that none had been injured because of his carelessness.

Ahead of him, he saw Raenlas waiting for the group’s approach. As Legolas drew near, the runner matched his stride and the two elves raced through the trees together.

“Hananuir’s group is surrounded.”

Legolas inhaled sharply. He knew then where that retreating group of spiders had gone, and it was entirely his fault.

Straining his senses for the sounds of a battle, the prince plowed ahead and very nearly knocked both himself and another elf out of a tree. Raenlas had been a step behind and quickly steadied Legolas as the other elf slumped against the tree trunk.

“Captain Legolas?”

Balanced once again, Mirkwood’s youngest recognized a warrior from Hananuir’s patrol. “Helediron?” he identified the figure.

A low whistle sounded on the ground below, and all three elves dropped from the branches at the gathering command.

“Well met, Legolas.” Hananuir approached from the middle of the small clearing in which both patrols now stood.  

“Hananuir, where are the spiders?” Legolas threw a sidelong look at Raenlas, who shrugged helplessly.

“That is just what we would like to know. Over fifty of them had us completely surrounded when all of sudden, they dispersed.” Hananuir spread his hands apart to emphasize the obvious lack of spiders in the clearing.

“We also engaged a group of them who retreated despite their greater numbers,” Legolas recalled.

Old fat spider spinning in a tree!

Old fat spider can’t see me!

      Attercop! Attercop!

            Won’t you stop,

Stop your spinning and look for me?

The song floated out of the shadows to the left of where the elves were grouped.

“There it is again!”

“It comes from the west now!”

“We heard it before.”

“The singing drew the spiders.”

Several voices began speaking at once and Hananuir had to follow the rising of his hand with a sharp whistle. Instantly, the elves were quiet.

With narrowed eyes, Hananuir scanned the surrounding forest. “After defeating a mid-sized group of spiders, we heard the first song. We then began been following the source of the voice when we met the second group of spiders. The third group must have surrounded us during the first minutes of our attack.”

“We too tried to track the singer, but somehow, we lost it. I do not understand how we have missed this creature!” Legolas balled his fists in frustration.

“Let us combine our forces then. Half of us will remain hidden in the trees and the rest will walk on the ground. We will not let this creature escape us again!” Hananuir was exceptionally even-tempered for an elf, but there was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

With no more noise than a passing shadow, the elves turned and headed deeper into the forest.

Legolas felt the tightness in his head that preceded a rare headache. He heard the name “Attercop” echoing in the deeper recesses of his mind and wondered what effect that train of thought would have on his sanity. He strained his hearing past the normal sounds of the forest, but nothing unusual triggered his senses. The singing had stopped.

Suddenly, Hananuir’s short whistle to halt resonated from the forest floor, and Legolas immediately stopped. He looked down to where he knew his brother stood and was momentarily baffled. The young archer dropped from the trees, as did the other elves not on the ground. The sixteen elves then examined the scene before them.

Scattered amidst the tree trunks and piled haphazardly atop one another lay the carcasses of spiders. The creatures were strewn along the path, almost as if in a perverse children’s game of tossing pebbles. Black blood oozed from the bodies, pooling in stinking clumps along the grass.

“Legolas,” Hananuir’s voice was barely a whisper, “did your patrol kill these spiders?”

Hardly daring to breathe, Legolas shook his head.

“Nor did ours.”

The two brothers contemplated the scene in silence.

Stiffening slightly, Legolas straightened as he registered the unmistakable tread of elven footfalls. Joining his brother’s glance, Hananuir looked northwards, as Girithron marched into the clearing, at the head of his patrol and the auxiliary guard company.

Stopping short at seeing the dead spiders, Girithron nodded abruptly. “Well,” he began, “I am pleased that you at least have pursued our enemies and destroyed them! We have been chasing shadows the entire day without sight or sound of any foe.”

Legolas stared incredulously at his brother while Hananuir replied tensely, “We did not kill these spiders.”

Lifting an eyebrow in a close approximation of their sire, Girithron asked, “Then who did, and what have you been doing?”

Brushing off the implied insult, Hananuir and Legolas recounted their various skirmishes throughout the day.

“How many spiders?”

“I would say at least two hundred-odd dead…not counting these,” Legolas gestured at the bodies in front of them.

“And another fifty retreated from my patrol before we met with Legolas,” Hananuir added. “They were headed south,” he specified, thereby negating the chance that those fifty now lay dead at the princes’ feet.

“About three hundred then.” Girithron frowned at the total. “I am concerned at the lapse of the Southern Company. These creatures should never have made it so far north.”

Uneasy silence met the crown prince’s observation.

With a sigh, Girithron broke the silence. “Come,” he gestured, “the day wanes quickly and it would be folly to remain outside the settlement tonight. We have much to report and many questions to answer ere daybreak.”

As the elves began the homeward march, Legolas could not resist delving into the most curious mystery of his day.

“Girithron, what did you think of the voice?”

“The voice?” The elder elf stopped in his tracks and regarded Legolas with concern. “You have been hearing a voice?”

“As did I! Both our patrols heard it as well, muindor, so do not seek to discredit Legolas. The voice was singing,” Hananuir muttered darkly.

“Singing?” Girithron could not quite keep the sarcasm from his voice. “And what did the voice sing?”

Trading an exasperated glance with Hananuir, Legolas shook his head firmly. Neither brother was about to embarrass himself with an elven rendition of the “Attercop Song,” as Mirkwood’s youngest had dubbed it.

“We will discuss the matter in the palace,” Hananuir smoothly cut across Girithron’s quiet chuckle.

Legolas let his brothers draw ahead as his head began to pound softly. In cruel mockery of his mental turmoil, his mind stirred and taunted him with the lyrics of the songs. With “Old Tomnoddy” and “Attercop” dancing circles in his brain, Legolas walked faster, hoping to erase one of the more baffling days of his life from his memory.

oooo

Translations:

Muindor: Brother

Chapter Three: Grave Matters

Special thanks to Kayson135 for betaing this chapter.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

oooo

Darkness had stolen across the fading twilight as the warriors reached the elven-king’s halls. In happier times, the palatial cavern had officially housed only the royal family, the court, and leading military commanders. Wood-elves infinitely preferred to live in flets among the trees rather than below ground. Settlements of elves had scattered across Mirkwood in days of peace. However, long had these elven abodes been emptied, and the smell of rotting wood was now the only hint of their existence in the stillness of the forest. As the shadow of Dol Guldur had spread, one by one the elven settlements had been attacked or abandoned. Now, there were no settlements south of the Mountains, and these were held precariously. Even dwelling places west of the king’s halls were slowly being disused as the settlers drifted closer to the safety of Thranduil’s halls. Now, most of the fleeing elves had established small colonies north of the cavern, and the area had become rather populous. Indeed, the northern borders of Thranduil’s halls could be likened to small city. Unfortunately, the high concentration of elves also led to an increase of traffic within the cavern itself.

The three princes of Mirkwood had dismissed their patrols after a brief discussion of the day’s events. None of the warriors had had any information to add, whether suggestion or observation made during the course of the day, which had not been already divulged earlier. So Girithron, Hananuir, and Legolas navigated among hurrying elves and groups of loiterers as they crossed into the private hallways and chambers of the royal palace. As they neared Thranduil’s study, the brothers met with Gwiwileth.

“Muindyr.” Her serious gaze slid among the trio. “Perhaps you wish to refresh yourselves before speaking with Adar,” she suggested calmly, her eyes coming to rest upon Legolas.

“Nay, muinthel,” Girithron countered, “we have pressing business.”

The small cuts and scrapes along Legolas’s hands, neck, and face had begun to sting. Spider scratches were not painful, but rather annoying to heal, as the cuts would swell and become angry, itchy welts before fading slowly. Beside Legolas, Hananuir’s nose wrinkled slightly, and the two brothers realized simultaneously that they carried the foul stench of spider upon their persons.

“Perhaps you should speak to Adar first, Girithron. Unfortunately, while you were strolling through the woods today, Legolas and I had slightly more disheveling encounters.” Hananuir smiled amiably at his brother’s frown.

Warming to the game, Girithron grinned suddenly. “Aye, you are both disgusting. Perhaps next time, you would do better to kill the spiders rather than fraternize with them.” He jovially waved his hands at his brothers’ clothes.

Straining his smile, Hananuir adopted a tragic voice, “Alas, but we had not that pleasure. We lacked your interpretative skills and so could not dialogue with our guests.”

Nodding sagely, Girithron drawled, “True, it appears that you could not communicate with them.” He winked conspiratorially at Gwiwileth. “However, it seems my absence hampered not your ability to comprehend them.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Hananuir replied, “Aye, it was truly fascinating to be privy to the intellectual debates of our eight-legged friends. It seems you are a frequent topic of conversation.”

Lifting his chin, Girithron smirked. “They have even composed songs in my honor, is that not so, Legolas?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically at his brothers, Legolas smiled in his turn. “Such praise indeed! If only Adar could hear the lyrics, he might add it to the court’s repertoire and we might enjoy it often.”

Hananuir sighed and remarked, “I, for one, would never tire of such melody.”

Shaking her head in amusement, Gwiwileth’s face threatened to break. The corners of her mouth were tugging imperceptibly upwards, and her brothers hoped to earn one of her rare smiles.

With a sideways glance at his sister, Girithron winked at Hananuir. “Perchance you would grace us with your interpretation, Legolas?”

The youngest prince of Mirkwood widened his eyes in feigned surprise. He drew a quick breath before replying, “I believe I require time alone to first rehearse before any performances.”

Girithron nodded sympathetically as Gwiwileth lost her battle against her countenance. The princess smiled softly, shaking her head in exasperation at the antics of her brothers. “Truly, muindyr,” she chastised lovingly, “I know not how the three of you captain others in your foolishness.”

“Such a feat should only heighten your respect for our abilities,” Hananuir declared boldly.

“Particularly our singing abilities, as Legolas will soon demonstrate.” Girithron grinned at his younger brother’s scowl.

“And what composition shall we be hearing?” Thranduil stood in the doorway to his study, elven eyebrow raised in inquiry, arms folded in a characteristic gesture of exasperation.

Legolas grimaced as four pairs of eyes came to rest on him. “I think Hananuir has a fairer voice than I, Adar,” the youngest prince stated humbly.

Thranduil studied his youngest for the barest of seconds. Turning to Hananuir, the elven-king scanned his fourth-born. His eyes paused upon Gwiwileth and softened, before he finally examined Girithron.

“Hananuir and Legolas, please clean yourselves and return in a manner befitting a prince of my house. Girithron shall report meanwhile.” The king indicated the open door of his study, into which the Crown Prince was ushered.

“Oh, Gwiwileth?” The king turned to his daughter as she made to leave the group.

“Adar?”  the princess inquired softly.

“Perhaps you will share with us what amuses you?” Thranduil was pleased at his daughter’s display of mirth, and he felt his own spirit lighten at the sight.

Gwiwileth surveyed her brothers for the barest of seconds. “Doubt not that Girithron will tell you, Adar,” she replied mysteriously before turning and disappearing down a corridor.

Stifling a laugh, Legolas turned quickly and walked to his chamber. He smirked at Hananuir as his brother rolled his eyes as he continued further down the hallway. A servant drew a bath and the prince was left alone. He stripped, wincing slightly as he brushed against the reddening welts of spider cuts. The young archer bathed quickly, dressed, and proceeded back to his father’s study, where he found Hananuir recently arrived, Girithron studying a goblet of wine, and Ivanneth sitting statuesquely at the back of the room.

Thranduil nodded at his youngest as Legolas took the last empty chair. “Now, then, that you all have arrived, I want to hear your accounts of what happened today in full detail.”

Hananuir began speaking immediately, and Legolas bowed his head as he concentrated on his brother’s tale. The story was almost identical to what had befallen the youngest prince’s patrol. Legolas frowned as he tried to reconcile Hananuir’s account with his own day. The young archer could not fathom how both groups of elves had heard the same songs, yet both patrols had been in different locations and neither group had seen the singer.

When it came his turn to speak, Legolas reluctantly shared his activities during the day. His eyes met those of Hananuir several times as the brothers relived the afternoon’s confusion. The young prince felt Girithron’s keen glance as well as Thranduil’s piercing stare focused on his person. As he spoke, Legolas was uncomfortably aware of how far away the quintet remained from answering the riddles of the day.

When Legolas had finished his account, all three brothers turned to face their father. Thranduil’s face was like stone and his children could not discern his thoughts.

“None of you saw anything unusual?” he finally asked wearily.

“Nay,” Hananuir answered as Legolas shook his head, and Girithron shrugged.

Thranduil sighed audibly in frustration.

“Saw you no tracks?” Ivanneth spoke suddenly, and Legolas started slightly. Thranduil’s advisor was capable of such stillness that the young prince sometimes forgot his presence.

“We saw naught.” Girithron glanced toward both Hananuir and Legolas. The former shook his head seriously, while the latter hesitated.

“I must confess, Ivanneth, Adar,” Legolas said humbly, “I did not examine the ground with the appropriate care to descry any foreign prints. I am afraid that I was preoccupied with the spiders, and for this, I must apologize.”

GIrithron rolled his eyes dramatically at his brother’s fastidiousness. Hananuir winced mentally, realizing that he too had overlooked this precaution. Thranduil accepted the apology with a nod.

“It cannot now be helped,” Ivanneth concluded stoically.

The elven-king looked toward his advisor. The elder elf remained immobile, and Thranduil returned his gaze to his sons. “An invisible singer…” he trailed off pensively and stared into the middle space.

Time passed. Girithron swirled the wine around in his goblet, Hananuir laced his fingers together and tapped his thumbs absently, and Legolas examined one of several maps that hung on the walls of the small room and littered most of the furniture. Ivanneth might as well have been carved of stone for the vitality he displayed.

“What of the dwarves?” Thranduil asked suddenly without breaking his stare.

Legolas felt his ears redden slightly, and judging by Hananuir’s sidelong glance, he was not the only one to have forgotten about the dwarves.

Girithron raised an eyebrow at his younger brothers as he answered, “I found no trace of them, Adar.”

Thranduil knit his brows. “Tell me not that dwarves have added disappearing to their varied talents?” The king’s voice was stern as he regarded Hananuir and Legolas. “I also wish not to hear that the younger princes of Eryn Galen have had their wits addled by a routine spider hunt.”

Embarrassed silence met these questions.

“I see,” Thranduil said icily as he rang a small bell near the head of the table. Immediately, Galion the butler materialized. “Galion, please send for Malaithlon. When he arrives, I would like the both of you to attend us.” The other elf bowed and departed on his task.

Ignoring the discomfiture of his sons, Thranduil produced a letter from inside his tunic and proceeded to peruse its contents. Girithron had now finished his wine and was left to contemplate the empty goblet. Hananuir continued to tap his thumbs together, and Legolas chose to memorize the finer details of a map he already knew during the awkward silence while the elves awaited Galion’s return.

The butler was not long gone, and once Malaithlon and he had arrived, the elven-king greeted them with a smile.

“Now,” he began, “from the reports I have heard today, it appears that the dwarves are still held captive. Whether or not they live is a question we will determine on the morrow. Malaithlon, please organize your scouts tonight to see if any information of their whereabouts can be determined. On the morrow, you and…Legolas will either gather their corpses or capture their persons.” His eyes flickered briefly to his youngest son, who inclined his head in acceptance of his charge.

As the Captain of the Guard nodded once, Thranduil moved his gaze to look fully upon the face of his butler. “Galion, please see to it that twelve store-rooms or empty cells are found to keep the prisoners, if fate has so ordained we are to keep them.”

Furrowing his brow, the elf divulged, “My lord, we are tight on space as it is what with the extra provisions to feed the refugees. I know not if we have this many store-rooms,” Galion replied with concern.

Thranduil pursed his lips as he debated other options.

“We could use the dungeons in the lowest halls,” Girithron suggested after a moment of silence.

Thranduil fitted his eldest with a stare. “The dwarves are no criminals,” he said harshly.

The Crown Prince did not flinch. “It merely seems appropriate to keep prisoners in a prison rather than disturb badly needed storage.” He shrugged.

Father and son locked eyes, and Legolas wondered that nothing in between them was set on fire.

Finally, it was Thranduil who looked away. “Galion, see to it then that the dungeons are in order,” he commanded stiffly. “Malaithlon, report to me tonight if you discover aught of interest. Otherwise, I expect that by tomorrow evening, the dwarves will have been brought here, one way or the other.”

Malaithlon nodded and bowed to depart. Galion quickly imitated his actions upon a glance from the king.

Legolas suddenly found himself on the receiving end of three pairs of elven eyes. The youngest son sighed inwardly as he rose to depart the room. Despite an unusual amount of consideration from his father in recent years, Legolas was not fooled. Obviously a matter of great importance had occurred from which he was being excluded with the unwanted chore of capturing the dwarves. A small part of his mind suggested that his father had volunteered his services because of Legolas’s superior tracking skills compared with those of his brothers. The prince decided to ignore this part.

“Captain Legolas, I trust the dwarves will not escape again.” Thranduil’s eyes softened as he regarded his youngest son. 

The youngest prince paused warily, but there was no condescension in his father’s voice. “No, my lord. They have tested our patience long enough.” Legolas bowed formally and was about to leave the room when Ivanneth suddenly returned to life.

“Prince Legolas.” The advisor rose swiftly, his brow creased in concentration. “If you are not otherwise engaged, I would beg some of your time.” 

“I am at your service, Lord Ivanneth.” Legolas could not quite disguise the curiosity in his voice. He knew the king’s advisor was a very direct elf and would not waste energy with seeking to distract Legolas from the impending conversation.

“My lord.” Ivanneth approached Thranduil. “I have an idea of how the creature remained unseen yet not unheard. Prince Legolas’s knowledge of the forest will be invaluable to me in confirming my suspicions."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired elf. “Proceed, Chief Advisor. I look forward to your conclusions.”

Ivanneth bowed and gestured for Legolas to precede him from the room. Both elves departed and closed the door softly behind them.

Hananuir paused a moment to ensure his brother was out of earshot. “Adar, Legolas is not dull-witted. He knows you are treating him like a child.”

The king’s face was expressionless as he answered. “I am doing no such thing.”  Thranduil sighed softly, and murmured, almost to himself, “I am granting him a final night of peace.”

Eyes flashing, Hananuir was clearly poised to defend his brother. However, the king’s last comment was unexpected, and the elf opened and closed his mouth in a gesture uncharacteristic of the usually unflappable prince. Unsure whether he should react to the king’s last statement, Hananuir sought the eyes of Girithron.

The Crown Prince’s eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he leaned forward eagerly in his chair. “Adar?” he asked simply.

Since he had last spoken, the king had drifted into a reverie. His body was taut, and his sons suspected that he had not heard Girithron’s question.

In reality, Thranduil had both heard and had not heard the words of his son. His thought had become chaotic, and several half-formed images of faces, both living and dead, circled in his mind. The simple word “adar” had registered in his consciousness, but he was lost as to the identity of the speaker. In his memory, another son called out to him: a dark-haired warrior, bright eyes dulled with pain, but his voice, loving, plaintive…

Thranduil started with a gasp as Hananuir laid a gentle hand on his sire’s forearm. “Adar? Are you well?” his son asked with concern.

Shaking his head as if physical motion could dispel his thoughts, the king smiled tightly. “Aye, iôn nín, I was merely…I have had troubling news,” his voice became grave.

Girithron frowned and Hananuir’s face became agitated. “What tidings?” the Crown Prince queried.

“There is to be a meeting of the White Council,” Thranduil stated simply. The elven-king smiled thinly as both his sons stared at him.

“The Wise have discovered aught?” Hananuir asked breathlessly.

The king shrugged minutely. “Perhaps.”

“Adar, in its last meeting, the Council dealt closely with Dol Guldur. Think you the Dark Tower is the subject of the meeting?” Hananuir’s eyes shone with barely contained curiosity.

The elven-king smiled gently at the eagerness of his son. “I hope the Wise will speak on it,” he said.

“Do you mean,” Girithron breathed after a pause,  “do you mean…the Wise plan to attack Dol Guldur?”

Thranduil was silent.

The Crown Prince bent his head towards his father. “Adar? Is not this the purpose for which you imagine the Council is to convene?”

“I know not with certainty, Girithron, but I pray that it shall come to pass.” Thranduil spoke slowly and heavily.

“What of Curunír? Was it not he that prevented an attack last time the Council met?” Hananuir’s eyes grew unfocused as he recalled the event to mind.

The king frowned with undisguised irritation. “It was he. However, it is now he who has called for a Council.”

The two princes of Mirkwood exchanged a glance as they digested this information. It was Hananuir who broke the silence.

“Why now? Why has he waited almost a century when Mithrandir had already made Sauron’s purpose clear?”

Thranduil shook his head warily. “I know not why Curunír has tarried. Indeed, I cannot assume that he plans to attack Dol Guldur at all. This is merely our hope.”

“Yet we are not fools to hope without due cause, Adar.” Girithron’s eyes bored into those of the king. “Nor is Curunír foolish. Nor any of the Wise. Only for the gravest matters of the utmost import do they gather together in Council.”

“Think you an attack against Sauron himself is a trivial matter, muindor?” Hananuir let a note of scorn creep into his voice.

The Crown Prince did not accept the provocation but continued to study his father’s eyes. Thranduil met the gaze evenly, for long was he accustomed to the penetrating gaze of his third-born child. “Do not be naïve, Hananuir,” Girithron said abruptly, breaking his stare. “The Wise would never seek to challenge the might of Sauron without knowledge.”

“Perhaps such knowledge has been discovered. I deem that for this reason a Council is convened.” Hananuir argued stubbornly. “Are these your thoughts, Adar?”

Thranduil contemplated the wood of the table in front of him in silence.

“Adar.” Girithron did not wait for an answer to his brother’s question. “What thoughts do you keep from us? You too are wise, my king, and I tremble lest your mind traverse the paths my thoughts have wandered upon hearing this news. Put my heart at rest; tell us what you suspect, for you have told us that to you, this news is troubling.”

Thranduil closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “I cannot escape my memories of Eryn Galen,” he began softly. “I cannot remain blind to the beauty and life that once thrived in these woods. No matter that evil and decay creep ever closer, I cannot forget, despite my selfish desire for oblivion, I cannot forget.”

Hananuir’s eyes shone with sudden brightness and Girithron’s face tightened at the pain in his father’s voice.

“My greatest task,” Thranduil continued heavily. “My duty is to restore those days to my people, and so have I fought through the centuries. Yet,” he opened his eyes and a fire burned within them, “Our labors appear to be in vain; our sacrifices for naught. Ever the noose tightens around us, and save an intervention from the Valar, I cannot hope for peace restored.” The king paused and drew a long breath before speaking again. “And tidings for a Council have come. Dare I believe that alliances shall be formed and victory assured through strength of arms? Dare I hope for secret weapons, powers long hidden, now brought to us in our hour of most perilous need?” He shook his head sadly. “I cannot allow my thoughts unbidden to roam in the realm of possibility. For how can I, as your king, provide you false hopes and empty promises to the dire threat that faces us? Unfounded my fears are not, therefore, let me restrain myself ere my hopes shape reality into a dream.”

Both his sons were silent at his words. Hananuir’s gaze was unfocused as he contemplated what his father had spoken. Yet Girithron’s brow had creased in worry at the elven-king’s words, and a glimmer of fear shone in his eyes.

“You speak wisdom, Adar,” the Crown Prince stated respectfully. “Yet, are we not met now to indulge in precisely the thoughts which you have barred from your mind? Did you not keep us here to discuss the possibilities of this Council? For what then, are we gathered?”

“Though I would hear your thoughts, iôn nín, this does not prevent me from controlling my own,” the elven-king retorted.  “You are young still and have not the burden of memory to temper your hopes. Speak freely, of what do you suppose the Council shall discuss?”  

Thranduil’s countenance was patient, but Hananuir regarded his brother with doubt. “You believe for an attack on Dol Guldur,” he stated. “On this we are agreed. Yet spoke you also of knowledge the Wise must now possess. To what are you referring?”

The Crown Prince met the doubt in his brother’s eyes. He could practically hear Hananuir’s mind spinning in search of the answers the latter suspected the former had already discovered. Girithron turned to face the elven-king and discerned a flicker in the depths of his father’s eyes of memory and pain. “Think you,” Girithron whispered finally, “Curunír has found the One?”

The candles lighting the room seemed to grow dimmer at the Crown Prince’s words. The King of the Woodland Realm paled slightly as he contemplated his heir.

“I believe not,” the elder elf ground out slowly and the room seemed to release the breath it had been holding. “Curunír would have indicated as much if he had, and I believe that certain among the Wise would…feel it and seek to inform us.”

“But you are uncertain,” Girithron pointed out with certainty, though his eyes begged for his words to be contradicted.

His father nodded grimly.

“We need not jump to the darkest conclusions immediately,” Hananuir protested without conviction. “There has been no stirring from Dol Guldur for many a long year.” He said this as his eyes flitted from map to map upon the walls.

“Nay, iôn nín, evil happenings abroad are still occurring. The Master of Dark Magic does not rest,” his father negated, though not harshly.

The elves were still as a heavy silence pressed down upon them. With a shake, Hananuir roused himself.

“My heart is deeply troubled with these tidings. I understand now why you wished to spare Legolas.” He smiled sadly.

Thranduil nodded absently and his gaze was fixed on the wooden table in front of him.

Girithron eyed his father. “When is the Council to be held?”

“Ten days, I believe. But we will wait until all have arrived, as is customary,” Thranduil hinted gently.

“Then you mean to go.” It was not a question.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at his heir as he answered, “as I am a lord of the Sindar, I have indeed been invited.”

“It is a perilous journey to Imladris of late,” the Crown Prince cautioned.

“The Council is not to be held in Imladris,” Thranduil replied slowly.

“Not in Imladris?” Hananuir joined the conversation, wide-eyed. “In Lórien then?”

“Nay, in Isengard, at Orthanc,” the elven-king grated out the harsh word heavily.

“And you are going to Orthanc?” Girithron pressed.

“As the Council is to be held in Orthanc, then I shall indeed be traveling thither.” Thranduil eyed his eldest with a hint of impatience.

“Is that wise?” The simple question cut into the room like a blade of steel.

Father and son eyed each other across the table. Their faces were stern and though many emotions flitted through their eyes, their expressions did not change. The silence in the small chamber was so encompassing as to muffle even the sounds of breathing.

Thranduil squared his shoulders and looked away from his son. “I shall be leaving on the morrow,” the elven-king replied curtly.

“Adar, please consider recent events!” Girithron spoke with his hands in unusual agitation. “If the dwarves are in service to the Enemy, we will be harboring spies in our very own halls. Meanwhile, what is to prevent Sauron from attacking us while the Wise are gathered in Orthanc?” he asked anxiously.

“What is to prevent Sauron from attacking us tonight?” Thranduil quipped.

“The dwarves—”

“ — will be imprisoned separately under strict guard. They shall not be able to communicate with any outsiders and divulge information. Think, Girithron,” Thranduil’s voice urged, “if they are indeed spies, we may in fact be slowing and preventing the possibility of attack.”

“We do not know for certain if the dwarves are evil,” Hananuir insisted.

“And we will not be taking any chances,” Thranduil continued smoothly. “Girithron, it falls to you to rule in my stead. I trust that with the counsel of Ivanneth and Hananuir, all shall be well.” The elven-king fixed his gaze on the Crown Prince.

Girithron looked away. “Speaking of Ivanneth, should not he be privy to this information as your Chief Advisor?” he challenged peevishly.

“I will be conferring with him shortly,” the elven king replied without breaking his stare.

“What say the others? Have none sought to communicate with you?” the Crown Prince demanded as his eyes wandered about the room.

“Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel have kindly suggested I should meet with them in Lórien ere we travel to Isengard. I believe I will communicate with the ‘others’, as you say, very soon.”

“How long have you known of this?” Girithron finally looked beseechingly into the eyes of his father.

“A messenger arrived from Lórien today, whilst you hunted spiders,” Thranduil said blandly.

“A messenger bearing both tidings from Curunír and the lord and lady of Lórien? Does not that seem an odd coincidence?” Girithron glanced toward Hananuir for support. However, his younger brother shook his head quietly, yielding the full responsibility of challenging their sire to Girithron.

“Why should it be so?” The king frowned. “Lórien is between us and Isengard, perhaps Curunír’s messenger had not the resources to travel the greater distance.”

“Such seems poor planning on the part of Curunír, to issue invitations far and wide without properly equipping his messenger for long journeys.”

Crossing his arms, Thranduil growled. “Girithron, is there a purpose to this questioning? I warn you, my patience wears thin, and I have much to accomplish this evening.”

The Crown Prince sighed audibly in frustration. “Forgive me, Adar, I seek not to vex you. My heart is heavy and warns against these tidings. I fear, but I cannot name the cause.”

Thranduil studied his eldest son. “The Shadow presses ever upon us, iôn nín, and the time has long passed for us to defeat it. I would see an end to these dark days with all the strength and power I have left. Fear not, I will take the proper precautions. You will hear from me during my absence,” he assured his sons as they traded anxious looks. “I will inform you as speedily as I can what the outcome of the Council shall be. But you must prepare,” he urged, “for war.”

Girithron still looked uncomfortable, but nodded reluctantly.

“We will, Adar,” Hananuir stated firmly. “Your kingdom shall be ready for the attack ere your return.”

“My mind rests easy in you, my children.” Thranduil allowed himself an affectionate smile at both his sons, before becoming grave once more. “Now, I will confer with Ivanneth. Then, I think a short gathering of our Captains would be prudent ere my departure.”

“Adar, promise me one thing,” Girithron spoke suddenly.

Thranduil raised both eyebrows at the plea in Girithron’s voice. “What is it, iôn nín?” the king asked cautiously.

“Leave not on the morrow. Wait at least until the following day, when the dwarves will have been captured.”

Thranduil studied his eldest son. Girithron’s face was immobile, save a flicker of fear in his eyes. The king was unsettled by his son’s open doubts. Girithron had seen many centuries and much war; too much strife to become so disturbed by thirteen mysterious dwarves. However, Thranduil was by no means cruel, especially toward his children. As he considered, he contemplated that preparations for the journey as well as preliminary battle strategies would occupy much time and were best not rushed.

“Very well,” Thranduil nodded slowly. “I will wait until the following day.”

Girithron bowed his head in gratitude, and Hananuir eyed his brother strangely.

“We shall await you in the Council Chamber, then.” Hananuir rose to leave as Thranduil rang the bell at the head of the table again.

“Wait,” the king commanded, and both his sons paused before opening the door. “Speak not of this to any. I wish not to spread needless panic or fears among my people.”

“We will keep it secret,” Girithron promised and Hananuir voiced agreement.

“Furthermore, the meeting can now wait. I will speak to the captains tomorrow.”

The brothers nodded and left the chamber. They crossed Galion in the hallway outside the king’s study as they departed.

Hananuir walked a pace behind his elder brother and he examined the taller elf sharply. It had become force of habit for him to rely on the Crown Prince’s confidence despite grave danger, and Hananuir supposed that his sanity was largely intact thanks entirely to centuries of enduring Girithron’s stubborn perseverance against all odds. The older elf did not fear, or, if he did, he never displayed such fear openly. It was for this reason that Girithron was such a capable leader and entirely deserving of his position of commander of the realm’s military forces. Hananuir had no head for combat leadership or organization, and he was more than happy to leave all such matters to his elder brother and content himself with the other functions of ruling. He had never had a moment’s doubt about Mirkwood’s safety with his brother in command because he had never seen Girithron succumb to fear.

Until now.

Having reached the threshold of his chambers, Hananuir stopped and placed a gentle hand on his brother’s elbow. “Muindor, a word with you?”

After some hesitation, Girithron jerked his head in acceptance and followed his younger brother into the room. Hananuir sat in one of the wooden chairs against the wall, but the Crown Prince proceeded rigidly to the room’s large window. He remained standing stiffly, contemplating the darkness outside.

Hananuir watched his brother’s back and decided how best to broach his chosen topic. After another pause, he began directly, “Girithron, I marked how Adar’s news has disturbed you, yea greatly, and I am at a loss to comprehend why. Do you know or suspect aught he did not say? Speak, for your worry presses upon my heart.”

Girithron did not move, but it was not the first time Hananuir had addressed a statuesque elf. He knew that the Crown Prince would answer.

Although, for mortals, a long time passed ere Girithron spoke, the time was felt as merely an intake of breath for the immortal brothers.

Sighing sadly, the Crown Prince finally turned to face his younger brother. “Aye, muindor, I hope not to hide from you my fears, nor do I seek to offer false comfort to dispel your cares. For I have neither knowledge nor comfort to give.” He walked briskly to a chair beside Hananuir. “This fear,” he continued, “which weighs upon me is not fear of pain, or defeat in battle, nay, or even of death.” Girithron waved his hand dismissively, as if these considerations were too petty for his time. “Nay, muindor, it is a fear of great evil, which I cannot begin to comprehend. I…sense that it will envelop my mind and against this darkness, all struggle is futile.”

Hananuir felt his breath growing shorter as he listened. He debated how to respond to Girithron’s fears, for he could not casually dismiss an elf he so greatly loved and respected. “Yet, from whence the cause? Long have we known Sauron to be master of Dol Guldur,” he reasoned. “Why do your cares heighten now, when we finally begin to prepare an attack? Think you he has indeed found the One, despite Adar’s belief to the contrary?”

Girithron bowed his head and said softly, “I doubt not the wisdom of our king.”

Hananuir waited for further answer, but his brother gave none. The younger elf knew it was not within Girithron’s practical nature to suddenly fear a possibility which had long existed and of which they had long been aware. Nay, it was clearly the imminence of an attack upon Dol Guldur that had so unnerved his elder brother. A sudden thought entered Hananuir’s mind. “Think you to face him alone?”

“Nay!” Girithron’s voice rose in alarm. “I am no Gil-galad!”

Hananuir narrowed his eyes. “Then you believe an attack is doomed? That merely the identity of our foe assures him the victory?”

Girithron rubbed his hands together in agitation. “Nay, I said not so. I believe that our strength of arms coupled with the power of the Wise can destroy him. If we are defeated, then I fear not death. Rather…the price of victory.”

“The price of victory?” Hananuir echoed dubiously. “To be rid of Sauron once for all? Verily, it will be a great sacrifice, but can we continue to endure long against the Shadow?”

Girithron smiled sadly. “Nay, brother, you reason wisely, as always. Forgive me, I cannot speak plainer and I have no ready answers to your just questions. There is no balm for the turmoil in my soul,” he concluded and rose to leave.

Hananuir rose as well and laid on a hand on his brother’s forearm as the latter reached for the door handle. “Find peace, Girithron. You cannot lead others to battle if you fight a war within yourself.”

Gripping Hananuir’s arm in turn in a warrior’s salute, Girithron nodded tightly and departed. Hananuir was left alone.

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A/N: A very astute reader has pointed out to me an interesting issue with my use of Sindarin throughout the dialogues in previous chapters. Namely, since the Wood-elves are always conversing among themselves, would they not be speaking entirely in their own language? The debate is, of course, valid as to which language that would be: whether the Wood-elves spoke Sindarin or, as Tolkien has indicated, another Silvan dialect. This question is especially complicated by the fact that since Thranduil was a Sindar, he would most likely have taught his children Sindarin. It appears also from Tolkien’s statements in Unfinished Tales that by this point in the Third Age, the Silvan dialect would have all but disappeared, except for place names.

Rather than weigh in on this question, to which valid arguments can be made on both sides, I choose rather to qualify my use of Sindarin words in this story. Since the elves are speaking a foreign language to us English-speakers (whether it be Sindarin or Silvan), I would like to remind the reader of that fact from time to time by inserting a “foreign” word into the English dialogue. My purpose is to simply maintain the idea in the mind of the reader that this dialogue is not being conducted in English. Unfortunately, Tolkien left us with hardly any words in the Silvan dialect, so I have drawn my words from the greater amount of Sindarin vocabulary available. I have chosen to keep only familial references in Sindarin, mainly to prevent confusion, but also to further emphasize the Sindar bond of Thranduil’s family.

I hope that clarifies rather than confuses the matter!

As always, I sincerely appreciate all reviews!!! This chapter was especially difficult for me to write, so I thank you in advance ; )

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Translations:

Adar: Father

Muindor: Brother

Muindyr: Brothers

Muinthel: Sister

Iôn nín: My son

Chapter Four: The Hunter and the Hunted

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Calethor—warrior, Legolas’s friend

Aewenor—warrior

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A/N: I have taken some dialogue verbatim from Tolkien (again!) This time, I have pulled from Chapter IX, “Barrels out of Bond,” pages 155 and 157 of Houghton Mifflin’s paperback edition of The Hobbit.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! Have a great Christmas!

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Legolas picked his way cautiously among the old and gnarly branches of the trees of Mirkwood. At least, a small part of his mind was engaged in the task of tracking. His eyes, long accustomed to the eternal twilit darkness of the woods, pierced the gloom like a ray of sunshine piercing clouds, and moved on. His ears took in many sounds: the scurrying of squirrels in the underbrush, the scuttling of spiders in the darkest shadows, the soft whisper of leaves as they fell to the ground, and the occasional creak of a tree limb as other elves moved among the branches. Ever present in the elf’s consciousness was the tree-song, not as distinct words or musical notes, but rather a presence of existence from which the elf drew support and because of which he could sometimes discern a premonition of danger. Yet there was no discord this morning, and Legolas knew the turmoil in his soul came entirely from his own thought.

For the majority of the prince’s mind dwelt on the early morning meeting between the king and all his military commanders who were not on active patrol. The discussion had been grave and the elves were destined to prepare for war. Legolas knew of the White Council, and a small part of him rejoiced that the elves would finally have the strength of arms to challenge the evil that dwelt in the southern extreme of the forest. He had been born and raised in this shadow, and the possibility of changing this reality had never entered the prince’s mind. He was not fatalistic, but after centuries of hiding and retreating in the darkness, Legolas had accepted that total victory was perhaps a fantasy for the stubbornly idealistic. As an immortal being, Legolas could not cast his mind toward the future and anticipate change. Rather, as the gradual falling of leaves in the autumn, the elf experienced the differences wrought day by day, month by month, and year by year. To imagine a time without Dol Guldur…without fighting as a daily occupation…this was too drastic, too sudden, too unsettling. He knew it could come to pass eventually, and he prayed he would live to see this day, but he could not let his mind plan for distant possibility. As was his way, Legolas focused on understanding the present, which to him was comprised of the here and now and what had already been.

Although his body flitted between branches and never disturbed a single leaf, his mind remained preoccupied with the morning’s discussion. For Thranduil had revealed that the Shadow in Dol Guldur, the Necromancer, was none other than Sauron himself. Legolas had been completely shocked at this discovery, and he had not sought to hide his gasp. However, more disturbing to the youngest prince remained the fact that he had been in the minority in his surprise. All too obvious in his brothers’ expressions was a grimness resulting from long and bitter familiarity with this truth. Legolas could not read all elves as easily as his own kin, but he suspected that Ivanneth and most of the senior commanders had also been apprised of the Necromancer’s identity long before that morning’s meeting. Thranduil had spoken of the last session of the White Council, nearly a century past, in which Mithrandir had unmasked Sauron’s disguise, and Curunír had urged caution and second-thinking. And now, the elven-king was to depart on the morrow for Isengard, at Curunír’s request, to attend another Council, one in which the Wood-elves prayed the Wise would determine a course of attack upon the Hill of Dark Magic.

There was a part of Legolas’s heart that experienced hurt at his father’s revelation. He had once again been excluded, relegated to the ignorance of children, and mistrusted as a capable warrior and captain of the realm. Yet this part of him was small and was quickly diminishing. Rather, Legolas felt gratitude that he had not had to live with this knowledge weighing on his mind for decades. A nameless Shadow was a vague concept against which to fight. A mysterious figure deemed “The Necromancer” was a small improvement and yet the evil remained undefined. But to know that this Shadow, this Necromancer, this evil, was Sauron, servant of Morgoth, Dark Lord, and ancient enemy to the Free Peoples of Arda…this was too overwhelming for the youngest prince.

Sauron was the Dark Lord of legend, of great battles and tragic losses. Of Gil-galad and Elendil, of the once great kings of Númenor, of Celebrimbor and powerful Rings, of treachery, deceit, and death. Sauron, who dwelt in the land of Mordor, far to the east, not in Mirkwood. Not in his home.

Ever since he had first learned of a Shadow in Dol Guldur, Legolas had accepted his tutor’s declaration that its source was one of the Nazgûl, one of Sauron’s slaves, but not the Dark Lord himself. He learned that before his birth, his grandfather Oropher along with all the Woodland-elves had been driven from their home upon Amon Lac to the Emyn Duir, and finally to the present cave-system which constituted both their city and their refuge under attack. But surely this had not been accomplished by Sauron.

And yet, so it had been. Sauron had probably been living in Dol Guldur for all the centuries of Legolas’s life and the prince had only learnt of it this morning.

Suppressing a shiver, Legolas paused to register that he was drifting too far from the other elves in his group. The warriors of Mirkwood had long ago refined the techniques of searching in the forest, and a complex system of birdcalls, whistles, and mathematically calculated distances and spacing had been established. Sending a soft trill into the gloom, Legolas waited for the answer, and adjusted his coordinates so as to fit perfectly into the web of warriors now silently tracking the forest for twelve dwarves.

Brushing overhanging lichen from his line of sight, the prince was of two minds whether he wanted the dwarves to be captured or not. True to his earlier statement, Legolas did not believe that the dwarves were spies of Sauron. Yet their purpose in the forest remained uncomfortably mysterious, and now that the Master of Dol Guldur was revealed to be Sauron himself, this mystery was rapidly becoming dangerously threatening. Legolas was used to uncertainty and an absence of facts usually did not grate upon his nerves. Yet the coincidence of Sauron’s unmasking, the meeting of the White Council, and the appearance of thirteen dwarves in the forest suggested a dark relationship the prince had no desire to unravel. He recalled his father’s initial hesitation toward capturing the dwarves at all, and Legolas sympathized with what he could now term a hard decision.

The sun was directly overhead when Legolas heard Malaithlon’s low whistle for the elves to gather. The prince had readily turned over command of this particular mission to the Captain of the Guard. While Legolas was considered a good leader, he did not relish authority and was more than happy to yield the responsibility, whenever the rare opportunity to do so presented itself.

Once all the elves were gathered around Malaithlon, the Captain scanned their faces as he spoke. “We have not found any sign of the dwarves in our course due south. I suggest we veer west, and then north. In this way we can weave a tighter circle around our prey.”

Malaithlon glanced briefly at Legolas for support, and the prince nodded. The youngest prince had been scouting the forest of Mirkwood for centuries with an unparalleled level of dedication compared with that of his kinsmen, and he had amassed an impressive amount of knowledge of its depths. This hunting technique was one Legolas had used many times before, usually on wargs, but it should nevertheless prove effective on dwarves.

In accord, the elves once more took to the trees and continued their weary search as the day lengthened.

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The day was reaching its close and the shadows of night were fast approaching, but still, the elves sought their quarry.

Malaithlon had decided one last circle within the remaining unsearched section of the forest would be the group’s final endeavor before seeking out the king’s halls. The Captain of the Guard was keenly aware that the day’s activity was only taking place as a result of yesterday’s mistakes. Whether by nature or by long formation in his duties, Malaithlon was a perfectionist. Furthermore, his pride was affronted that the dwarves were proving so skillful at evasion.

A birdcall to his right identified Legolas, and the prince was proposing an idea. Hoping that the younger elf had discovered something, Malaithlon gave the signal to gather.

Once on the ground, Legolas sought the Captain’s gaze. “Speak, Prince Legolas,” Malaithlon asked formally.

The prince raised an eyebrow at the unnecessary use of his title within the small group. Indeed, Legolas was notorious for requesting to be on informal terms with all among his patrol. But whatever his prince chose to do, Malaithlon would not ignore the rules of protocol. As Legolas began speaking, he looked intently at the Captain of the Guard. “I have a proposal for capturing the dwarves, which rests on the assumption that they are yet living. I believe this to be the case, else we would have found their bodies ere now. They seem to be alive and one step ahead of us.”

Acknowledging the plausibility of this assessment, Malaithlon nodded for the prince to continue.

“My idea is based on the dwarves’ behavior yester night when they sought out the fires of the youths making merry. I propose we light torches to draw them toward us.” Legolas delivered this last statement without hesitation.

“That is not our way,” Aewenor interjected before Malaithlon could compose a reply. “We need no light amidst this twilight and torches will only serve to draw unfriendly and unwelcome eyes.”

The prince did not betray annoyance and spoke politely. “Indeed, we should not adopt this method for long, merely until first dark. If the dwarves have not been retrieved by that time, I, for one, doubt their chances of surviving a second night in the woods,” he concluded with a shrug.

“I agree with the prince,” Calethor added his unsurprising support for his friend. “The dwarves have demonstrated a propensity for seeking out the light, and if we remain in close formation, we can deflect other dangers.”

All eyes turned to Malaithlon for his decision. The Captain eyed Aewenor, gauging the extent of the veteran’s disagreement. However, judging from the elder elf’s expression, Aewenor did not seem wholly opposed to the idea, merely objectively voicing its flaws. Satisfied that he would face no contention, Malaithlon made his command, “Gather torches then. We will close formation. I want two warriors to every tree and if we do not recover the dwarves by dark, we shall desist.”

Now, a silent mass of lights moved among the branches of the old trees of Mirkwood. Malaithlon eyed the twinkling lights about him and grimaced inwardly that the group’s position should be made so obvious. Yet, he trusted Legolas’s experience in the forest, and he would not discredit the prince’s suggestion until it had been tested.

Suddenly, the sound of stomping and shuffling assailed Malaithlon’s ears, and the elf smiled. The signs of dwarves crashing through the underbrush were unmistakable. Exchanging a knowing wink with Aewenor, who shared his tree, Malaithlon hooted softly. There was no chance the other elves could ignore the evidence of their prey, and quietly, twenty warriors closed in upon them.

The dwarves walked in a single file, pounding their heavy feet among dry leaves, and clinking the metal about their persons with every move. Malaithlon almost winced as the creatures trod upon tender shoots with cruelty and seemed to take no heed of the fragility of the forest. The elves surrounded the unsuspecting dwarves and Malaithlon signaled for half of the torches to be extinguished so the archers could draw their arrows. The other half of the group readied their spears, and less than half a second after first sighting their quarry, Malaithlon’s whistle sounded the attack.

“Halt!” he commanded in a ringing voice as elven spears and arrows were pressed in a menacing circle around the astonished dwarves. However, the dwarves did not let their bewilderment hinder their actions for long. The bearded creatures simply stopped dead in their tracks and slumped wearily upon the ground, without posing the smallest pretext of a challenge or defense.

Raising an eyebrow, Malaithlon surmised that the elven display of strength had been slightly exaggerated given the dwarven reaction. He exchanged a glance with Aewenor, who was eying their prisoners with a mixture of pity and disgust. Biting back a laugh, the Captain of the Guard turned to Legolas, who was frowning down the line of dwarves.

“Captain Legolas?” he asked quietly. “Is aught amiss?”

Legolas was jerking his head imperceptibly as he eyed each dwarf in turn, and Malaithlon realized that the prince was counting. Legolas was also muttering under his breath, which was uncharacteristic of the soft-spoken elf. Straightening suddenly, Legolas apparently perceived the quizzical expression of his captain. “My apologies, Captain Malaithlon, but I thought I had counted…thirteen.”

Frowning in his turn, Malaithlon surveyed the rather pathetic spectacle of twelve dwarves, now with bound hands and blindfolds, sitting huddled in the gathering darkness. The Captain of the Guard counted twice, each time arriving at twelve. Returning a concerned gaze to his prince, Malaithlon shrugged. “There are naught but twelve,” he asserted.

Legolas nodded reluctantly, but his sharp eyes examined the surrounding trees and piles of leaves with frightening intensity.

Deciding that the prince had simply miscounted and was perhaps becoming slightly paranoid in his obsession over the thirteenth prisoner, Malaithlon called for attention. Instructing the elves in the Common Tongue, for the benefit of the dwarves, Malaithlon commanded the group to proceed on the ground to the halls of the elven-king.

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“It appears the hunting party was successful,” Ivanneth observed wryly to Thranduil, as the duo straightened over a map which they had been examining.

The elven-king raised an eyebrow as the soft, but steady, sounds of elven song penetrated the throne room. “Their choice of tune seems misguided,” he remarked.

Indulging in a rare smile, Ivanneth commented, “I think not. ‘The hunter has caught his prey, oh happy day,” seems appropriate for the occasion, does it not?”

“If rather inane.” Thranduil lifted his other eyebrow, but could not entirely maintain a strict façade. A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “I deem it fortunate the dwarves are unfamiliar with our Silvan tongue lest they take offense at being equated with dead spiders.”

“I am rather impressed they yet live,” Ivanneth said dryly as the thudding of many feet in the passageway outside became deafening. Gathering up the maps in his careful hands, he glanced toward the amused elven-king. “It appears they approach, sire.” The ancient advisor paused before leaving through a side-door.

Acknowledging the hint with a nod, Thranduil bit down the laugh still threatening to escape, and proceeded to his throne. His autumnal crown of berries and red leaves lay on the seat, and he donned it, as he grasped the oaken staff that rested against the chair. The king usually reserved his royal insignia for formal occasions, such as banquets, audiences, or, in this case, to impress upon the trespassing dwarves that he was not an elf to be lightly dismissed. He was well aware that dwarves placed an absurd value on such displays of authority, and he was not about to let them assume him to be lord of a quaint and rustic folk with no inklings of nobility. Nay, for he was Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Eryn Galen.

There was a low knock on the door.

“Enter,” Thranduil commanded gravely.

Malaithlon saluted formally as he walked in first at the head of a unique procession. Twelve dwarves walked in single file, blindfolded, with hands bound, and were flanked alternatingly on one side by an elven warrior. The Captain of the Guard indicated for the elves to line up their charges before the king, and then retreat a pace behind them. All eyes came to rest on the elven-king as Thranduil contemplated the proceeding.

The king frowned slightly as he realized that more than one of the dwarves swayed on its feet, teetering dangerously close to collapsing on the floor. Further, their tunics were torn and cobwebs still clung grimly to their garb. “Unbind them,” he ordered abruptly. “Besides they need no ropes in here,” Thranduil continued warningly, as the first of the dwarves had their blindfolds removed and began to blink blearily about the chamber. “There is no escape from my magic doors for those who are once brought inside.”

The king paused and waited until each dwarf was free. There was much rubbing of wrists and grumbling, which despite the best efforts of the dwarves to maintain under their breaths, was entirely audible to every elf in the room. Malaithlon looked on the brink of checking the dwarves’ impertinence, but Thranduil denied him with a shake of his head.

“Now,” the elven-king instilled silence with a ringing voice. “Dwarves: if you expect to leave my halls freely, you will satisfy my questions.” Several glares in his direction reinforced Thranduil’s opinion of the pride of dwarves. “Who are you?” he began.

Obstinate silence met his words. The king was not deterred, however, as he had not truly been expecting the creatures to answer. “From whither do you hail?”

He eyed their garb, searching for any clues of origin. But there was nothing significant about their tattered clothes. “Whom do you serve?” he pressed.

Half-hoping the dwarves would blunder and confess their master to be Sauron, Thranduil decided this line of questioning was fruitless. He could boast of many interesting experiences in his long centuries of kingship, but unfortunately interrogating dwarves numbered not among his memories. “How did you escape the spiders?” he asked, switching tactics.

If the dwarves experienced surprise at the king’s knowledge of their activities, they did not evince any signs.

“Did you have aid?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes as memories rose unbidden in his mind of the violent cruelty of dwarves in ancient days. “Are you perhaps in league with black and evil creatures?” he challenged, as he clamped his mind shut to the call of the past.

“We killed them,” a white-hooded dwarf answered quickly.

“And how could you have managed thus as you were held captive?” The elven-king riveted his piercing gaze to the speaker.

“Some among us escaped and freed the others, and we all killed the spiders,” the same dwarf spoke archly.

Narrowing his eyes, Thranduil wondered what kind of a fool this creature took him to be. “It is not so light a task to escape spider-webs when one has become their prey, dwarf.”

“Perhaps not for elves, but we are sturdy folk.” Brown dwarven eyes met gray elven eyes in fierce battle.

Thranduil clenched his fists as a sudden rage made his blood boil. If, by sturdy folk, this brazen creature meant murderously deceitful and treacherous folk, then the elven-king could not agree more. Deciding that the white-hooded dwarf, at least, would later pay for his insolence, Thranduil steeled his voice and addressed the group in general. “What were you doing in the forest?” he began anew, lacing his voice with warning anger.

The dwarves were silent, though the king noted that several apparently younger ones had begun exchanging looks among themselves. An enormously fat dwarf shuffled his feet. Thranduil fitted one of the blue-hooded dwarves with a keen elven stare. The elven-king’s face was as chiseled marble, his eyes hard as gems, and glittering with the intensity of fire. There was no malice in his gaze or compassion in the lines around his eyes.

Suddenly, a rough voice spoke from the rear of the group. Thranduil swiveled his head in the direction of the speaker.

“We sought food,” a yellow-hooded dwarf growled.

Resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, Thranduil leveled his gaze on the speaker. “Why did you seek food within the forest?”

“Because we were starving!” the fattest dwarf all but wailed.

The nearest dwarf jabbed the fat one in the side, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow at their antics. He ignored a titter from the elves at the back of the chamber. “And why were you starving? Came you to the forest empty-handed, seeking to brave its dangers wholly unprepared?”

One of the dwarves growled at this question. “We had food,” the creature huffed.

“But we ran out!” the fat dwarf interjected.

Lacing his fingers together for a momentary distraction from the absurdity of his task, Thranduil studied the largest of the dwarves. He appeared to be the best provider of answers in the group, and the king felt his patience growing thin. “Why did you attack my people?” he asked icily.

“We did not attack them!”

“We sought food!”

The elven-king eyed these two last speakers, who were practically identical from the top of their blue hoods to their yellow beards and silver belts. “So you sought food in the forest because you were starving.” The blue-hooded creatures nodded. “I see.” Thranduil paused. “Yet why came you to the forest in the first place?”

The blue-hooded dwarves cast their eyes down, and Thranduil noted that the others avoided meeting his gaze.

“We were merely passing through, O king.” The second dwarf to have spoken spat out these words with no subtle mockery in his tone.

“Passing through to where, dwarf?” Thranduil frowned at the bright-eyed dwarf.

The creature met his look without flinching, and the elven-king did not bother to check his increasing annoyance. He had met many a stubborn elf in his time, indeed, several of his sons flitted briefly to mind, but not even they displayed such insolent pride.

“Let me caution you, dwarves.” Thranduil spoke softly, yet the effect was chilling. “You tread dangerous ground, and I bid you reflect ere speaking again.” He surveyed the ragged line of dwarves. “I repeat, where is your destination?”

 Again, there was silence. Yet, the king noted that the dwarves seemed to be all glancing toward the same dwarf within the group. The center of their attention was obviously the oldest dwarf of them all, with a long white beard and a heavily wrinkled face. This creature did not acknowledge the open looks in his direction, and he continued to regard Thranduil with restrained irritation.

“What purpose brought you into the forest?” the elven-king spoke directly to the venerable dwarf.

He did not answer, but his gaze almost matched that of an elf in studied intensity.

Thranduil felt his grasp on his staff growing strained, and he forcibly relaxed his hand lest his ire become public. With the last of his patience, he glared at the white-bearded dwarf. “Why were you in the forest?” he demanded.

Apparently, Thranduil was not the only being whose patience had disappeared. The old dwarf’s eyes flashed ominously, and, finally, he spoke. “What have we done, O king?” Though less sarcastic than his companion, this dwarf’s use of Thranduil’s title was barely polite. “Is it a crime to be lost in the forest, to be hungry and thirsty, to be trapped by spiders?” The dwarf’s voice grew impassioned as he recounted a list of the group’s grievances. “Are the spiders your tame beasts or your pets, if killing them makes you angry?”

Thranduil’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. How dare the creature suggest an alliance between elves and their foul enemies! Abandoning all restraint, the elven-king rose to his full height, and he glared down at the dwarves with every fiber of his royal stature. “It is a crime to wander in my realm without leave,” he proclaimed coldly. “Do you forget that you were in my kingdom, using the road that my people made? Did you not three times pursue and trouble my people in the forest and rouse the spiders with your riot and clamor? After all the disturbance you have made I have a right to know what brings you here, and if you will not tell me now, I will keep you all in prison until you have learned sense and manners!”

There was deep silence in the void after Thranduil spoke. The dwarves remained stubbornly mute, and more than one of the creatures directed an affronted glare at the elven-king.

“Very well,” Thranduil said harshly as he sat back down. “You will each be imprisoned separately. You will be given food and drink,” he continued, and the fattest dwarf brightened visibly at the prospect, “but you will not pass the thresholds of your prisons until my questions have been answered. Ego,” he ordered irritably, switching to Sindarin.

Malaithlon bowed and began assigning guards to each dwarf. The elves were slowly departing the throne room when Thranduil spoke again.

“Legolas, godolo nín.” The king did not pause to observe whether his youngest son followed him from the room through a small door along the right-hand side of the rock wall. Father and son walked with quiet footfalls up a narrow corridor, which rose slightly.

Arriving in his study, Thranduil immediately poured two goblets of wine and settled himself behind his desk. He drank deeply and allowed his eyes to wander about the small room, sliding among the many maps, which hung from the walls, and finally resting on his youngest son.

Legolas sipped his wine thoughtfully, his gaze unfocused. Immediately feeling his father’s eyes upon him, the young prince returned to the present, and smiled softly. “Dwarves are not known for diplomacy,” he remarked.

Thranduil waved his hand derisively. “Trouble me not with talk of those creatures, iôn nín, for they have wearied my patience. Let us try to forget them as best we can for the moment.”

The smile faded, and Legolas nodded obediently. Experience had taught the prince that it was best to wait for the king to select the topic of conversation.

Thranduil grimaced inwardly, for he had not summoned his youngest to his study for chastisement. Rather, it was the king who was in the wrong. “Legolas,” he began, “it escaped me not at this morning’s conference that you were disturbed to learn the true identity of the Necromancer.” The younger elf paled slightly at this assertion, but did not speak. “I fear I must apologize to you for keeping you in ignorance so long.”

Legolas stared at his father. Apologies from him were rare indeed, though not due to pride or stubbornness, but simply because Thranduil seldom acted wrongly toward his children. The elven-king knew that his offspring loved him greatly, and that Legolas was no exception to this regard. The young prince had often suffered mentally as throughout his maturing, he sought to reconcile the perfection in which he held his father to that elf’s occasional errors.

“I forgive you, of course, Adar, but truly, you need not ask my pardon.” A smile crept into the prince’s eyes, as he grudgingly admitted, “Indeed, I should thank you for allowing my mind to be easy in this matter. I know Girithron and Hananuir have not had that pleasure.”

“Nay.” Thranduil inclined his head to his son’s just statement. “Your brothers have shared my knowledge and my anxieties, but I chose not to burden you with this worry. You tell me I have not acted wrongly?”   

The younger elf shook his head. “Understand me, Adar, I seek not to hide from evil and pretend my innocence will shield me, for I know this is folly. If I felt slighted at first, I now discern the wisdom behind your actions, and I truly express my gratitude.”

“Well I know your merits, iôn nín, and you are a source of pride to me.” Thranduil regarded his youngest intently, and Legolas looked down in embarrassment. “But stay,” the king continued swiftly, “now we are come to this heavy subject, we will not dismiss it lightly.”  

“But what can be done, Adar?”

Thranduil almost smiled at how childish his warrior son now appeared, as the young elf’s gray eyes beseeched his father for a solution. “This in part, I cannot yet answer, as I hope to learn much at the Council. You know our plans for war from this morning’s meeting?”

“Aye,” Legolas confirmed emphatically.

“Good, now unfolds the purpose for which I called you here tonight.” Thranduil paused though Legolas’s attention was obvious from his rapt expression. “In the attack against Dol Guldur, I wish you to command the archers.”

Legolas blinked and his jaw dropped slightly. His first few failed attempts at an answer would have been comical had the situation been less grave. “All of them?” he finally breathed.

Thranduil nodded solemnly.

“Adar,” Legolas began uncertainly, “never have I led so many in direct battle. Could I not lead a group of scouts, as is my habit? Or merely a unit of archers?”

Thranduil did not let his son’s hesitation affect him, for the king had debated this particular idea for some lengthy years. He knew that his youngest was an expert tracker in the forest, and he suspected that coupled with his own vast knowledge of the woods, the father-son duo would prove lethal hunters even blindfolded. Further, Legolas was an exceptional bowman and a capable commander. The king knew that in order to mature as a warrior, his youngest must experience battle in a leadership position.

“Surely there are more senior commanders who desire the position?” Legolas insisted at his father’s silence.

Thranduil smiled sadly at his son’s reluctance to lead. Ai, he thought, but Legolas is exactly the opposite of Celeguir. He distinctly recalled how his brazen eldest son had willfully ignored both Thranduil’s and Oropher’s warnings in Dagorlad, and had lead his unit further than their numbers could safely have permitted. A shaft of pain pierced his heart afresh as the king remembered how Celeguir had paid the price for his pride with his life. Thranduil’s bitter memories also thrust upon him the terror he had experienced, when rumors of Oropher’s death had become fact. Thranduil had become sole commander of the Silvan forces that day, but he had been unprepared for the responsibility. Almost three thousand years had passed since that tragedy, but for Thranduil the emotions still had the rawness of having entered his heart bare moments ago. He had resolved on that day that in future his sons would be trained to fulfill all duties and possibilities of leadership.

“Adar?” Legolas tentatively recalled his father to the present.

“Forgive me, Legolas, for my mind has wandered to darker times. Nay, iôn nín, doubt not your courage and skill. You are more than capable of this honor, and it is time for you to accept the challenge.” Thranduil gazed at his youngest with open affection and pride shining in his eyes. “Rarely have I been disappointed in you, and I have faith that you will succeed in this endeavor.”

“Valar help us all,” Legolas murmured.

“They will, iôn nín, doubt it not! For against Sauron we must implore greater powers to our aid.” Legolas sobered immediately and nodded gravely at his father’s words. “But come, I depart on the morrow and I would not leave you troubled.”

“Nay, I am well, Adar.” Legolas smiled reassuringly. “There is naught to concern you with me.”

“I am glad to hear of it, for I shall need your wits at the ready to prevent discord between your brothers.” Thranduil smiled at the mischievous gleam that entered his son’s eyes. “See to it that between Ivanneth, Gwiwileth, and yourself, you can prevent them from attacking each other and damaging anything valuable.”

The sarcasm in the king’s voice worked to elicit a laugh from the youngest prince. “Fear not, O king, for if they persist in any disagreement, we shall imprison them with the dwarves to soften their tempers.”

“Valar help the dwarves!” Thranduil quipped drily and was rewarded with another bright laugh from Legolas.The eyes of the elven-king danced, and Thranduil prayed that peace would finally prevail and allow these darkened centuries to appear but as a spot in his long memory. Yet his aged soul knew that no span of peace could erase the creeping tendrils of despair that would all too frequently assail his heart. So, with bitter years of practice, Thranduil tore his mind away from dreamy visions of the future and hopeless memories of the past, and he focused all his thought on the clear peal of elven laughter from the lips of his son.

oooo

Translations:

Ego: be gone

Godolo nín: come (together) with me

Adar: father

Iôn nín: my son

Chapter Five: Caught In The Tide

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Calardir—runner of the Southern Company

Thorchanar—palace guard

Maeglir—captain of the Southern Company

Nandir—another captain

Rochiron—another captain

Twice the thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter and the last!

oooo

Thranduil focused his eyes in the darkness of his chamber and felt that dawn was near. He rose quickly and paused, relishing the sense of anticipation before sunrise. Even though the elven-king’s room was an inner cavern and boasted no windows, every fiber of his being hummed the music of Arda in unison with the outside world. To mortal senses, the air lay silently chill within the cave, yet to the king, the air murmured excitedly of the unfolding day. Thranduil felt birds chattering and sensed that the trees stood slightly taller, reaching out to grasp the first rays of light. He inhaled deeply, feeling his body thrum with the same anticipation of the natural world, echoing the joy of life.

His mind was abuzz with little tasks and various priorities, which rose and fell in his thoughts like blades of grass in a gentle breeze. For today he was journeying to Lórien, and despite his plans and preparations yester eve, the king was anxious lest some detail be forgotten. He donned breeches and a simple tunic, opting for practical traveling clothes rather than his ceremonial attire. He braided his golden hair with deft fingers, twisting them into the plaits favored by warriors of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil hesitated for a fraction of a second before finishing the last braid. He found that he could not quite remember the last time he had attired himself in this fashion. Breaking into a smile, the king almost chuckled at his unusual display of fastidiousness in his dress.

He fixed his gaze on the leathern rucksack sitting neatly at the foot of his bed. He knew that all was in order and he had not forgotten any item that should be wanted. The king lifted the bag easily, and glancing once about the chamber, strode purposefully from the room. He knew he had time before dawn to attend to a matter which should not have been pressing on his mind, yet had insistently crept into his slumber.

It was still early for much traffic in the corridors of his halls, so Thranduil was unsurprised to cross barely a handful of elves along his journey. Those whom he passed greeted him with respect, but his subjects were accustomed to their king’s apparent ability to forego any sleep. Thranduil paused a moment in an antechamber before the Gate and abandoned his sack with a nod to a guard. Then, the elven-king began to wind his way through the twisting corridors that worked ever downwards in the hillside.

As he walked, Thranduil attempted to discipline the nagging doubts that had grown in his thoughts during the night. He wondered at himself for doubting, considering the lengthy conversations sustained with his children, Ivanneth, his commanders…even Galion had proffered his opinion on the matter. Yet Thranduil could not shake a presentiment that aught was amiss with the dwarves, and after so many thousands of years upon Arda, he knew better than to dismiss the warning of his heart.

The reasonable part of his mind scoffed at his worry. The dwarves were securely imprisoned in the labyrinthine lower cells of his caverns, with the proud leader kept well apart from the others. Capable guards stood sentry, the doors were wooden, and tightly locked. Furthermore, even should the dwarves manage to escape their cells, they could not exit the Gate unawares. There was no other way out of his halls, and Thranduil knew even entertaining these possibilities was assuming far too much of the strength and cleverness of dwarves.

Nevertheless, the king obeyed the instinct which prompted him to seek out the guard’s chamber and find Malaithlon.

As he entered the spacious chamber assigned to the palace guards, Thranduil was chagrinned to find the room empty, save for the requisite guard on duty.

“My lord.” The young elf shot upright.

“The Captain has not yet been down?” the elven-king asked to soothe the wide-eyed youth, despite already knowing the answer. Thranduil was well aware that the ever-careful Malaithlon reported to the guardroom with unfailing regularity each and every morn.

“Nay, sire. Shall I summon him?” In his eagerness, the guard was poised to run on his errand within a moment’s notice.

Thranduil hesitated, knowing that he had nothing truly urgent with which to disturb the Captain, yet wanting to speak to him nonetheless. The elven-king glanced about the room, debating a course of action, when his eyes lighted upon a pile of knives arrayed carefully in a corner.

The young guard watched curiously as his king frowned, crossed the room, and halted in the corner containing the prisoners’ weaponry. The youth had not found dwarven knives particularly interesting.

“To whom does this belong?” Thranduil asked quickly without looking at the younger elf.

“Those were taken from the dwarves, my lord.” The guard studied the pile, attempting to discern whether he had skipped over anything significant.

“I seek only to know the origin of this blade.” The king stooped and grasped a sword, which had lain buried beneath the other knives. The scabbard was intricately carved, and the jewels along the hilt reflected the light of the torches. Thranduil drew the blade slowly and brought the point to rest against the flat of his other palm. He turned, and his eyes met those of the guard.

“From which dwarf did you take this?” he inquired seriously.

The young guard hesitated. “I know not, my lord,” he confessed softly. “My shift began at midnight and the prisoners had already been disarmed, I…”  

The elven-king gestured for silence. “Please summon Captain Malaithlon. I shall await your return here.”

Attempting to nod and bow simultaneously, the youth fled on his errand. Left alone, Thranduil gently fingered the runes running along the blade. His eyes grew unfocused as he stared beyond the naked steel into centuries of turbulence, violence, and death. He rubbed the jeweled hilt reverently, and though unable to decipher the runes, the history of this sword filled him with awe and yearning.

Malaithlon and the young guard returned quickly. Despite the predawn hour, the Captain of the Guard was alert and immediately concerned at his king’s presence in the guard chamber. “My lord, you called for me?”

Thranduil nodded slowly and tore his eyes away from the sword’s beauty with reluctance. “Aye, Captain.” He looked again at the sword. “I desire to know from which dwarf this sword was taken.”

Malaithlon approached the king smartly. He examined the weapon in question with sharp eyes and then scanned the pile of assorted knives still resting in the corner of the room. “I believe, my lord,” he spoke confidently, “that this belongs to the first dwarf. The one imprisoned in the lowest cell.” He gestured in the general direction of that cell.

“I see.” Thranduil felt the warning in his mind increase in intensity. There was a mystery here, he knew. Why a dwarf should possess an elven blade of such ancient make, he could not guess. Unless, his mind suggested, the leader was no ordinary dwarf. If the proud prisoner were of noble lineage, then Thranduil had acted rashly. Or, another part of his mind countered, the dwarf could have stolen this fine sword. Such behavior would not be foreign to the greedy creatures, especially since the theft of an elven blade in particular would rank high among a dwarf’s priorities. If so, then the elven-king had meted out just punishment. However, if the dwarf had come by the sword honestly, the group could not be in service to the Enemy. Or, Sauron himself could have provided the weapon merely to disguise the identity of his servants.

Thranduil shook his head. There were too many possibilities, and he felt his thoughts coursing haphazardly in all directions, like water splashing from a fast-running river.

“My lord?” Malaithlon regarded the king. “I believe dawn is nigh.”

Thranduil stretched his senses beyond the sword in his hand, outside the cavern, and realized that night had taken its last breath and the sun was almost born. “Thank you, Captain.” He sheathed the sword. “I will be at the Gate shortly. Please ask my escort to wait.”

The king turned on his heel and strode from the guardroom. Malaithlon bestowed a suspicious parting glance on the young guard before leaving in the opposite direction. The youth was left alone and began to wonder what sort of amusing tale he could construct from his mysterious early morning encounter.

Thranduil walked quickly, his mind reeling. He held the mysterious sword tightly against his side, seeking to deflect curious glances from passerby. Rounding a corner, the king arrived at his destination.

Knocking sharply against a wooden door, Thranduil called, “Ivanneth? My apologies, but urgently must I speak with you.”

Several moments passed before the elven-king’s summons was answered. Ivanneth cracked the door open, hair slightly disheveled, yet manifested only slight surprise at meeting his king. “Thranduil.” He blinked as his eyes quickly lighted upon the stoic face of the elven-king. “Are not you leaving this morn?” he asked conversationally, as he opened the door to admit the king.

“Aye.” Thranduil proceeded immediately to a small table against a wall and swiftly pushed aside the scrolls, which littered its surface. He laid the sword gently on the table.

His advisor followed him to the table. Ivanneth had lived far too long to succumb to the eagerness caused by curiosity, though his eyes widened imperceptibly as he beheld the beautiful sword.

Thranduil rested his gaze on the runes along the scabbard. He traced their outlines with nimble fingers. “Ivanneth,” he asked without looking up, “can you read this?”

The ancient elf approached the sword slowly. The king moved aside and regarded his advisor hopefully. Ivanneth paused in front of the weapon and became immobile. After a long moment, he closed his eyes.

An Age seemed to pass, as both elves remained silent in the half-lit chamber. Thranduil felt distinctly that the sun had risen, and the birds and beasts were almost finished welcoming the day. His journey pressed itself upon him, yet haste was foreign to the king. He would wait out the rest of the year for Ivanneth to answer.

Finally, the advisor spoke. His voice was distant and his eyes closed.  “Long years have passed since I last beheld such craftsmanship. Centuries, yea, but the day remains as crystal in my thought.”

Thranduil nodded. “Never did I behold this sword in bygone times, yet it speaks to me of the days across the Mountains…days I have long kept locked within my memory.” He spoke faintly, almost to himself.

Ivanneth opened his eyes and regarded Thranduil, not as an advisor respects his king, but as a father seeks to explain the past to his son. “Son of Oropher,” he smiled gently, “you were yet living under the enchantment of youth when this sword was forged. Those days are shadowed,” he murmured, “loath am I to speak of them.”

“Ivanneth.” Thranduil felt his heart compress at the pain in the voice of his stoic advisor. He knew Ivanneth hailed from before the reckoning of the First Age, and had been a close companion of his father’s. He had long suspected that the dark-haired elf had accepted the role of advisor merely out of a misplaced sense of paternal obligation toward his best friend’s son. Thranduil had no desire to dwell in memories himself, and he was conscious of forcing his trusted right-hand to relive experiences the older elf evidently wished to forget.

Shaking his head sadly, Ivanneth sighed. “I cannot recount all that passed, Oropherion, for grief still presses my heart. I had a brother…a father…all perished in the folly wrought in Gondolin…”

“The Hidden City?” Thranduil prompted as his advisor trailed off into silence.

Ivanneth’s smile was bitter. “Aye, hidden. Know you that naught can be kept hidden from the Enemy. Aye…hidden.” The ancient elf stared into the middle-space. “This sword,” he returned suddenly to himself, “was forged in Gondolin, in the ancient days, and these symbols read Orcrist, Goblin-Cleaver, I believe is the translation.” Ivanneth furrowed his brows in concentration. “Never again I thought to behold this ancient tongue.”

Thranduil regarded the blade with newfound reverence. The same questions he had hoped to abandon in the guardroom now plagued his mind with renewed vigor. “This was taken from the leader of the dwarves.” He glanced at Ivanneth.

Although the advisor seemed more himself, there was still a shadow of pain in his eyes. Ivanneth shrugged at the king. “Much was lost in the wars of the First Age, Thranduil.”

The elven-king raised his eyebrows at Ivanneth, the challenge in his gaze a forceful message to his advisor that Thranduil remembered all too clearly the turmoil of that era.

“Peace, Oropherion,” Ivanneth said gently. “There are many possibilities of how Orcrist came to be found with the dwarf. However, rather than futile attempts at reconstructing a past of which we shall ever remain ignorant, I advise you to accept that fate has brought this sword to you, and its purpose shall be made clear.”

The king nodded reluctantly. “Think you it is right to keep the dwarvesimprisoned?” he asked abruptly.

Ivanneth eyed him seriously. “To my knowledge, this question has already been answered.”

Thranduil shifted. “Aye— ”

There was a sudden knock on the door.

“Adar?” Girithron’s voice spoke through the wood. “Ivanneth?”

With one last look at his king, the advisor crossed the room and admitted the Crown Prince.

“Adar.” Girithron frowned as he entered the room. “Is aught amiss? The morning fast wanes.”

Thranduil found himself entranced by the sword lying upon the table. He grasped the jeweled hilt and felt the metal rest comfortably in his hold. Among the precious gems, his eyes discerned emeralds. He had always loved the deep green of these stones, as they reminded him of Eryn Galen as it once had been.

So focused was he that the king did not sense Ivanneth’s approach. “I will do what I can to determine how came the dwarf to possess it.”

Thranduil eyed his advisor with gratitude and, not for the first time, was thankful that Ivanneth seemed capable of reading his thoughts.

“Adar?” Girithron’s voice brought the king back to the present moment.

“Girithron,” Thranduil acknowledged his son for the first time. “Come.” He beckoned as he placed the sword possessively at his side. “I must depart, for the day grows and evil does not rest.”

Without a backward glance, the elven-king strode from the room, with Girithron and Ivanneth following in his wake.

oooo

The king had been absent a week when the Southern Company returned to the caverns of the Woodland Realm.

The sky was grey, and the clouds hung heavily, practically crushing the treetops, promising rain. A cold wind blew steadily, carrying the first whispers of winter in its wake. Although the noon hour was high, the forest was dark. Despite great tolerance to the cold, few elves chose to leave their flets or the warmth of the cavern-palace.

The trees which shed their leaves in the colder months had already begun to do so, and the wind carried the brittle foliage helter-skelter. Bare limbs rattled in the morning darkness, but these sounds did not pierce the void of silence in the forest.

Deep within the hillside, Mirkwood’s royal family was enjoying a rare moment of unity. There had been few court matters to resolve, so Hananuir had ended council early that day. Girithron had anticipated the potential attack on Dol Guldur to such an extent that his organization was practically flawless, and he now had to test his patience with waiting. There were no grave illnesses in the infirmary, so Gwiwileth had delegated her responsibilities to another healer. Legolas was enjoying a break in the patrol rotation, relishing the fact that he did not have to scout the forest on such a bleak day. In short, Thranduil’s children found themselves together and unoccupied during the mealtime hour.

“I am glad there is soup today,” Hananuir announced cheerfully over his steaming bowl. “It seems appropriate for the weather, does it not?”

Girithron shrugged. “I once heard a mortal speak thus, but I see no correlation.”

Cocking her head to one side, Gwiwileth eyed the Crown Prince. “Nay, I disagree, muindor. The richness of the soup compensates for the grimness outside.”

“Why should it be grim merely for lack of sunshine?” Girithron challenged playfully.

“Say rather ‘melancholy,’ muinthel,” Legolas added. “The trees yearn for rain, yet the clouds withhold it cruelly.”

“Not so, Legolas, your senses deceive you,” Hananuir countered. “The trees lament the coming of winter.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “Winter is not yet come, but the rain is imminent.”

“Then the trees would not be mourning that which shall come to pass.” Hananuir grinned.

“The same can be said for winter, for that always comes to pass,” Gwiwileth teased.

“I still fail to understand the relationship between the soup and the rain or the winter,” the Crown Prince returned to the original question.

“Whether it be rain,” Gwiwileth looked at Legolas, “or winter,” her eyes slid to Hananuir, “the outside world is hollow today, muindor. The missing element is the soup.”

“Arda is not diminished.” Girithron shook his head.

Legolas’s eyes grew unfocused. “Nay, but you cannot deny there is a yearning present today.”

“A yearning for soup?” The Crown Prince snickered.

Hananuir rolled his eyes. “Do not pretend to be denser than you already are, Girithron.”

“I am not the one asserting that Arda clamors for soup.” The Crown Prince raised his eyebrows at his sister.

“Nor am I,” she rejoined sardonically. “You mistook my meaning.”

“Which is?” Girithron prompted.

“Merely that the emptiness in the weather promotes a desire for fulfillment within living beings. This desire is aptly satisfied with soup,” the Princess spoke with finality.

“Just so.” Hananuir nodded approvingly. “That is just what I meant.”

“Yet you said nothing of the kind.” Girithron smirked.

“I think we should discuss,” Legolas began, “that the hollowness preceding a rainstorm varies from the feeling before winter.” He glanced significantly at Hananuir.  “And today is perfect evidence of the former phenomenon.”

Girthron shook his head at his youngest brother before Hananuir could retort. “Hold, Legolas. I am still not convinced about this soup nonsense. If one were to indulge in a bowl of soup in the summer, say—”

“Lord Girithron! Lord Girithron!”

Allowing his thought to remain unfinished, Girithron along with his brothers and sister turned their heads to acknowledge the frantic shouting of an elf entering the main dining hall. All conversation ceased in the hall as every elven eye followed the trail of the guard as he approached the royal family. The brothers rose, all concerns with soup and weather forgotten.

“Speak quickly Thorchanar!” Girithron ordered sternly as the running elf paused to bow in front of the princes.

“The Southern Company has returned, my lord! They have been waylaid and less than half has arrived—” the guard gasped.

Without speaking, Girithron turned quickly and began to run toward the Gate. Hananuir and Legolas followed suit, with Gwiwileth trailing at a brisk walk in their wake.

The princes dodged surprised elves as they wound their way along the corridors snaking upwards to the mouth of the cavern. As they neared the Gate, a sizeable crowed blocked their way.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, Girithron began clearing a path. “Move aside! Let us pass! Your prince commands you!”

Several moments later, the Crown Prince had managed to wrestle his way to the front of the press. His brothers were close behind. When Girithron could finally see that which the throng of elves had obscured, he gasped.

For, hunched over on one knee, trembled the pale form of Calardir, the runner of the Southern Company. The elf’s eyes were closed and his breathing labored. A healer stood over him, speaking gently, while Calardir’s brother, a palace guard, supported him by the elbow.

“Calardir,” Girithron spoke firmly as he knelt in front of the pale elf. “What has occurred? Tell me all.”

Calardir opened his eyes at hearing Girithron’s words, and, recognizing the Crown Prince, bowed his head.

“Speak, where are the others?” Girithron pressed.

“My lord,” the other elf rasped. “I came as quickly as I could. I have been running from the Mountains since the attack—we were divided—wargs and orcs…”

“You were assailed south of the Mountains?” Girithron demanded.

“Nay, north—the orcs cut us in two groups, the others were forced back across the peaks—and then the wargs came.” Calardir’s voice shook as he recounted his experience.

Girithron’s face grew pale. “How many foes?”

The trembling elf shook his head weakly. “They seemed countless, my lord. We were overwhelmed.”

Standing behind the Crown Prince’s shoulder, Hananuir spoke anxiously, “How many survivors come behind you?”

Calardir’s eyes were bleak and his voice barely a whisper as he answered. “I know not, my lord. Captain Maeglir bade me run for aid before the battle was ended. I saw him…slain…as well as most of the first group.” There were tears in the elf’s eyes. “The second group may have escaped, but I know not. They are across the Mountains.”

“How many days did you run?” Girithron asked tightly.

“Three…four…I know not, my lord. The time is blurred.” Calardir hung his head.

Nodding, Girithron rose and placed a hand on Calardir’s shoulder. “Rest now, warrior of the Woodland Realm. Come.” He beckoned to his brothers.

Girithron marched away from the crowd, his expression closed, and his eyes snapping with sudden fire. Those elves in his way retreated of their own accord as the ire of their prince became palpable. Hananuir followed his brother’s greater strides with practiced ease, and Legolas walked silently behind his elder brothers. As the trio wound their way in the direction of Thranduil’s study, Ivanneth materialized and joined their procession without a sound. Arriving first in the room, Girithron jerked the door back and threw himself into Thranduil’s chair behind the desk. He waited impatiently for the others to be seated.

“Ivanneth,” the Crown Prince nodded sharply at the advisor, “I presume you have heard the news and are come with counsel.”

“News I have heard yet counsel have I none. I would hear your thoughts first.” There was unusual reluctance in Ivanneth’s voice.

“Your thoughts are my thoughts in this matter as there are no choices open to us. We will send a rescue party. They will form two groups: one to recover survivors and the other to find and destroy the enemy.” Girithron rapped the table to emphasize the role of each group.

“This is folly!” Hananuir half-rose from his chair. “We cannot risk more lives in a death trap!”

“Death trap?” Girithron echoed derisively. “You would leave forty warriors of this realm to die?”

“Nay, but neither would I double that count with recklessness!” Hananuir stood and challenged his brother.

“You call me reckless, muindor?” the Crown Prince asked softly. “I would remind you of whom you are addressing.”

“Girithron—” Legolas interrupted but was ignored.

“Indeed,” Hananuir’s voice cut across the words of his youngest brother. “A Commander who sacrifices the lives of his warriors in vengeance against overpowering odds rather than protecting his refuge.”

Girithron slammed both fists on the wood of the desk as he, too, rose in fury. “Speak you of sacrifice! Speak you of vengeance! I am no novice and I know how to protect my own! We are being cornered. Heard you not Calardir’s words? They were attacked north of the Mountains!

“Exactly!” Hananuir’s voice rose in volume though he rarely shouted. “And into this trap you would send more lives! How easy it would be for our enemies to surround us, wait for us to cross the Mountains seeking our lost comrades, and then close in upon us until we are shattered against the rocks on the one side or slaughtered by orcs and wargs on the other!”

“You cannot be certain of their position.” Girithron countered.

“There are many uncertainties—” Legolas began again, but his brothers did not so much as glance at him. The youngest prince looked beseechingly at Ivanneth, but the old elf merely shook his head sadly.

“Does it matter?” Hananuir retorted. “We will be surrounded regardless. I would not see our defenses decimated on the eve of war!”

“Think you this attack is unrelated to that war?” Girithron threw up his hands in frustration. “These creatures could not have ventured so far north without the aid of the Enemy!”

“Again, you further my point! If this be the case, how can you possibly hope to best them without reinforcements?” Hananuir all but shouted.

“I will not be penned in, like a beast in a snare!” Girithron roared.

“You have no choice!” Hananuir yelled.

Stunned silence met the mild mannered prince’s display of temper.

“I will not abandon forty warriors to face torment and death. Not while I am a prince of this realm,” Girithron spoke quietly, but no less forcefully.

“You know as well as I that we no longer have forty warriors. Calardir was unsure, but there can be but few survivors. I am not cruel, muindor,” Hananuir’s voice was pained. “Loathe am I to leave them without aid, yet can we truly afford the number required to guarantee safety for victim and rescuer alike? Think you on it! How many refugees have swelled our own numbers here? How can we protect all fronts?”

Girithron balled his fists and began pacing the short distance behind the desk and the walls that flanked it. “You know nothing of placing warriors, Hananuir,” he replied tersely. “The attack comes to us from the south, and we must meet it lest we are overrun.”

“I know enough to understand that we cannot protect our colony here and send enough warriors south to defeat such a large host. They will be massacred, and we will be left vulnerable.” Hananuir’s eyes burned with anger.

“Muindyr.” Legolas also rose and spoke in agitation. “I beseech you, cease this arguing! How can we determine the best course of action when you are blinded by your anger?”

“My anger, Legolas, is directed at he who would forsake the lives of his kinsmen,” Girithron growled.

“And my anger, little brother, is for the commander who would place the lives of the defenseless in danger through his reckless pride,” Hananuir spat.

“I wonder at Adar for leaving his government in the hands of the two of you!” Legolas narrowed his eyes. “I see nothing but foolishness in both your words.”

Girithron relaxed his fists, but his body was no less tense. Hananuir jerked his head slightly in acknowledgement of the rebuke, yet his eyes flashed dangerously.

“Many thoughts plagued me as I caught the rumors of Calardir’s report,” Ivanneth began heavily in the ensuing silence.

The three brothers turned to face the advisor, who had occupied his usual chair in the back of the room. The old elf waited patiently until he was sure of their attention.

“It seems I am not alone in suspecting Sauron’s complicity in this attack. Further, though I am no military commander, I too doubt our strength of arms. However,” Ivanneth paused and frowned at both Girithron and Hananuir,  “I see yet another solution which neither of you can discern behind your stubbornness.”

“Speak, Ivanneth,” Girithron asked respectfully in the silence, which followed. “‘Twould be great folly to ignore your counsel.”

“How many would be needed to scout the terrain north of the Mountains?” the advisor asked blandly.

“For survivors?” Hananuir eyed his elder brother.

“For whatever is to be found,” the advisor returned. “How many can be spared?”

Girithron weighed the question. “We could pull about fifteen warriors for the scouting group and we could back them with two patrols at established distances. Though, not,” his eyes narrowed, “for too lengthy a time.”

Legolas creased his brow as he contemplated the suggestion. “This distance must remain fixed, as when we are hunting.  The groups should move in unison.”

The Crown Prince’s eyes grew unfocused as he studied his younger brother’s idea. “Nay, Legolas.” He finally shook his head. “The groups could not communicate, and so there would be no warning of danger. The distances would be too great for bird-calls.”

“Yet not archery signals,” Legolas spoke with determination.

Girithron frowned. “I know not of this technique.”

“A colored flag or pennant is attached to the shaft of an arrow, which is then shot straight upwards into the sky at established times. The other groups need only have an elf in the trees to see the signal and can then proceed forward,” Legolas said quietly.

The tallest brother nodded abstractedly as his mechanical mind worked its way through the details of this plan. “It could work,” Girithron concluded finally, “but the signal would depend greatly on the weather.”

“What if this group is attacked in the same manner as was the Southern Company?” Hananuir asked no one in particular.

“And Ivanneth,” Girithron asked tensely, “you spoke merely of scouting? Is not this group to rescue wounded comrades? Or to seek the whereabouts of the stranded warriors?”

The ancient elf seemed to grow even older as he sighed deeply before answering. “This scouting group must act primarily to gauge the strength of the enemy and discover aught of our kinsfolk if it can,” he added sadly. “However, the group must not attempt uncertain rescues. If the group is attacked,” he eyed Hananuir, “then I hope your system of coordination works to ensure victory or successful retreat. I have no further counsel to give.” He rose and contemplated each prince before leaving the room.

Left alone, the brothers regarded each other with grim anxiety.

“I will speak with Captains Malaithlon, Nandir, and Rochiron now,” Girithron decided. “We will determine the composition of this scouting group. Join us, Legolas.” The Crown Prince gestured toward his youngest brother. “You have devoted much to the forest, and your insights are invaluable.”

Legolas accepted absently, but his gaze was on Hananuir, who had not moved.

“If this is to be our decision,” Hananuir began, “then I will see to it that the warriors’ families are not misinformed. I will not give them false hope,” he replied to Girithron’s raised eyebrow, “but neither would I have them anticipate grief.”

“It appears the war has already begun,” Legolas murmured.

“Nay, muindor.” Hananuir shook his head sadly.

“It never truly ended,” Girithron concluded grimly.

oooo

Translations:

Adar: Father

Muindor: Brother

Muindyr: Brothers

Muinthel: Sister

Chapter Six: By the Stars Above

A/N: First off, thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter. And I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed thus far. Thanks for sticking with me, though this chapter has taken me a while to roll out. Next time I write a story, I’ll try my best to have it complete before I start posting…

Just a cosmetic question: I’ve quite a few OC’s happening, and I was wondering whether the OC guide at the beginning of each chapter is helpful? Would you prefer it at the end of the chapter if it’s distracting? Also, I customize this list of OC’s chapter by chapter. Is that working okay for everybody, or would a complete list of OC’s be more helpful? I appreciate any feedback!

And now, finally, the chapter!! (after the OC Guide of course!)

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Calardir—runner of the Southern Company

Maeglir—captain of the Southern Company

Other members of the Southern Company—Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, Dorothor

Rochiron—captain of the rescue mission

Other members of the rescue mission: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor

Members of Thranduil’s escort—Aewenor, Círion

oooo

The light of the sun gradually faded behind the misty peaks as Thranduil and his escort traveled ever southwards upon the mighty Anduin. The elven-king gazed westwards with a spark of excitement in his eyes, and he scanned the clear sky above eagerly. In the boat ahead, Aewenor turned back and indicated the western bank to Thranduil, who followed in the second boat. Yet the king did not grant permission to stop. He gestured for the elves to continue downriver, into the waxing night.

“The weather will hold tonight, sire.”

Thranduil smiled softly at Círion, who seemed to share the elven-king’s impatience for nightfall. “’Twould be the first time,” the king remarked dryly. The group’s journey westwards through the forest had taken place amid the habitual gloom of the shadowed wood. However, Thranduil had been hoping that once among the freedom of the plains and wide-open spaces, the sky would be clear. Yet every night the clouds had joined together against the elven-party, and the darkness had been supreme. Not even the faint rays of the crescent moon had pierced the cloud cover.

And now, in the gathering twilight, Thranduil lost his gaze in the vast dome above his head. For the elven-king knew that tonight, the clouds would be gone.

As darkness fell, the great river quickly carried the three boats of elves along its course. The elves had devised a system of rowing, and their paddles rose and fell in the water with the precision born of countless repetitions. The fluidity of their motions was like an extension of the river itself, and their actions seemed rather to invigorate than fatigue their bodies.

With his back straight and head pointed forward, Thranduil rowed with no external awareness of the passing time. Unlike Círion at his side, the elven-king refrained from continual glances into the night sky. He would feel the moment arrive, but he had not sensed the time was yet upon him. It was fast approaching, this he knew. With every motion of his oar, Thranduil felt eagerness in his heart and clarity in his mind.  

The wind had increased in intensity at the disappearance of the sun, and now an icy chill pierced the elves’ hair and clothing. Yet despite the cold, Thranduil felt warmth as, suddenly, the moment came. Without breaking his rowing pattern, the elven-king looked up at the sky and gasped.

For Thranduil saw stars.

And they spoke to him of ages past, of what he once knew, of those whose faces he would behold never again under the light of the Sun, of how he once felt, and could feel never again. They filled him with awe, with delight, and wonder, as a child, yet also with sorrow and mourning, as for what a life of millennia had wrought upon him. And he felt the deep longings of his heart grow mute in the face of such beauty, and his soul’s cry for peace was answered. He felt the thousand wounds of his spirit heal as with gentle balm. The king’s eyes became full and silent tears trailed down his cheeks; an occurrence that never took place while under the shadow of Mirkwood. For under the twilight of the forest, the elf could find no beauty great enough to stir his sorrow and cause him to mourn outwardly for the destruction of past joys. It was only when he could gaze openly at the stars, without fear, that the king felt his weaknesses succored and his doubts reassured.

For the stars were unchanging. He had looked to them as a child, when he discovered the world. He had sought their healing during war, when every certainty was destroyed and his daily hope was to live only to see the night’s sky once more. He had bid farewell to familiar stars during the great journey eastwards, and had found, with delight, more stars in the forest. Then had come the Shadow. And grief, such grief as he had never imagined possible. Such grief that he had not thought of himself as still living, until more grief had assailed him. Yet always, the stars had been with him.

Until, with the darkness, the stars had grown faint and clouded. Night after night, for years, had he sought for their presence in the dimming twilight of his hope. But always, the skies had remained shadowed.

Yet now, as doom pressed ever closer to his halls, as he traveled on a final search for answers, now was his heart assuaged. The stars twinkled all the brighter for the cold, and the elven-king drank greedily of their sustenance. He knew not how much time elapsed, but he could not bear to avert his eyes.

And so the mighty Anduin carried the elves ever southwards, under the light of the stars.

oooo

The hour was late, and Girithron told himself that he must find rest ere daybreak. He had spent the entire day in council with the captains, his brothers, and Ivanneth. The plan was set, all possibilities discussed, errors weighed, and uncertainties counted. Instruction had been given and stated only once. Each warrior understood the choice between life and death for himself, for his comrades, and for their kinsfolk awaiting rescue near the mountains. There was nothing left to do save the mission itself, but for this, the Crown Prince must await the break of day. In order to meet the dawn, Girithron knew he must sleep. Yet he could not relax his body or quiet his mind.

With a sigh, the elf pushed himself upright against his father’s desk. Girithron snuffed the candles upon the table and left the room like a shadow. He walked swiftly to the Gate, which the guards opened for him without hesitation. The prince stepped into the night.

The forest lay tense and watchful. Girithron breathed deeply of the dank night air as his mind categorized the sounds in the underbrush. Squirrels, owls, and spiders went about their nightly noise with no awareness of the sense of doom Girithron had felt pressing upon his shoulders since the dwarves had been captured. The Crown Prince shook his head sadly as he worked his way into the forest, drawing ever closer to a tall beech that stood slightly apart from its neighbor trees. The elf began to climb the tree, his hands and feet working instinctively to find hidden footholds along the trunk, apparently without the aid of his eyes. As he wound his way upwards, Girithron arrived at a platform among the branches, high up in the crown of the beech. The Crown Prince pulled himself onto the wooden flet, and then he lay on his back staring into the night sky.

The leaves of the beech had not yet turned brown, and Girithron inhaled the sweet green smell of life the tree emitted. He flitted his gaze between the branches, and his eyes wandered fruitlessly between the patches of sky visible among the foliage. The prince’s defeat was bitter, but he did not sigh. As always, the sky above Mirkwood was clouded and shadowed. Girithron had been hoping that from this tree, one of the tallest beeches in the forest, he might be able to catch a faint glimmer of the stars, which he knew still hung in the skies.

No elves lived in this particular tree, and its flet could not be seen from the ground. Indeed, Girithron would never have ventured to climb the beech, had he not been set an example.

The Crown Prince remembered well the night, hundreds of years ago, when he had discovered this tree. He had been still flushed with the small victories of youth, relishing his new command, giddy with the possibilities of his prowess. Sleep had evaded him that night, and this was how he came to be wandering the halls so late. Suddenly, the young prince had seen his father walking before him, though the king had no eyes for his son. Girithron had followed quietly, stealing between the shadows with nary a sound. He had seen his father climb this tree, this beech, and remain in its top until dawn had almost arrived. Several nights later, Girithron managed to climb the tree himself and discover what had so captivated his sire’s attention. For some, the reward was small, barely worth the effort and danger of the nocturnal climb. But for Girithron, the brief glimpse was overwhelming sustenance.

And so the elf waited, high amid the branches, hoping for a clearing in the sky.

The night reached its maturity with a chill wind that pricked every aperture in Girithron’s dress. The leaves of the beech rattled, and the Crown Prince suddenly felt a deepened awareness in his perceptions. He sat upright and tensed as every sense in his body screamed for sudden caution. The elf rose silently, drawing the white knife that rested always at his side. Girithron gripped his weapon and backed slowly to the edge of the flet that drew even with a mighty branch. He held his breath.

The Crown Prince was rewarded for his vigilance with the soft sounds of another ascending the tree. Indeed, the noise was almost nonexistent, and had it not been for his heightened focus, Girithron doubted he would have registered the intruder.

And as suddenly as the other’s presence had been made manifest, the sounds ceased. Girithron breathed in the silence of the night. He frowned as his mind ticked away the seconds of waiting. Cautiously, he began to creep toward the bole of the tree.

Suddenly, a leaf rustled onto the platform behind him, and Girithron whirled his knife to meet the assailant.

“Ai! Legolas!” The Crown Prince drew up his knife sharply as it brushed against his youngest brother’s tunic.

Legolas’s eyes widened with surprise and embarrassment as he met his brother’s gaze. “I sought not to startle you,” he stated defensively.

Sheathing his knife, Girithron rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “By the Valar, Legolas! Why on all Arda could you not climb the beech like a normal elf?” He gestured impatiently to the trunk of the tree.

Legolas smiled provokingly. “I have always preferred to leap to that branch and ascend in a more interesting manner.” He indicated the corner of the flet and the offending branch in question.

Girithron sighed heavily, though his ire was quickly dissipating. “Why did you follow me?” he demanded.

His younger brother scanned the clouded sky above the tree before answering. “I followed you not, Girithron. It is not by my design that we seem to have the same purpose this night.”

The Crown Prince turned his back upon his brother and walked stiffly to the edge of the platform. Girithron could not understand his own heart, but he felt an unreasonable sense of shame at his brother’s intrusion. He balled his fists in an effort to quell the rising bile in his throat.

“Girithron?” Legolas approached softly and stood a pace behind his brother. “Are you angered that I have come?”

The Crown Prince tensed his body and clenched his teeth against the question, which had been asked with such childish simplicity. The shame grew within him and made his breathing tight. Memories flooded his mind of his youngest brother’s admiration and respect for him. Yet always had Girithron brushed him aside as a brother, and only in the past decade had he come to acknowledge Legolas’s merits as a warrior. The Crown Prince felt a pang in his heart, and his mind taunted him, accusing him of cowardice, of running from a truth he refused to face.

A quiet breeze rustled into the treetop, brushing against the faces of the princes and teasing through their hair. It seemed such a slight and fragile wind, barely a breath of air, but, somehow, it was enough. Above the brothers, the clouds parted and revealed a sliver of naked sky. And nestled in the sky rested the stars.

Girithron felt the tightness in his chest lessening and his peace restored as he gazed upwards. Beside him, his youngest brother’s presence radiated calmness and tranquility. And as suddenly as they had been revealed, the stars were veiled once again. The Crown Prince sighed audibly, but a profound sense of certainty had entered his being.

He turned and placed a firm hand upon his brother’s shoulder. Legolas regarded him with patient trust; his eyes open to anything of which his brother might speak.

“Forgive me, Legolas. The Shadow works its way into our hearts as well as our minds. I was not angry with you; rather, I was angry and ashamed with myself.” Girithron smiled at his brother’s frown of confusion. “I was ashamed that you would see my failing, but Elbereth has reminded me that the source of my fear is not a weakness.”

Legolas’s frown deepened. “Never have I thought you weak, muindor.”

“Aye,” Girithron nodded, “this I well know. I thought myself weak, Legolas, because I could not find rest this night. My mind was greatly troubled, and not until you stood beside me did I learn the cause.” The Crown Prince paused.

“Girithron, I do not understand,” Legolas spoke into the silence.

The Crown Prince let his hand drop from his brother’s shoulder. He regarded his brother with smiling eyes, though his face was serious. “I am afraid, Legolas,” he began softly, “for you. I cannot work out any other solution that does not place you in the first scouting group under Captain Rochiron. Believe me,” Girithron laughed mirthlessly, “I have spent hours chasing alternatives.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow in question, though comprehension had dawned on his face. “Girithron, worry not for me. I am quite capable of holding my own in battle. ‘Tis not the first time I am placed in danger.”

“Peace, muindor. I doubt not your skill of arms.” Girithron held up both hands briefly. “And yet, Legolas, despite your knowledge and experience, the mission tomorrow places you in grave peril. You could be killed.”

The words were heavy and lay between the brothers as objects with weight and depth. They regarded each other intently.

“As a warrior of the Woodland Realm, I place my life at the service of my king and commander for the protection of those weaker than myself.” Legolas spoke firmly the oath traditionally sworn by every novice at their maturity into warriors. “I will not break my vow.”

“Nay, muindor,” Girithron said softly, “I know you will not. Nor will I, for I too have sworn this promise. Legolas,” the Crown Prince did not look down, “your death would be on my hands. It is this responsibility and the loss I would feel of you that fill me with fear. My fear brands me a coward, and so I was ashamed that you should see your brother as such.”

Legolas knit his brows together in concern. “Not a coward, Girithron. A coward lives always in fear, and so cannot distinguish it from any other feeling. I could never think you a coward.”

The disbelief in his brother’s voice elicited a quiet laugh from the Crown Prince. “As I said, Legolas, ever the Shadow works to sow doubt in our hearts. It is a testament to the power of the Enemy how deeply he can turn our hearts against ourselves.” Girithron grew silent and cast his eyes among the dark treetops surrounding the beech tree.

“But come,” the Crown Prince stated decisively after contemplating the forest. “The night is almost spent and weariness will not aid us on the morrow.” The taller elf began to move toward the trunk of the tree when he realized that his younger brother stood rooted.

“Legolas?” Girithron raised his eyebrows. “Are you not coming down?”

The youngest prince of Mirkwood stood with his brow furrowed and gaze unfocused.

“Legolas?” Girithron spoke louder. “Let us depart! Legolas!”

Legolas shifted quietly out of his reverie and looked with concern upon his brother. “Girithron, I have never paused to consider the effects of the Shadow on my heart,” he confessed anxiously. “I never gave it thought.”

The Crown Prince could not suppress a smile as he answered, “Of course you have not, muindor. Forget not your youth, Legolas.”

“I have lived under the Shadow my entire life,” Legolas rejoined gravely.

“Which has not been of lengthy duration,” Girithron replied lightly as he began to descend the trunk below the platform. The Crown Prince smirked as he imagined the frown that must be gracing his brother’s face.

“Perhaps not!” Legolas called merrily from the crown of the tree. “But I, at least, in my short years, have better learned the art of climbing trees than you in your aged wisdom.”

With an odd choking sound, Girithron’s chuckle became a gasp of surprise as his youngest brother leapt from a branch onto the trunk below the Crown Prince. “That is no way to climb down from a tree, young one,” he managed to call mockingly.

“Perhaps not, O venerable lord Girithron! Yet it seems my youthful ignorance will speed my return to the palace!” Legolas taunted.

 Girithron smiled competitively as he accelerated his downward progress. He had never been one to back down from a challenge.

oooo

In the breath before dawn, thirty-five elves divided themselves into the longboats floating in the river outside Thranduil’s halls. There was hardly a sound besides the clinking of metal and the creaking of wood. No other elves had gathered in farewell, and so, when the night mists finally dispersed, the forest lay empty. For the warriors were already rowing upriver when first light pierced the shadows of Mirkwood.

In the second-last boat, Legolas sat pensively, allowing his body to enact the mechanics of rowing with no apparent strain. The few pleasantries he had exchanged with his eldest brother that morning had left Legolas convinced of Girithron’s continued doubts and apprehension for their mission. Perhaps their conversation the previous night had provided some comfort, but Legolas wondered whether the Shadow’s control could be so quickly broken. The young prince had never quite considered the machinations of the Enemy in the light of psychological and mental results. He had, of course, perceived a certain depression or fatalistic despondence which seemed to plague those warriors serving close to Dol Guldur for too long a time. Indeed, the weight of that particular assignment was the primary reason for patrol rotations, as he himself was intimately familiar. He recalled to mind the heaviness of heart and spirit that dragged upon one serving in the southern extreme of the forest. He had found himself slow to smile and sluggish in his attempts to admire beauty during his stint in the Southern Company. However, once returned to the cleaner air around the cavern-palace, Legolas had not experienced any further mental turmoil.

But that Girithron should be prone to the Shadow’s effects at such a distance from Dol Guldur…Legolas frowned as he contemplated the ramifications of this fact. The Crown Prince had not served in a regular patrol, much less a company, for…Legolas’s frown deepened as he found that he could not remember the last time Girithron would have had occasion to venture near Dol Guldur. His brother should have no reason for the severe doubts and fears he seemed to be experiencing. As far as Legolas was concerned, this particular mission held no unusual danger. The young prince was baffled as to Gitithron’s behavior.

His eyes growing unfocused, Legolas replayed last night’s conversation in his head. It struck him that Girithron had asserted twice that the Shadow had sown doubt in his heart. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place and Legolas’s eyes widened as his mind raced through thoughts and ideas with breathless speed. He had identified the source of the Shadow to be Dol Guldur—as it was—but what if its effects had now spread further? What if the gloom of Mirkwood stemmed entirely from the Enemy? This would mean that the whole forest lay blighted…even… Legolas froze. So startled was the young prince by his sudden thought that he broke his pattern and held his oar aloft a second too long.

Legolas winced as his error caused the boat to cut through the water differently. He felt the vibrations in the wood and kept his face blank as Captain Rochiron graced him with a frown.

Behind the prince, Calethor’s whisper carried in the silence of the morning. “The pattern has not changed, your highness.”

Legolas dipped his head in acknowledgement of the jibe, but could not find the desire to join in his friend’s levity. His mind was in chaos, and he fought down myriad thoughts to pin down one central theme: the Shadow lay over all of Mirkwood. Therefore, the Enemy had worked his way into the hearts and minds of his people, his family, and himself. And Legolas had not perceived the intrusion.

The young prince gazed into the trees on either side of the river as the elves worked further up the river. He had been told that the forest had not always been dark. Indeed, Legolas remembered journeys undertaken to Esgaroth and to the Anduin in the west, and in both these places the trees sang joyously. The air did not press upon one outside the forest and the spirit felt freer. He had sung with greater peace outside the forest. Legolas grimaced as he recalled the slight changes he himself had experienced in his lifetime—changes of increasing darkness. But he could not discern when his heart and mind had fallen prey to the Enemy. At what moment had this come to pass?

Or, had the changes wrought upon him come so slowly, as the creeping moss, that Legolas had not noticed? Had his laughter grown quiet and rare? Had he become silent and introverted? Did he doubt those around him, those he professed to love? Did he uncover secret motives in their actions and did he suspect falsity in their hearts? Had he grown so accustomed to the smell of rot and the gloom of darkness that he could not find beauty in the world around him? And what of song? Did he always raise his voice in lamentation? Was this Shadow, then, the source of doubt and uncertainty? Of the anger he found in his heart, against his brothers and even his father? Legolas felt a bubble of anxiety boiling in the pit of his stomach. Had he come to mistrust his family? Had he come to doubt himself?

The young prince took a gulp of air as his mind threatened to overwhelm his poise. He began to berate himself silently for his lapse in vigilance—he should have been prepared for the Enemy’s advance—when the harsh cry of a falcon startled his reverie. Legolas trained his eyes on the bird and followed its flight. The falcon shot into the sky above the tree line for the barest of seconds, before plunging down to earth with the triumphant call of a kill.

Legolas found himself still gazing at the place in the sky at which the falcon had last been spotted. The falcon was real, he told himself firmly. The falcon acted as Yavanna decided it would act—as a hunter. The falcon was unaffected by Shadow. It simply existed. Legolas was not a falcon, and he knew that he could not simply act instinctively. And yet…the prince frowned pensively. His heart told him that the rescue of lost comrades was right. He felt no doubt, even as he recalled the argument sustained between Girithron and Hananuir. Surely, his heart acted instinctively, guiding him along the right path. The Shadow had worked to mire this path, to confuse, and misdirect. Yet the elves had not yielded. Legolas felt the tenseness in his shoulders subside and his brow smoothed. The elves had not yielded to the Shadow. His father had not yielded and was even now actively seeking to destroy the Enemy.

It was enough, Legolas concluded. The Shadow did not dominate his every thought and action, as he had briefly feared. He was yet himself and his mind was his own. Legolas recalled the short glimpse of the stars he had enjoyed with Girithron the night before. Yes, Girithron also was his own master with a clear understanding of his own heart. It was enough.

Legolas turned his attention to his body as he realized that he was not expending the same amount of energy as he had been earlier that morning. He started as he noticed that the elves now rowed downriver, and he surmised that they must have turned toward the Mountains very recently. The river flowed fast and strong underneath the boat and somehow the trees around them did not feel as dark.

Legolas smiled as he felt the irresistible urge to sing. He eyed Captain Rochiron, at the head of the boat, but the elf seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. Softly, Legolas began to sing.

At first, he sang alone as the other elves in the boat waited for the Captain’s reaction. Then, Calethor joined the song, and slowly, other voices were raised. They were not singing loudly, but still, the sound carried, and soon, the other boats had joined the song. Legolas smiled as he recognized Girithron’s deep bass amidst the voices. The elves sang of the forest, but not as it had become. Legolas had chosen an old song, a Silvan song. The words ran as wind through the leaves, as water laughing in the river. The melody was slow but not sad. The music spoke of strength not easily broken and life not easily destroyed. The song simply existed, and in his heart, Legolas felt that it was right.

oooo

Girithron stood rigidly as he conferred with Captain Rochiron. Two days ago, the company had left the first patrol stationed by the riverbank. It was now the Crown Prince’s turn to stay behind and send the others ahead. The Mountains loomed a day and a half’s journey south. The signals were set for the following day, just before sunset. And in the meanwhile, Girithron would have to wait.

The Crown Prince let his eyes fall upon his youngest brother as the latter took his place in a longboat. Legolas met the gaze and the brothers regarded one another in silence. After a moment, Girithron found that he was smiling and that Legolas was also smiling. The Crown Prince nodded and allowed his eyes to return to the Captain.

“May the Valar protect you,” Girithron said softly in parting.

Rochiron inclined his head gravely, and the Crown Prince wondered whether this particular elf had smiled in the past decade. The Captain proceeded to the head of the first longboat and immediately gave the order for departure.

The veteran captain scanned the faces of the fourteen warriors under his command. His gaze swept past their determination and resolve and exposed a flicker of fear. Rochiron nodded: he had learned that at the heart of every act of courage rested a seed of fear, doubt, or anxiety. He had witnessed courage—the act of trusting despite one’s fear—in countless battles over his lengthy lifetime. He could not ask his warriors to be fearless; indeed, he had little patience for brashness. But he would ask them to trust him and risk everything for the sake of their comrades. Rochiron was a Silvan elf, one of the very last remnants of an ancient people before their mingling with the Sindar. As such, the Captain understood the forest and lived with it in a way incomprehensible to certain elves. And the forest spoke to him quite candidly that there was hope for the lost warriors. Rochiron knew his mission and the charge of reconnaissance did not involve an uncertain and desperate rescue. Nevertheless, the Captain was not about to ignore the certainty in his heart.

There were still some who lived, Rochiron asserted. And they would be rescued.

oooo

The morning was still young when the elves fell under the shadow of the Mountains. Captain Rochiron had pressed them well past sunset the day before, and the river had carried them swiftly. The woods were silent and not even the scurrying of squirrels could be heard in the underbrush. Even the water seemed hushed.

The Captain signaled for the elves to disembark on the western bank. If the warriors took unusual care not to scrape the boats against the rocky shore and not to clang the metal of their weaponry against the wood, then the Captain did not remark upon it.

Rochiron stiffened as the butt of spear scraped against a small rock on the riverbed. His senses screaming, the Captain motioned for silence. Something was wrong, and Rochiron could not fathom how he had missed the warning in the forest. Indeed, there had been no such warning, he concluded. The forest was silent.

“Scout the area in pairs,” he commanded gruffly. “Remain within sight of the river.” He stood taut as the warriors dispersed silently. Rochiron let his eyes pierce the shadow of the wood and the feet of the mountains, but he discerned nothing unusual. There were no traces of elven warriors or orcs, for that matter. No broken underbrush or discarded weaponry. No signs of any struggle. Next, the Captain cast his hearing into the forest. The trees were too quiet for his liking, but, at least, he did not hear the harsh language of the enemy. He did not even hear the scuttling of spiders. Rochiron drew a deep breath, and there…he smelled it. The smell was acrid and metallic.

Blood.

Abandoning his post by the boats, Rochiron headed in the direction of the smell. He gave a low whistle as he walked, and without turning he sensed the warriors falling in step behind him. He listened to their footsteps and counted fourteen elves. Now he could focus entirely on the smell. He heard swords being drawn behind him and arrows notched to bowstrings. The others had undoubtedly perceived what had drawn the Captain forward.

Rochiron had fought for ages and was a seasoned veteran of many campaigns. He had witnessed death and destruction in far more ways than he cared to count or remember. As a youth, he had tried to keep a mental list of fallen comrades so that he could honor their memory. But as the years had progressed, he had wisely abandoned that pursuit. There was little that could surprise the Captain, but wanton violence always made his blood boil.

And so it was that as Rochiron discovered the source of the smell, his ire rose and his eyes narrowed.

There were six elves in the forest, lying in pools of their own blood, bodies maimed, and eyes forever fixed in death. Their wounds were various and rough; the work of dull blades and frenzied strikes.

Rochiron clenched his teeth as his warriors reacted to the sight. A part of his mind registered their gasps, cries of shock, and words of grief. Another part of his mind was bellowing with rage—for among the bodies of the slain, the Captain did not find the bodies of orcs. There were broken arrows—black arrows—but no bodies.  

“Captain Rochiron.” Legolas’s voice was pained, but urgent.

Rochiron clenched his fists in an attempt to control his anger and turned to regard the prince.

“The tracks lead south, Captain. They belong to orcs, but they are deep—weighted, as if they bore a burden.”

Rochiron’s eyes burned, and he allowed the full force of his gaze to fall upon Legolas. The younger elf did not flinch. The silence stretched between them as Rochiron forced his mind to go blank. “We will bury the slain,” he ordered abruptly and pitched his voice to carry to all the elves.

“Captain, their families—” Calethor protested quickly.

“They will be spared the pain of seeing this defilement.” Rochiron scanned the group of elves, who regarded him with a mixture of pain, sorrow, and faint rebellion at his orders. “Now get to work. The day passes.”

Legolas regarded him steadily for another moment before turning to aid the other warriors. Their task was gruesome, and periodically the sound of gagging and retching interrupted the silence. More than one cheek bore the evidence of tears before the work was completed.

The Captain stood apart as he watched the bodies being laid to their final rest. He did not react as the warriors sought to mop up blood and remove arrows before laying their comrades in the ground. He stood rigid as the ritual words were spoken over each body. Finally, the warriors laid earth over the bodies of the slain. It was Tuilinnor who began to sing the lament.

Soon the others had joined the song. Their voices were quiet, full of pain and sorrow. They sang of death and loss, and then they sang the name of each fallen warrior. Lastor. Filechon. Ornor. Lalvon. Brethildor. Dorothor. The warriors sang of valor, courage, and sacrifice. Finally, they sang of peace and freedom.

Rochiron’s voice died within him, and he could not open his lips to sing. He was no stranger to death and mourning. Yet this time his grief was dulled as a fiery anger burned in his heart. How had this massacre been perpetrated, he demanded. How was it that no enemies had fallen yet six elves had perished? Where was the body of Captain Maeglir, who Calardir had sworn had been killed? And where were the thirty-three missing warriors? Where was the enemy? He clenched his jaw as questions threatened to overwhelm him and send his mind spiraling in a tunnel of despair. He had to find the answers.

With a small shake, the Captain roused himself back to his surroundings. He realized that the lament had finished and the elves stood in silence. He surveyed his company, noting every tear that fell and those warriors whose bodies shook in their weeping. The Captain remarked those that stood silent and still and those who trembled with anger. Rochiron stood tall and made his decision.

“We will scout the eastern shore,” he began without preamble. “We may discover more clues as to what transpired here.”

He was met with silence though the collective gaze of his warriors begged for a better plan.

“Let us all go across the river. Again, scout in pairs. Move out,” he ordered.

The actions of the next few hours seemed dazed and disjointed to Rochiron. In the aftermath, as he sought to account for time passed, he found he could not compose a clear picture of that afternoon. The warriors scouted the eastern bank with painstaking care. No tree was left in peace nor bush unexplored. They examined every broken leaf and bent blade of grass. But the forest lay still and undisturbed. There were no tracks of friend or foe. No signs of living creature. Like an empty tomb, the forest waited.

Rochiron looked skyward as the afternoon waned, and he knew that sunset was fast approaching. He must signal to Girithron’s company or the patrol group would leave their position and hasten with aid. Yet this aid Rochiron did not want. It was not time for reinforcements. Not yet.

He ordered the company back across to the western shore. There had been little conversation during the day and every elf seemed wearied. It might be wise to allow a rest for the grief to numb slightly, but Rochiron knew there was no time for such a luxury.

He found himself standing by the mounds of the fallen. The rest of the company grouped themselves in a semi-circle in front of him, at a respectful distance from the burial ground. Every eye rested expectantly on the Captain.

Rochiron hedged for only a moment. The anger in his heart did not consume with such intensity as it had previously. The pain had given him clarity. “Warriors of the Woodland Realm, I speak to you now as your Captain, but also as your kin. We have scouted the terrain south of the Mountains, as was our charge. We have found the bodies of fallen comrades and buried them rightly according to our customs. No enemy have we met. Yet here, beside me in the ground, we see evidence of foul creatures. These tracks belong to orcs and they lead toward the Mountains. Undoubtedly, our enemy waits on the other side, for we know these Mountains well and there are no hiding places on their southern face. In the light of day, our enemy keeps to the shadows and caves. They await us. They goad us and seek to entrap us.”

Rochiron paused and scanned the line of warriors. They had every one of them seen the tracks and understood that the orcs responsible had indeed carried a weight. The trap was all too obvious; the bait all too painful to consider.

“Prudence would suggest we retreat to our brethren upriver and make our plans afresh. That we take the deaths of these six warriors as foreshadowing of what we may find should we cross the peaks. Is this what ye would have me command?” Rochiron asked simply.

The reaction to his words was mixed. Some elves cast down their gaze in uncertainty. Others met his eyes in disbelief. Still others exchanged glances among themselves. Legolas met his eyes steadily.

“Prince Legolas.” Rochiron indicated the young archer and every eye turned to contemplate the prince.

“If they had all been slain, then why would the orcs leave only six behind?” Legolas spoke as if Rochiron alone stood with him.

“The bait,” Galadthor said harshly.

“To lure us across the Mountains,” Legolas continued as if his question had been rhetorical.

“To meet our deaths,” Galadthor concluded grimly.

Legolas turned to face the veteran warrior. “If we cross,” he specified, “we will be attacked. And if we do not, then our comrades will most certainly be slain.”

“If they yet live,” Erethion added.

“The Enemy has trapped us with iron chains!” Tuilinnor exclaimed and several others nodded.

Rochiron gestured for silence and the company was still. “Fellow warriors, you were selected for this mission for your courage, your skill of arms, and your loyalty. What elf among you would leave now, knowing what we have learned? As for me, my heart freezes my step and roots me to the ground. I can tread no path but that which leads me south.”

“We cannot abandon our comrades to certain death!” Calethor challenged the elves around him.

There were murmurs of assent from the other warriors and even the hesitant looked up with renewed determination.

“Lead us, Captain Rochiron,” Legolas said quietly. “What is your plan?”

Rochiron dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of his prince’s support. “We will cross the Mountains at nightfall. We will move with stealth and if fate favors us, we may take them unawares.” Rochiron paused as his warriors digested this information. There was no more dissent and the Captain felt the air hum with their united purpose. Rochiron closed his eyes momentarily before sharing his most controversial choice. “We will not summon Lord Girithron’s patrol tonight. I do not want a massacre.”

As he had anticipated there were some slight signs of surprise from his warriors. Eyes widened and brows furrowed. But none voiced protest. Satisfied that there was nothing more to be said, Rochiron gave his final orders. “Find what rest ye can. We move at sunset.”

The warriors broke formation and settled themselves into small groups. Some retreated to the boats for food, others lingered to pay their respects to the fallen. The elf Rochiron sought had moved apart from the others toward the trees.

“Prince Legolas, a word.”

The younger elf paused in his trajectory and complied with Rochiron’s request for them to stand apart. “Captain,” Legolas said.

“I want no arguments with my orders,” Rochiron spoke low and hurried. “If the battle should go ill on the other side of the Mountains, I want you to retreat back here and signal the others. You will go when I command you.”

Legolas’s eyes flared in protest. He opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. “Why me?” he finally asked. “Why not one of the runners or—”

“You are the youngest prince of the Greenwood, my lord. I would keep it that way.”

“My life is not more valuable than any of theirs.” Legolas gestured to the other warriors. “How can you deem my worth to be greater?”

Rochiron sighed deeply as he contemplated the young archer who stood before him, body tense in righteous indignation. “Legolas,” he began quietly, “fate has willed us to play a part in this world. To what end, we know not. Nor is it for us to know. You were born a prince, and fate has more in store for you than this mission. I know this in my heart, but it is not for me to understand.” Rochiron waited patiently until Legolas finally bowed his head in submission. “Go now and rest,” the Captain ordered gently. “Darkness will soon be upon us.”

The Prince walked away to join his fellow comrades beside the longboats. Rochiron remained where he was, apart from the others. The Captain eased himself onto the ground and lay with his back upon the grass. He inclined his face upward and his eyes delved among the clouds. Rochiron waited.

oooo

Translation:

Muindor: Brother

Chapter Seven: The Snare

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has left a review. I sincerely appreciate all your words! Hopefully, this chapter will prove exciting and worth the wait. I’ve decided to move the OC list to the end of the chapter—since it was getting a little long. Basically, every new character is going to be a warrior…but definitely check the list to keep them all straight. Enjoy! (and don’t forget to review!!!)

PS-Like Tolkien, I use the terms “orc” and “goblin” interchangeably for roughly the same ugly creatures. I know there is variety among the species, and I’ll leave it up to your imaginations as to what the goblins in this story look like. Please let me know if the use of both terms gets confusing and I’ll pick one.

Finally, thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter!

oooo

“Well?” Girithron demanded tersely.

Helediron shook his head sadly. “No sign yet, my lord. We will keep watch.” He bowed formally before the Crown Prince and retreated to a beech tree at the southernmost tip of a small clearing in the forest. The warrior disappeared amidst the foliage in the moment it took for Girithron to resume his pacing.

The Crown Prince balled his fists in frustration and glared at the sky as he rounded a corner of the clearing and turned to repeat his path. The sun had begun to sink in the sky and twilight was fast approaching. Girithron had been wary of this method of signaling, which Legolas had proposed, but now he was convinced it was utter nonsense. What if their arrow had gone astray or unseen? What if aught had befallen Rochiron’s group to prevent any signal whatsoever? Any number of possibilities may have occurred, and he should have known better than to trust the judgment of an elf so many centuries his junior. He should have relied on his own instincts and had runners relay messages between the groups. Girithron shook his head vehemently as the absurdity of this idea agitated his mind. No, there was no better way. And what if they did not signal? Then Girithron must move and take his patrol with him south downriver with aid. The Crown Prince all but swore with vexation. He should have placed himself in the first group, not Legolas, and—

“The signal!” Helediron’s shout cut both Girithron’s thought and his step. The Crown Prince hurried eagerly to the foot of the beech tree from which his scouts had seen the sign.

“What news?” Girithron called anxiously.

“All is well, my lord. Their arrow bids us wait.” Helediron combined these last words with descending from the tree. The warrior winced as a note of incredulity had crept into his voice.

Girithron’s frown echoed the suspicion beginning to stir in the patrol’s camp. Other elves had heard the report and had gathered around their prince.

“So they bid us wait,” the Crown Prince concluded. “They have discovered naught, then.” Girithron shifted as an awkward silence began to press itself upon his mind. He turned to contemplate the warriors standing behind him and noted that few met his gaze.

“Málchanar.” Girithron addressed the patrol’s veteran warrior, an elf he both respected as a teacher and trusted as a friend. “What say you?”

The weathered elf did not look away. “They may have discovered a situation beyond all aid, my lord.”

Girithron tensed. “You refer to the total annihilation of the Southern Company, I presume? They need no help to bury the dead.”

Málchanar looked to the south. “We cannot be certain,” he replied slowly. “I am afraid we have no choice but to wait until the morrow and another signal.”

“Waiting,” Girithron growled. “I have had enough with waiting.” Ignoring the sympathetic looks from his warriors, the Crown Prince strode angrily to the riverbank. He contemplated the water running swiftly to the south. What purpose and direction had the river, he mused. The water did not wait to be sure of smoother path or better course. It simply flowed onwards with headlong speed.

Girithron closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He had served as a warrior for hundreds of years before his promotion to military commander. He was well aware that his supply of patience was on the thinner side. He had taught himself prudence and caution. He knew when to strike and when to hold, however long the waiting took. Yet this evening Girithron found himself anxious for action. The wait had been gnawing at his mind all day, and he sensed that urgency was now required. Should he ignore the signal and travel south? Or, would his untimely departure endanger the patrol further north and ultimately jeopardize the defense of the palace and settlement?

The Crown Prince bent down suddenly and retrieved a few small rocks buried in the soft mud of the riverbank. He threw them sharply against the water. Girithron knew that the questions he now asked himself had already been answered before the rescue party had ever left the palace-cavern. The dialogue he held with himself was merely a distraction, an attempt to disguise the impotence he felt and had known he would feel. For Girithron had no choice in the matter: he had to wait. From the beginning, he knew he would be given no choice.

Turning on his heel, the Crown Prince stalked back to his warriors grouped around the beech tree. “We will make camp for the night. Divide the watch.” Girithron ignored the knowing resignation evident on the faces of most of his warriors. Despite the redundancy of the order, he was still in command, and he would still provide leadership. Settling against the trunk of an oak, Girithron prepared his mind for another night and day of waiting.

The Crown Prince let his mind wander and senses drift amongst the evening of the forest. He quashed a small voice in the back of his mind, which suggested that all the other creatures of the forest had greater purpose in their actions than he at that present moment. The autumn wind rustled through drying leaves with quiet determination. Birds called to one another in definite conversation. Why, even the clacking of spiders—

“Spiders!” Girithron shot upright.

Elves near to the Crown Prince paused in their activities and registered the unmistakable clicking of spiders.

“To the hunt!” Girithron announced jovially. The patrol quickly organized itself into an attacking unit and began to move west toward the spider sounds.

Málchanar eyed Girithron in amusement as the two elves fell in step together. “Should we not wait by the riverbank as planned, my lord?”

The Crown Prince waved his hand dismissively. “We will not journey far. Besides,” he said with a savage gleam in his eye, “we should not sit idle when evil moves about us.”

“Indeed.” Málchanar suppressed a smile as the elves took to the trees. Fortune must be favoring the company, the veteran mused. For these spiders had obligingly appeared at precisely the right moment.

oooo

Captain Rochiron stood apart, at a distance from the group of warriors checking their weaponry by the river. The elf faced the western sky and did not shield his eyes from the brightness of the sun. Had it been any other sunset, Rochiron mused, he would have waited until the last dappled rays had faded from the leaves of the trees. Had it been any other sunset… The Captain rubbed the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the warriors gathered by the riverbank. He read determination in their faces and duty in their bearing. They were ready.

Rochiron signaled the advance, and fourteen elves began the march. Before moving himself, the Captain sought the eyes of the youngest prince of Mirkwood. Legolas was evading his gaze, and the prince’s eyes flitted among his fellow warriors and searched the ground beneath his feet. The group drew even with the Captain, and then they began to pass around him. Rochiron met any curious glances with his stoic mask that forbade questions. The Captain stood alone, almost as if those he commanded had abandoned him. Suddenly, one elf detached himself from the group. The young archer stood rigidly tall, facing south.

Finally, Rochiron began to march. He drew even with Legolas, who still did not meet his eyes. It was enough, however. The Captain quickened his step to join the others, and he knew that Legolas had taken his place at the rear.

The ground was rocky and dry. Before them rose mighty firs, which had always made the Mountains seem taller to Rochiron then they perhaps were in reality. The Captain had been across the Hithaeglir twice in his youth, but he still remembered the awful heights of the misty peaks. The ground barely sloped upward as the elves ascended, but Rochiron knew they were climbing.

“Captain, might it not be wise to keep to the trees?” Galadthor barely whispered behind Rochiron.

The Captain turned and eyed the surrounding firs warily. His gaze pierced the gloomy boughs and dark canopies that extended far above their heads. “I think not,” Rochiron replied slowly. “They seem dry and brittle branches will make for unsafe footing. Further.” He paused.

Galadthor prompted him with a raised eyebrow.

“Further,” Rochiron continued, “these trees are evil. I sense they have been twisted and would aid us not.”

Both elves contemplated the forest mistrustfully.

“If they will not help us, they will shield our enemy.” Galadthor glared at the firs.

“Perhaps,” Rochiron agreed softly as they renewed their steady march. “Our alertness must not fail as we venture further into the snare.”

Galadthor did not answer, but his heightened watchfulness was evident to Rochiron though the elf walked behind the Captain. Indeed, Rochiron felt the tension amidst the group was palpable, even solid enough to shift obstacles in their path. Elves can move with stealth unfathomable to mortal senses, yet even Rochiron had to concentrate deeply to assure himself that he was indeed followed by fourteen elves. Despite dry pine needles and loose rocks along the ground, the warriors made no sound. After his brief dialogue with Galadthor, no words were exchanged among the group. Even Calethor’s normally inexhaustible voice faltered.

The sun sank behind the horizon, and the shadows lengthened. Weird patterns of light and dark now danced about the Captain’s feet, fading quickly and reappearing further ahead. The muscles in Rochiron’s neck tightened as he realized that no birds sang the closing of the day. The silence that pressed itself upon the group seemed unnatural to the Silvan elf. It was not the quiet of a peaceful forest gone to rest, but rather an eerie stillness devoid of life. Rochiron was familiar with this silence for it was the same emptiness that surrounded Dol Guldur.

 Senses snapping, Rochiron drew his sword. His eyes pierced the gathering gloom ahead like so many spears. Behind him, he felt that other weaponry had been prepared. Spears hefted, swords raised, arrows notched.

If it was possible for the elves to move with even greater stealth, then they did so now as the light faded. Darkness came quickly under the great fir trees. Slowly, shadows enveloped the group. At first, only their bodies moved in shadow, as their dark clothing cloaked their presence. The sun had reflected off the small amount of metal the warriors possessed—an arrowhead, the tip of a spear, the flat of a sword—but now, the weapons were dulled. Their faces sank into shadow, and only the light from their eyes stayed the night.

They had arrived at the base of the first peak.

Rochiron stopped, and he felt his warriors come to rest behind him. Before them rose the Mountains, slightly steeper than the lower-lying hills, which seemed as the offspring of their mightier sires. In their course due south, the Captain knew three such elevations had to be crossed before the group could arrive at the forest below. The forest south…the Road…such a vast league of distance to the south. Rochiron’s shoulders slumped slightly as he contemplated the magnitude of the task before them. The attack on the Southern Company had occurred roughly a week ago. If prisoners had been taken, then with such cruel jail-keepers as goblins, their comrades could be halfway to Dol Guldur by now. The Captain had not the time or resources to pursue them so far south. Such was not his mission.

Rochiron cursed himself silently. Had he honestly supposed the task to be so light that he would discover the missing warriors amidst the peaks themselves? As the Mountains rose, many caverns pocketed the rock-face, and these were notorious as the favorite hiding places of orcs. Had he suspected an ambush as soon as his group had crossed the first hill? And then, was it simply a matter of freeing their comrades from bondage? Or, had he hoped to find the remnants of a battle, traces of weapons and clues to a fight? Would such evidence be enough to settle his mind and put his heart at rest? Did he desire to find more bodies, more elves slain? How had he lost his focus? Rochiron was not an elf swayed by the allure of an easier road or lighter task. Yet somehow he had miscalculated the chance of success.

“Captain, what orders?” Calethor’s voice broke the silence harshly and abruptly.

The darkness had become so absolute that the gaze with which Rochiron now directed to Calethor could only be sensed by the younger elf. The dark forms of the other warriors shifted uneasily as the darkness deepened and the silence grew.

Rochiron turned back south and faced the mountain before him. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes from all distractions and cast his hearing into the night. The Captain tried to pick apart the profound stillness, layer by layer. There had to be a sound at the core of the silence, a movement, a rustle, something. Rochiron emptied his mind, forbidding his imagination from creating or remembering a sound when there was none.

There was only silence.

“Gather branches for torches,” the Captain whispered as he turned to contemplate the group of warriors at his back. The force of their disbelief hit Rochiron like a wave breaking against a cliff. “We will not light them yet.” He swept aside their doubt. “However, once across the first peak, we will have light.”

“If we seek to make easier targets for our enemies, perhaps we should discard our weapons here as well,” Esgaldir’s sharp voice from the rear of the group cut through the darkness.

There were no murmurs of assent, but Rochiron felt dissension and resistance. With broad steps, the Captain closed the distance between himself and Esgaldir. He gazed sternly at the young elf before him. “Should you question my orders again, Esgaldir, I will send you back to the settlement in disgrace. Do not treat such disfavor lightly,” he warned.

The younger elf’s eyes flashed sullenly, but he bowed his head in acknowledgment of the rebuke.

“Gather the branches,” Rochiron repeated. “Quietly.”

The group dispersed, and despite the rapid snapping of a few of the drier branches, the task was accomplished in relative silence. Once assured that his instructions had been followed, Rochiron signaled for the warriors to continue their journey. The Captain struck a quick march, but kept his senses primed for the slightest disturbance in the night.

The elves moved rapidly, almost a shadow themselves, practically indistinguishable from the deep shadows cast by the firs. The trees grew thickly, even unto the Mountains themselves. The terrain became rougher with hidden rocks lying treacherously loose in the mountainside. The hours stretched. The darkness solidified. The silence sharpened.

Rochiron felt the muscles in his legs and back conveying him upwards as the climb steepened. He narrowed his eyes and could barely discern a slight change in the shadows before him that designated the top of the peak. The ground leveled off, and the Captain was about to command his warriors to light their torches, when he heard it.

In the shapeless darkness before him, Rochiron heard the sound of a stone rolling down the mountainside. An outside agent had dislodged the rock. The quiet echo of stone falling against stone manifested itself to the group of warriors. The Captain froze, his sword poised in midair before him. Spears were hoisted and bowstrings drawn tautly as the group waited. An Age of silence passed, and the elves made no movement.

Rochiron hardly dared breathe as he strained his hearing to its utmost limits. But he heard no growl of warg or gurgle of orc. He smelled no foul odor of his enemies. The Captain narrowed his eyes. His experience with orcish intelligence had taught him that these creatures hardly had the patience to bait a trap, never mind wait to spring it. The Enemy would not wait so long for the elves to venture within its grasp. Rochiron did not entirely delude himself into thinking their group so hidden. He knew that goblins could smell them out without the aid of noise or light. Could it be another creature that had shifted the stone? Was the company alone?

“Light the torches,” Rochiron breathed softly.

“Heard you not—” Esgaldir’s frantic whisper caused a ripple of uncertainty within the group.

“Light them,” Rochiron repeated.

The first crackle of fire seemed like an explosion of thunder. The pine branches burned quickly and noisily. One by one, each elf held a lit torch. Silently, Galadthor extended a burning brand to Rochiron. The Captain took the branch and surveyed his surroundings.

They stood exactly where Rochiron had expected they would: the first peak would more appropriately be deemed a narrow plateau. Behind them lay the fir-covered hills, shrouded in darkness impenetrable. This particular plateau was too small for caverns or ambush, as it rose alone above the nearest rock faces. Rochiron turned to check his warriors before he could allow himself to look ahead.

No warrior had relaxed his stance with the lighting of the torches. The spear-elves and sword-elves held their weapons at their sides, while the archers fingered their bows. Grim were the faces of many, yet fear danced in the eyes of some. Out of habit, Rochiron counted the number of fighters, and he started at coming up short. Narrowing his eyes, he peered into the group behind him, until he ascertained that all but one elf had lit a torch. Legolas stood far into the distance, swallowed by darkness. The Captain frowned at the disobedience, but before he thought to reprimand the young archer, Rochiron understood the strategy. If Legolas had to run for aid, he would have to do it quickly. He would have no time to extinguish a fire, nor would it be prudent for him to be marked. Grateful for the check on his pride, Rochiron turned to examine the small dip, which occurred before the next peak rose before them.

The darkness lay heavily in the hollow and on the rocks of the mountainside. Rochiron wished for a sturdier torch with which to part the shroud, but knew he should be happy for what little light he possessed. He waited for another moment. Surely, if there were orcs in the near vicinity, the creatures would not let fifteen elves continue onwards. Rochiron began to suspect that somehow, orcs were not the minds responsible for this trap. He did not care to guess the identity of their leader, and so without further hesitation, the Captain descended into the shadow.

oooo

Gwiwileth’s fingers deftly worked a needle into a bolt of emerald-green cloth. Her posture spoke of peace, her demeanor was placid. Yet her mind belied her calm as a thousand myriad thoughts swirled about in a desperate dance. The princess had not felt such inner turmoil for years. She knew this gift of turbulence was in fact a warning she could neither control nor understand. For whom was the danger? For her father, thousands of leagues hence, bargaining for aid? For Girithron and Legolas, courting danger in the shadows of the forest? For the elves of the Southern Company, lost, imprisoned, wounded, and hopeless?

She pricked her finger in an attempt to distract herself from fruitless thoughts. Worry was not what was required at this time. She forced stillness upon herself. Gwiwileth was like an oak tree that had weathered many storms: she might bend, but she would never break.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.”

The princess raised her head and smiled kindly at the old she-elf before her. “Why, Faelwen, what tidings? You seem perturbed.”

The head cook of the palace nodded worriedly. “Aye, my lady, I have strange tidings. I was not going to bring this before you, but the situation is getting out of hand.”

Gwiwileth had set aside her sewing, and she rose in concern. “Speak, tell me all,” she urged.

“It is the food, my lady. I cannot fathom how, but someone has broken into our winter rations. At first, the damage was hardly worth noticing, and it was just some prepared foods we had made for that day. But now, the result is sizeable and has spread to our stores. All of the lower kitchens have been raided, and we have set watches, but we see no thieves, yet always the stores have been affected. It would not be of consequence, my lady, but with so many extra mouths to feed, and with winter coming on, and with the war I hear it going to take place, why—”

Gwiwileth raised a hand to still the elf’s tirade. “Peace, Faelwen. War is not yet certain. Can we not make up our stores through our trade with Men?

“Aye, my lady, we are doing that, but if the raids continue? We cannot depend on the supply once the cold weather sets in.” Faelwen’s eyes implored the princess for a solution.

“The days will soon grow chill and game scare,” Gwiwileth murmured as she looked out the window.

“What I cannot understand, my lady, is who would dare steal food from our rations?” Faelwen glared at the space before her. “Every elf knows what we can get from the forest, and how precious that food is which comes from the outside!”

“Are the stores locked at night?” The princess regarded the cook intently.

“Aye, my lady.”

“Lock them during the day as well, Faelwen. If the kitchens are not in use during the night, lock them also. Have sentries at the doors—or have them pass the kitchens in their rounds,” Gwiwileth amended as she recalled their current dearth of guards. “This shall not continue.”

“It will be done as you command, my lady. Thank you.” Faelwen bowed gratefully as she left the chamber.

She was barely out the doorway when Hananuir practically bowled her over in his haste to enter the room.

“Beg pardon, Faelwen,” the prince managed as he righted her and shut the door at her departure.

“Hananuir!” Gwiwileth admonished.

“No time,” her brother replied tersely. “We have been attacked. Goblins to the west. The Western Company is holding them at present, but they need reinforcements. I am taking every warrior off duty and all guard companies, with the exception of one. Malaithlon is staying here with enough guards to protect the palace should it come to that. I have warriors recruiting every able-bodied refugee with the slightest notion of warfare to join the defense.”

Gwiwileth had gasped at this news, and it was a moment before she found her voice. “I will get the rest of the settlement inside the caverns. We will make ready for the wounded. Hananuir, how many?” Gwiwileth gripped her brother’s arm as he made to leave.

Hananuir’s shoulders slumped. “The scout reported a large host. Enough.” He nodded. “They are enough.”

“Hold,” the princess commanded as the prince turned the door handle. “Can we not send a small group south to call the rescue companies? They must be summoned!”

“Ai! Of course! I did not think of that!” Hananuir ran his hand through his hair in agitation. “I should have thought of that, I—”

“Now is not the time for self-doubt, Hananuir. You know what needs to be done, and you will accomplish the task necessary.” Gwiwileth held her brother’s gaze until determination had kindled in his eyes.

“Aye, I will. May the Valar protect you,” he said gently.

“And you,” she replied softly. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Hananuir was running out the door, Gwiwileth trailing at a furious pace. “Galion!” She pitched her voice to carry far down the corridor.

Now was the time for action.

oooo

Legolas felt that his body was about to snap in pieces. He held himself so tensely that every muscle stiffened and groaned with his smallest movement. His fingers had practically etched themselves into the wood of his bow, and he felt that he would not be able to release them should he actually be required to shoot. His eyes bored into the darkness around him with such intensity that he feared he might go blind. The slightest rustle about him—the brush of fabric, the crackle of the torches, the footfall of an elven warrior—caused him to start and hold his breath. He was constantly turning around to scout the terrain behind them, suspecting at every instant that an unseen enemy had managed to track them and creep up unawares. Several hours ago, he had caught himself imagining stealthy footsteps behind him, and his increasing paranoia had caused his breath to come in shorter gasps.

He had memorized the breathing pattern of Tuilinnor and Feron, who walked immediately before him. Had the prince not been so preoccupied with checking the rear, Legolas had no doubt he would have memorized the respiratory habits of every elf in the group. Legolas cursed himself for his anxieties, but found he could not keep his fears at bay. They should have been ambushed hours ago. Indeed, the night was practically spent, and they had not discovered hide or hair of friend or foe. Something was uncannily, unnervingly, abnormally wrong.

Without warning, Feron stopped abruptly, and Legolas nearly collided with the shorter elf. Feron practically jumped at the prince’s touch, and in the flickering torchlight, Legolas made out an apologetic smile. Ahead of them, the warriors had drawn into a circle and amidst the shadows cast by torches, Legolas discerned relief on the Captain’s face.

“Captain?” Calethor asked respectfully.

Every eye was trained on Rochiron as his eyes gleamed. “Listen,” the Captain whispered. “Do you hear?”

Legolas frowned as he concentrated on the sounds of the night. Beyond the crackle of fire and sounds of breathing from their group, the prince heard nothing. Indeed, his ears had been screaming for hours at the deafening silence upon the mountainside. Beside him, Tuilinnor shook his head in frustration.

“There is nothing, Lieutenant,” the younger elf whispered to Legolas.  

The prince closed his eyes and searched deeper. He trusted Rochiron and knew that the Silvan elf had superior senses in the forest. Legolas had served under him for an unusual number of missions and patrols. Indeed, Rochiron had taught him much about the forest in his own way. If the Captain heard a sound, then a sound there must be. But he could not sense…there. Legolas opened his eyes wide. There, he had heard it. At the utmost limits of his hearing, there was indeed a sound. It was faint, perhaps no more than an echo of a sound. It was the sound of metal clanging against metal.

Somewhere, a battle raged.

Legolas met Rochiron’s eyes and nodded. Not all of them had perceived the sound, and Calethor finally voiced his doubt.

“I hear it not, Captain. What is it that you sense?” Calethor demanded.

Beside Rochiron, Erethion had his eyes tightly closed. “It sounds like…ringing.”

“A battle!” Feron called triumphantly as understanding dawned on his face.

Rochiron raised his hands for silence as murmurs began to escalate within the group. “The Mountains are deceitful, and the sounds you hear are no more than two hour’s march due south. I can discern both orcs and elves. Our goal is quite near.” He surveyed the group with his particular version of excitement. “I would not tarry when our comrades’ need is dire.”

Several elves nodded in assent, and Legolas allowed himself a small smile as he recognized this familiar tactic of Rochiron’s. The Captain caught the prince’s eye briefly as he turned to lead the group forward. Legolas’s smile broadened, as there had been unmistakable mirth in Rochiron’s eye.

The Captain took three steps forward and broke into a run. They were more than halfway across the peaks, and the downward slopes were steep. As the other warriors followed suit, Legolas waited at the rear for his turn to move. Ahead of him, Tuilinnor and Feron began to run, their bodies fluid in rapid motion. Finally, Legolas himself took off, all tension gone and muscles singing with practiced ease. As he ran, his mind became clearer, and he felt his anxieties fall away with each step he took. With barely a hitch in his stride, Legolas swerved to avoid a cleft in the mountainside. He leapt nimbly over a small boulder and relished the feeling of strength in his legs and the firmness of the ground beneath his feet.

Ahead of him, Tuilinnor slipped on a loose stone, but recovered his balance in an instant and continued forward. The torches bobbed up and down regularly as their owners did not alter the pace. As he ran, Legolas attempted to discern further sounds of battle. Yet Rochiron’s words held true—the Mountains deceived the prince and concealed all evidence of a fight. Occasionally, he caught the faint echo of ringing metal, but mostly it seemed to Legolas that a heavy fabric encircled his ears. He grimaced: trying not to listen as he ran was akin to trying not to breathe.

The group approached the top of the last peak of the Mountains. Below them lay the foothills on the southern end of the range, and further ahead, the forest. Suddenly, Captain Rochiron stopped abruptly, teetering dangerously on the last sharp ridge. Legolas skidded to a halt and abandoned his post as rearguard as the rest of the company fanned out along the ridge.

The sound of battle hit him like a hammer. On the foothills below them, Legolas saw a small group of elves completely outnumbered by a large company of goblins. The prince gasped as he realized that about half the elves had been taken prisoner—bound and guarded, they remained mostly unmoving under the last foothill to the west. The remaining elves had been separated from their kin, but they were battling to hold a position in the opposite direction from the prisoners. Strategically, they should help the free elves first, he thought. Legolas observed this in an instant, and his mind raced to comprehend the situation, as he turned frantically to Captain Rochiron.

As the prince turned his head, he felt the other warriors around him direct their attention to the Captain. In the same moment, a harsh orcish shriek emanated from below them. The group had been spotted. Before the yell had ceased, the elves moved to draw their arrows. But in the split second between the draw and the release, a black arrow came whistling through the air. It struck Rochiron and with a sharp intake of breath, the Captain lost his footing on the ridge and fell forward.

For a moment, time stopped. Legolas froze and his companions were immobile. Then, the crash of metal, the screams of goblins, and the calls of elves accosted his hearing in a cacophony of urgency. Voicing his own yell, Legolas released his arrow into the press of orcs as he charged down the mountainside. Thirteen elven warriors joined his call as the company dove into the melee.

oooo

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

*The Southern Company:

Captain Maeglir, Calardir (runner), Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, Dorothor

*The Rescue Team:

Group One: we’ll meet these guys in the next chapter.

Group Two: aka Girithron’s group, includes: Helediron

Group Three: aka Captain Rochiron’s group, includes: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor, Feron, Esgaldir

Chapter 8: The Rescue

A/N: I have no idea if Celeborn and Thranduil are technically cousins. We know they are kin, and since canon does not explicitly deny the possibility, I’m running with it. Let the term “cousin” apply loosely to a distant relative who may or may not be the offspring of your parent’s sibling. If you are interested in this possibility and would like to read a killer argument supporting the cousinship, talk to Gwedhiel0117.

Also, thank you to Kayson135 for the beta edit!

oooo

“Kinsman! Hold!”

Thranduil closed his eyes in exasperation as his cousin’s voice hailed him. “Celeborn,” he began wearily.

Deep grey eyes regarded him keenly as the Lord of Lórien descended the long staircase and stood next to Thranduil. “Night is yet upon us, cousin. Will you not wait until daybreak?”

Absentmindedly brushing his arm against the stone of the wall, the King of the Woodland Realm shuddered imperceptibly. He glanced quickly at the dark tower of Orthanc before letting his eyes rest upon the surrounding forest. “I must ride,” he finally answered gently.

Celeborn did not look away. “Why do refuse our escort? If you will not stop in Lothlórien, then can you not at least travel north with us?”

Finally meeting his kinsman’s eyes, Thranduil shook his head softly. “Forgive me, Celeborn, I am deeply troubled. Dreams I have had of late of warning and danger within my realm. Indeed, I had contemplated departing the Council early—and perhaps should have done,” he said caustically.

Celeborn raised a silver eyebrow. “Is not the Council’s decision to your liking?”

Waving his hand impatiently, Thranduil took a few steps forward. “Yes, yes,” he replied irritably. “Though sufficiently slow in its arrival, this decision has gladdened my heart. Yet I cannot ignore the urgency of my dreams.”

“There is time, Thranduil.” The Lord of Lórien regarded the strong outline of his cousin, who stood before him.

“Time?” Thranduil spun quickly. “There is no time for Mirkwood.” He spat the name distastefully. “Tell me not you have grown complacent within your sanctuary, Celeborn.”

His kinsman’s eyes darkened slightly. “The blighting of Eryn Galen was not of my choosing,” he returned evenly.

“Yet you seem to have forgotten the speed with which the Shadow takes hold.” Thranduil’s eyes flashed.

Celeborn walked quickly past his cousin, who was forced to turn. The Lord of Lórien lost his gaze in the middle distance for a moment, before he contemplated Thranduil. “I have sought to forget,” he began faintly, “but one cannot.”

Checked by the naked pain in his kinsman’s eyes, Thranduil felt his temper cool. Embarrassed by his selfishness, the King bowed his head. Suddenly, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Thranduil looked up and met Celeborn’s penetrating gaze.

“I understand that haste is forced upon you, cousin. No longer have we the luxury of living ignorant of mortal time. Believe me,” the Lord of Lórien smiled humorlessly, “I have not forgotten how.”

Thranduil met the grey eyes before him and felt an understanding transpire, which had evaded them during all their talk of prior days. He placed his hand on his cousin’s shoulder in return for the parting gesture.

“Go,” Celeborn urged. “With all speed and safety, I bid you ride and hope that what awaits you belies the warning of your dreams.”

“I thank you. Until our next meeting.” Thranduil turned and began a fast walk toward the stables and outer buildings, where his escort waited.

“Until then,” Celeborn murmured and frowned into the darkness, which enveloped the receding figure of his kinsman in shadow.

oooo

Legolas ducked automatically as an orcish scimitar sliced through the air where his head had been only moments before. Bracing his body with his right foot, he spun and embedded a knife deep in the belly of the scimitar-wielding orc. As he withdrew his blade, another goblin was upon him, and the prince had barely enough time to parry the blow before he was pushed aside by more orcs. Straightening for a moment, Legolas attempted to make out other elves fighting in the writhing mass of bodies that struggled upon the foothills. He spotted a tall figure, scattered here and there among the shorter goblins, but could make no sense of his kinsfolk’s formation. They were not organized in an attacking unit; rather, it seemed to Legolas that each elf was drowning in a sea of goblins.

Suddenly, a burly goblin stood directly above him on the hillside and raised its axe high above its head. Legolas was about to move when an elven arrow whistled over his head and buried itself in the goblin. As the creature fell dead at his feet, the prince scanned his surroundings, seeking out the elven archer. But he was not to be given the time. Another orc crept up behind him and cut the prince’s back with a jagged sword. Legolas yelled aloud as he managed to spin and decapitate the creature. The prince dropped to one knee as the force of his injury stole his breath. A dark stain on his sleeve above his arm brace indicated that he had been wounded in the left arm as well.

Legolas narrowed his eyes as he fought air into his lungs. The situation was rapidly escalating beyond elven control. Open battle was not their preferred method of warfare, and Legolas lamented that such overwhelming odds had even had to be attempted. In the first charge, he had managed to unite his group of warriors with the elves of the Southern Company. Hadron of the Southern Company had welcomed the warriors with joy, and their rekindled hope had briefly driven back the orcish advance. But their line had been broken, and now Legolas despaired of further reunion.

Heart pounding, Legolas raised his head as suddenly, in front of him appeared another orc. The creature held a scimitar aloft, and the prince winced as he attempted to rise. His right arm trembled as he gripped his knife, and he knew that his defense would only buy him another minute in which to rise. But as the orc drew closer, the creature passed him by. Stunned, Legolas swiveled his head and watched in confusion as the orc that had threatened him instead attacked another goblin.

“Legolas! Get up now!” The prince’s jaw actually dropped in shock as none other than Captain Rochiron knelt before him, an arrow still buried in his chest, though its shaft had been split in two.

“Captain! You are alive!” Legolas blinked as Rochiron’s leathery hands propelled him upward.

Rochiron did not deign to answer as he released his grip on the prince and scanned their surroundings. A half-dozen goblins were violently beating each other on the slope beneath them and appeared to take absolutely no notice of the two elves barely a few steps away. “Come, we must profit from the goblin’s distraction.” Rochiron gestured over the hill, and the two warriors began making in that direction.

“Why are they fighting each other?” Legolas found himself asking as he fell in step beside the Captain.

“Why is the grass green?” Rochiron retorted as he sidestepped to avoid a charging orc.

Legolas bit the inside of his lip in annoyance. His back had begun to throb, and he was in no mood for jests. Scanning the sky, the prince stopped abruptly as realization hit him. “Captain!” Legolas said sharply.

Rochiron turned immediately at the urgency in the prince’s tone.

“The sky!” Legolas pointed eastwards. “Dawn is nigh. The goblins must retreat.”

Looking east in his turn, Rochiron eventually nodded. “The night seemed everlasting. They will not retreat,” he said seriously. “But perhaps their fury will lessen, especially if they are too absorbed in each other.”

A black arrow whistled above their heads, and both elves threw themselves against a rise in the ground. With their backs against the hillside, Rochiron outlined his plan.

“We must rally the others and release the prisoners,” he said bluntly.

“Not all the goblins have forgotten our presence,” Legolas countered, as he pointed to the small group of elves from the Southern Company, battling continuously at the feet of the hills.

“Nay, but we must have reinforcements to defeat our enemy. I would guess more than half the Company lies imprisoned yonder.”

“But are they hale? If there are wounded among them, then perhaps they are safer imprisoned since we are not enough to guard them as well as hold the goblins at bay.”

Rochiron clenched his jaw, having clearly admitted and dismissed this possibility to himself.

“Perhaps this is why Hadron and his elves are seeking to draw attention away from the prisoners,” Legolas continued his idea. “They attempt to protect the wounded.”

“They cannot all be wounded.” Rochiron glared at a passing orc.

With a sudden thud, Calethor fell into the space beside Legolas. Blood oozed from a gash on the side of his head, but despite his wound, Calethor winked cheekily at his friend’s surprise.

“I have done as you commanded, Captain. There are only three too wounded to fight. Among them, Captain Maeglir,” Calethor announced triumphantly.

Recognizing his defeat, Legolas inclined his head toward Rochiron. “Your plan, Captain?” he asked respectfully.

Upon hearing Calethor’s words, Rochiron’s eyes had begun to gleam. “Calethor, had you aid?”

“Aye—Tuilinnor and Esgaldir are attempting to dissuade Galadthor from the fight. He does not like the idea of goblins battling each other rather than us.” The warrior shrugged.

“Listen closely,” Rochiron said urgently. “Legolas and Calethor, I want you to free as many of the prisoners as you can without attracting attention. Use the shadows to your advantage, but we have not much time.”

 “And you?” Legolas asked with as little skepticism in his tone as he could manage.

“I will rally Tuilinnor, Esgaldir, and Galadthor—at least—to aid Hadron and turn any attention away from you.” Rochiron regarded both warriors seriously until they nodded in assent. “Go now!” he commanded and before more words could be spoken, the Captain was over the hillside and lost to view.

Exchanging a glance, Legolas and Calethor began creeping cautiously among the rises and dips in the ground. They flitted behind unsuspecting orcs and crouched by piles of bodies as they worked their way ever closer to the unmoving group of prisoners by the edge of the battleground. They were within shooting range of the prison guards, when Calethor suddenly pulled Legolas down to the ground behind the carcasses of two goblins.

“They hold the prisoners at the foot of the last hill with their backs to the forest,” Calethor whispered. “I do not know if you can do what I did before.”

Legolas frowned at his friend.

“Protest if you will, your highness, but you are hurt, and I do not know if you can climb a tree like that,” Calethor managed to mock concernedly.

“To say nothing of your own injuries,” Legolas rejoined softly.

“Mine do not prevent me from walking upright as yours does,” Calethor retorted.

Legolas looked away. “Tell me what you did,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, his friend divulged that he had snuck through the mess of goblins until he could ascend the outer trees of the forest. From the treetops, he had communicated with some among the prisoners, and formulated their plan. Calethor now proposed that both he and Legolas should flit from the trees into the prisoners’ camp and cut their bonds. Once enough elves were freed, they would surprise the guards and retreat to the forest, from whence they could circle back to help the elven attackers.

“Was this your idea?” Legolas asked after a pause once his friend had finished speaking.

Breaking into a smile, Calethor replied, “Do you suppose Captain Rochiron would allow me to create the plan? Nay—his idea, and this is why it shall work, and I am willing to risk both our lives in the attempt.”

“You have my thanks,” Legolas said sarcastically, as he scanned the press of orcs fighting each other before them. “Calethor,” he warned, “the darkness is fading. We will be seen.”

His face devoid of all mirth, Calethor regarded the sky and turned grimly to the prince. “We will have to run. Now.”

Ignoring his friend’s look of concern, Legolas straightened as far as he was able. In unison they nodded, and breaking cover, sped directly into the fray.

oooo

Dawn stole quietly into the forest. Examining the grey sky, Captain Aegnir mused that there was hardly any difference between night and day in these evil times. He trained his eyes on the river before him. For five days, he had been keeping his patrol stationed by the river, obeying the signals sent by Prince Girithron’s patrol further downriver. They had used the time to clear spider-webs from the forest, but Aegnir and his warriors were growing impatient.

Turning his head sharply, Aegnir registered the sound of hooves coming toward them in the forest. He gave a shrill whistle and immediately, his disparate band of warriors came together. Messengers on horseback were only dispatched at the utmost need.

“Ready the boats,” he commanded. Should travel be required, he would be prepared. As the elves obeyed his orders, Aegnir waited for the rider to approach.

Breaking through the tree line, Raenlas reined in his mount as he spotted the patrol. “Captain Aegnir!” Raenlas shouted without dismounting. “Make haste back to the palace! We are under attack!”

Aegnir had been expecting urgent news, but he was taken aback by the details of this summons. “The palace has been attacked?” he gasped, as cries of dismay came from his warriors.

“Nay,” Raenlas amended. “West of the palace—but less than a day’s march from the settlement. Prince Hananuir calls for reinforcements!”

“We shall depart now,” Aegnir promised, and his warriors were already taking their places in the boats. “Ride you further south?” he asked Raenlas as the latter elf allowed his horse to drink from the river.

“Aye, as soon as Daeroch is ready to run, I must call Prince Girithron’s patrol as well.”

“May the Valar speed your errand,” Aegnir saluted as he stepped into a longboat.

“And yours!” Raenlas cried as the patrol took their oars and set off.

oooo

Legolas balled his fists and dug his nails into his palms in an attempt to distract his mind from the searing pain across his back. With every step, he felt his skin tearing further apart and blood pooling around the wound. He would be unable to ride for several weeks, he told himself firmly. Ahead of him, Calethor’s figure wove around goblins too preoccupied to notice the passage of the fleet-footed elves. True, they ran fast, but Legolas was amazed that the orcs either would not or could not acknowledge their presence. The prince ran doggedly, trusting to his friend’s choice of direction. Though Calethor had characteristically brushed his own injury aside, Legolas was concerned, for head-wounds often proved deceptively grave.

Panting, Legolas observed that the sun was about to rise. The nightly shadows were dispersing quickly, and he knew that the goblins could not ignore this occurrence. Suddenly, the prince felt his footing slip and catch in a cleft in the ground. He tried to keep his stride, but his back screamed at the extra exertion, and Legolas stumbled. He fell forward and despite the agony, broke his fall with a shaky tumble.

He lifted his head in an attempt to rise and was promptly struck across the face by a black fist. With spots dancing before his eyes, Legolas made out the figure of an unusually large orc, feet planted squarely apart in front of the kneeling elf. The prince felt his hatred of the foul creatures coursing within his veins and giving him the strength with which to rise. Legolas knew his arms were trembling as he gripped his knives, but he managed to hold himself erect and glare at his enemy.

The goblin emitted a guttural laugh and waved his rusty blade in eager anticipation of his kill.

Beyond the goblin, Legolas discerned the outer edge of the forest. They were so close! He saw Calethor’s dark-head approach the first tree before his friend realized that he was not being followed.

The goblin uttered more harsh sounds, and the prince realized that the creature was speaking. A second goblin joined the first. A third.

Legolas met Calethor’s wide-eyed look of complete panic before the prince was finally attacked. Legolas dodged the blow easily, and sliced the first goblin across the abdomen, though he lacked the strength to deliver a fatal blow. The creature staggered and fell. Legolas turned and drew up his right knife just in time to meet the thrust of the second orc’s blow. With his left hand, the prince impaled the orc. As the third goblin charged bearing a double-headed axe, Legolas felt his feet knocked out from under him. The first goblin pushed him against the ground with its foot. The prince’s vision blurred as his open wound was pressed against the wood of his bow and the bumps in the ground. His mouth and nostrils were assailed with the reeking foulness of goblin, and Legolas choked as he attempted to breathe. The goblin drew back his blade and held it directly above the elf’s chest.

In that moment, Legolas believed he would die. The sounds of battle around him grew muted, and even the deadly blade poised above him paused. This was not the worst situation he had endured, but never before had he understood his fate so clearly in his heart. He knew that this goblin would kill him—perhaps he would not even feel the pain of the rough metal as it tore its way through his chest until it would finally pierce his heart. And then his fëa would flee.  

Would the pain of his breaking be unendurable? Would it not overwhelm his consciousness? Did his fëa know the way to Mandos’ Halls? He was not ready to rest, for he was not yet weary. Legolas remembered whispered tales he had overheard in his childhood—of fëar that wandered ever houseless in the world—would he be lost, doomed to search unceasingly for respite? What of the elven defense—the settlement—his family? Would his absence prove fatal for others in the current fight?

And, suddenly, noise rushed back into his ears, the stench of battle robbed his breath, and his body throbbed in pain. He looked upward into the eyes of the goblin that would kill him—and found them stilled. The prince searched the body of his assailant and discovered an arrow growing from its chest. An elven arrow.

“Have you lost your wits? ”Calethor pushed aside the goblin’s body to join that of the third orc, which had also been shot. Gripping Legolas by both shoulders, his friend pulled him into a sitting position. “This is no time for a rest, your highness!” Calethor’s strong voice shook in his forced merriment.

His breath coming too short for words, Legolas gripped his friend’s forearm in a warrior’s salute.

“Can you walk?” Calethor asked tentatively after a moment had passed.

“Aye.” The prince pushed himself ungracefully to his knees, and then stood. “Your performance was quite impressive, Calethor,” he said archly. “Your aim,” he clarified at his friend’s look of total confusion.

The dark-haired elf’s eyes narrowed as comprehension dawned. “I am yours to command, your highness,” he mocked.

Knowing their banter could be of lengthy duration, Legolas indicated the trees ahead. Calethor jogged lightly to the tree line, while Legolas managed an awkward hobble.

“How are you going to—” Calethor began when a black arrow suddenly sprouted from the tree trunk in front of them.

“We have been marked!” Legolas exclaimed. “Hurry!”

Nimbly climbing into the branches, Calethor braced himself against the bole of the tree and extended a hand to Legolas. Not a moment too soon, the prince was pulled into the lower branches as another arrow came sailing to land where he had been standing. Without a backward glance, the elves climbed higher into the tree. A small leap carried Calethor to the next tree. Legolas followed suit, his back numbing to a dull ache as his body repeated long familiar actions.

“They do not pursue?” the dark-haired elf asked quietly.

“They would be mad to challenge a wood-elf in the trees,” Legolas replied gravely as he observed that the dawn had finally broken. The morning was overcast, and some could suggest there was little enough difference between the night and the day. However, to elven eyes and goblin senses the faint light was enormous.

Both warriors understood that their time was running dangerously short. As soon as they perceived the daylight, the goblins would either flee or unite against their common enemy. Whatever petty quarrel had distracted them during the small hours would be quickly forgotten as they suffered the pain of light. Hadron, Rochiron, and the other elves were alarmingly outnumbered. These thoughts went unspoken between the two friends as they moved rapidly from tree to tree, working their way west toward the prisoners.

Finally, they arrived at the trees bordering the goblin’s camp and could make out no less than twenty elves in bonds. The captives had been thrown into the interior of a circle and were surrounded by goblin guards.

“They have increased the guard,” Calethor whispered disappointedly.

Legolas nodded bleakly as he contemplated the diminishing chance of success their mission now faced. He dimly recalled Hananuir’s foreboding and admitted that his cautious brother had predicted wisely. The well-intentioned mission was rapidly becoming a foolhardy massacre.  

Suddenly, a loud cry emanated from the foothills above the forest’s edge. The call was uttered in the harsh black language of the orcs, and it was taken up and repeated by dozens of throats. As soon as the noise died down, the goblins cried again, and again. In horror, Legolas and Calethor regarded each other and the obvious truth behind the call: the goblins were rallying together. The sounds abruptly increased in volume as the guards surrounding the prisoners took up the call. Two of the guards abandoned their posts and ran up the hills. Then, four more joined their comrades.

Their dismay turning to eagerness, Legolas and Calethor waited anxiously as one by one, all but three guards left the prisoners to join the battle above. As soon as the deserting guards were out of sight, both elven warriors had arrows notched to their bows. Barely a moment passed and two of the goblin guards fell, arrows lodged deeply in their throats. Before the third guard could so much as turn to look at his comrades, he too had been dispatched. The prisoners were left unguarded.

As silently as two shadows, Legolas and Calethor dropped from the trees into the goblin encampment. Immediately, the elven prisoners stirred. Eyes danced with joy as the rough ropes binding their arms and legs were cut and the dirty gags across their mouths removed. Despite a myriad variety of cuts and scratches, most of the prisoners were hale and eager to do battle.

“Prince Legolas, my heart is overjoyed to see you! Fate smiles kindly upon us this morn!” After his release, Súlinnor gripped Legolas enthusiastically on the shoulder and beamed at the group in general. “We had despaired of our release—especially once they tripled the guard—but then, you appeared!”

Unable to resist the good-natured elf, Legolas smiled in his turn. “Lieutenant Súlinnor, my heart is gladdened at our meeting. I would hear your tale, but haste demands we aid our kin trapped in battle yonder up the hillside.” The prince indicated the direction of the fight.

Súlinnor sobered immediately. “We are ready for battle, my lord. That is,” he dropped his voice, “most of us are able to fight. We have some too wounded and one who hangs near death.” The second-in-command of the Southern Company grew sorrowful as he gestured toward the prone forms of three elves that had not moved since the prisoners’ release.

“Lieutenant Calethor,” Legolas called formally to his friend and received a bow of recognition. “See to it that every elf is ready and armed for battle. Use whatever weaponry you find if we are without.”

As the other elves began to prepare for combat, Legolas followed Súlinnor to examine the wounded elves.

“Prince Legolas,” Amathor bowed his head low, despite his obviously broken leg. The warrior lay propped against a rock, and his paleness indicated the pain he felt.

“Amathor, you have fought bravely,” Legolas acknowledged the warrior as he walked past him.

Beside Amathor, Thanduir lay unconscious. Súlinnor assured him that Thanduir’s wounds were not fatal, but he had lost a large amount of blood. Finally, prince and lieutenant approached the unmoving form of Captain Maeglir. The elf lay white and still as marble.

Moved with sorrow for the well-respected captain, Legolas knelt beside the body. “Súlinnor,” he asked gently, “what has he suffered?”

The lieutenant knelt beside his prince, and the warrior’s voice shook as he recounted the tale. Súlinnor’s love and admiration for Maeglir were legendary in the Woodland Realm, and no other elf had served as the Captain’s second for the past century. “We were lured, my lord, so foolishly! I am ashamed to admit with what facility we fell into their snare.”

“No reproach will be leveled upon those who fulfilled their duty in good faith,” Legolas encouraged gently. “Tell me all.”

Súlinnor’s eyes grew unfocused as he spoke. “We found a hut northwest of the Mountains—abandoned, we thought—but inside, discovered a she-elf, gravely wounded, and dying. She told us that goblins had attacked her abode and taken her only son. With her last breath, she begged us to retrieve him, and then she died.”

“Her husband?” the prince interrupted.

Súlinnor shook his head. “No sign, and no evidence of a struggle. We were suspicious, and Captain Maeglir was loath to pursue the goblins. That night we camped beneath the Mountains, and in the dark, we were ambushed. The Company was split—six elves were captured and carried across the peaks. What could we then do but follow?”

Legolas frowned as he sought to reconcile Súlinnor’s words with his own experiences. “Who was taken?”

“Lastor, Filechon, Ornor, Lalvon, Brethildor, and Dorothor,” the lieutenant recited without hesitation. “Have they been found?” he asked hopefully.

The prince looked away from Súlinnor’s gaze. “What happened as you crossed the Mountains?” he pressed.

Súlinnor’s voice trembled slightly as he understood the unspoken message in the prince’s words. “We were attacked again, but we thought ourselves too large a group to suffer defeat. How rashly we acted, I shudder to recall. But our boldness was justly punished as our Company was further split asunder. It was then that the Captain took a poisoned arrow—in the stomach. Those of us whom you freed were taken captive—under pain of death to our Captain if we did not comply. I know not what fate has met the others,” he concluded sadly.

Legolas contemplated Maeglir’s immobile figure with dwindling hope. “Erethion is skilled with poisons, but he fights somewhere on the battlefield,” he confessed ruefully.

“Lalvon also is…was…a gifted healer.” Súlinnor stood abruptly. “I see that you yourself are hurt, my lord. Let me call Haedirn to tend your wounds.”

Wary of the threat of poison, Legolas nodded shortly. Haedirn materialized quickly, and after a probing inspection, declared the wound to be clean, though deep and uneven. He sewed the cut rapidly, despite his repeated cautions that unless the prince sought to curb his movements, the wound would scar.

“Haedirn, will you please tend to Lieutenant Calethor’s head-wound?” Legolas requested as the healer finished tending the prince.

The lithe elf nodded emphatically. “It has been done, my lord.”

“See then what you can do for the Captain, Haedirn,” Súlinnor ordered, and he and Legolas walked back toward Calethor and the rest of the warriors.

“Captain Legolas.” Calethor nodded as Legolas belatedly realized that with Maeglir out of action, the prince ranked next in command. “We await your orders.”

Warring between caution and urgency in his mind, Legolas debated the best course of action in an instant. “The last position we know of our comrades places them north-east of our present location. We will work our way eastwards along the tree line—on the ground,” he clarified. “We must run. Once we are within sight of our kin, I will give further orders.”

“Lieutenant Súlinnor,” Legolas addressed the elf. “Select three elves to remain behind and guard the wounded. Haedirn will also stay with them.”  

His commands were promptly obeyed and within a few moments, Legolas found himself at the head of the group, Calethor to his left and Súlinnor to his right. The morning light had intensified and Legolas knew that several hours had elapsed since the dawn. He did not want to imagine what could have transpired to Rochiron and the others during that length of time. Legolas gave the signal, and the company of elves began to run.

oooo

Rochiron wiped blood from his forehead in a lull in the battle. He knew not how much time had passed since the goblins had gathered together and attacked the diminishing group of elves, pressed desperately against the rising mountains. The Captain had managed to recruit all of his former company in the fray—with the exception of Feron—and they had united with the eighteen elves under Hadron’s command to keep the orcs at bay. The combined forces of the thirty elves had taken the goblins by surprise initially. But slowly, they had been beaten back against the mountainside.

Rochiron did not count those who fell or observe whether they rose again. He could not despair. The odds were overwhelming, but the Captain clung furiously to the weak flame of hope he had kindled in his breast with the mission entrusted to Legolas and Calethor. He judged the orcs to outnumber the elves three to one. A surprise attack by the twenty elven warriors he knew to be imprisoned on the outskirts of the forest would turn the battle in their favor.

A goblin materialized directly in front of Rochiron, and the Captain knew his respite was over. The Silvan elf nimbly dodged the scimitar and embedded his sword into the side of his attacker.

Rochiron had worked his way to the top of the last hill before the Mountains, and from his vantage point the Captain thanked the Valar that the goblins had few archers among them. He was grateful the arrowhead he bore in his chest appeared not to have been poisoned or he doubted his chance of surviving the day.

Suddenly, with a harsh cry of command, the orc-horde pressed forward in unison. Stunned by the creatures’ unusual coordination, Rochiron and the other elves were forced backwards against the rock face. The Captain parried with an orc as beside him, Hadron hefted his spear into an advancing goblin.

“Captain Rochiron! We have no escape,” the burly warrior panted.

An elven cry of pain in the distance elicited a sharp gasp from the Captain. He grimaced as the goblin he fought dodged his blows, and the creature grinned ferociously as it danced in and out of his range.  

“We must not yield!” Rochiron cried loudly, hoping to instill hope in the hearts of any who could hear his call.

Finally breaking through the goblin’s defense, Rochiron killed the creature that threatened him. The Captain glanced down at the enemy before him and, in horror, he noted a line of orcs who did not advance with their comrades. A dozen orcs stood in a line and drew back their black arrows upon their black bows. Goblin archers were notorious for their poor sight and disastrous aim, but Rochiron followed the line of one arrow in particular.  The arrow was directed toward none other than himself, but the Silvan elf refused to be felled.

Before the goblin could release or Rochiron could move, the Captain caught a sudden flurry of movement to the west. In another instant, the beings responsible for the action had climbed the next foothill and Rochiron discerned elves.

The Captain cried aloud in his joy, and his shout was taken up by the other elves. Their voices were clear and piercing, and the sound of their call drove back the goblins by its sheer beauty. With renewed spirit, the elves against the mountain pushed forward as the elves upon the hills approached the fray and met their common foe.

But Rochiron’s joy died on his lips as he caught sight again of the goblin archer. The creature had shifted his aim, and now his arrow was pointed squarely at the leader of the elven reinforcements.

Legolas was not looking in that direction. He turned his head and urged his elves forward. His gaze swept the foes before him, gauging their strength as he too, notched arrow to bowstring and picked his targets.

Rochiron did not pause to think. With sudden force, he wrested a spear from a goblin about to attack him. Utterly confused, the creature came to a full stop as the elven Captain stole its weapon and ran past. Rochiron charged down the hillside, completely oblivious to the orcs closing in upon him, slicing their blades through his tunic, and clawing at his legs. In the barest moment before the goblin archer released his arrow, Rochiron hefted the spear and cast it into the air with all his strength. He watched breathlessly as his aim sailed true and the spear lodged itself violently into the skull of the attacker.

It was the last act the Captain performed before angry goblins forced him to the ground. Rochiron felt a sharp blade cut through the muscle in his thigh as another goblin stabbed the skin of his side. A fist connected with his skull and in the dimming of his vision, Rochiron saw an arrow sail past. Darkness descended upon the defenseless elf, and Rochiron knew no more.

oooo

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

*The Southern Company:

Captain Maeglir, Lieutenant Súlinnor, Calardir (runner), [Lastor], [Filechon], [Ornor], [Lalvon], [Brethildor], [Dorothor][all deceased], Haedirn (healer), Hadron, Amathor, Thanduir

*The Rescue Team:

Group One: aka Captain Aegnir’s group

Group Two: aka Girithron’s group, includes: Helediron

Group Three: aka Captain Rochiron’s group, includes: Calethor, Galadthor, Erethion, Tuilinnor, Feron, Esgaldir

Other Warriors:

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

TRANSLATION:

Fëar/Fëa: spirits/spirit

Chapter 9: Death’s Twilight Kingdom

A/N: As always, I love those reviews! Bonus points if anyone comes up with the poem from which I stole this chapter’s title ; )

“Archers!” Legolas yelled furiously. “Do not let them escape! Archers!” The prince fired repeatedly into the fleeing group of goblins before them. After Legolas and his elves had joined Captain Rochiron’s warriors, the battle had ended quickly. In their terror, the orcs had abandoned all semblance of coordination and begun to break up their line, either dispersing helter-skelter or huddling together in fear. Now, the largest group of the enemy had united and was running up the foothills, back over the Mountains.

“They are drawing out of range, Captain,” Galadthor shouted beside Legolas. “Shall we pursue?”

The prince shook his head as he surveyed the aftermath of the battle around him. The sun had risen in the sky, and the day was mild. In the relative silence after the goblin’s retreat, Legolas’s keen ears discerned the moans of the wounded and the final breaths of the dying. The foothills were littered with bodies. Goblin carcasses had begun to reek as their black blood seeped into the ground. Legolas felt tightness in his chest as his eyes picked out elven warriors, lying motionless. The surviving warriors had begun to group around the prince as the last goblin fled out of sight across the peaks.

Shouldering his bow, Legolas whistled for the elves to gather, hoping that more would materialize at his command than had already appeared. He was rewarded with the majority of the former prisoners, but few among Hadron’s group. Hadron himself approached the prince, despite bleeding copiously from his side.

“My Captain and Prince,” Hadron said as he bowed before Legolas.

“Rise, warrior of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas replied warmly. “Your bravery and leadership this day shall not remain unknown, Hadron Magoldirion!”

Hadron’s eyes shone with pride and gratitude. “Your orders, Captain?” he asked gravely.

“Tend to your wounds, Hadron Spear-Elf!” Legolas commanded gently. “Then will you be of service.” Legolas turned as he counted the number of elves he had available, especially those he knew to be healers. The prince narrowed his eyes, as he did not locate Erethion among the group. However, Legolas spotted two healers of the Southern Company and quickly formed a small unit of medics to tend the wounded.

“Lieutenant Súlinnor.” Legolas briefly examined the ebullient elf, who looked none the worse for his recent fight. “Take half the elves here with you to locate and tend the wounded. Lieutenant Calethor,” the prince continued as he turned toward his friend. “Take half the remaining elves and seek a place of refuge for this night. I doubt we will be able to traverse the peaks with so many out of action.” Legolas scanned the sky above, noting that the sun had almost reached its apex. “I know not if the goblins’ former camp is the most defendable position,” he said to Calethor. “Perhaps a cave would serve our purpose?”

The dark-haired elf chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I know not if there are any caves below the Mountains…but we shall scout the terrain,” he concluded. “The number of wounded and able-bodied warriors will affect our choice,” he observed to Legolas alone.

Nodding, the prince turned his attention back to the group of warriors. “The remaining elves shall come with me,” Legolas ordered. “We shall bury the dead.” He gestured to Súlinnor and Calethor, who immediately began dividing the group according to the prince’s instruction.  

As Legolas had hoped, the two lieutenants had chosen all the elves with even the smallest wounds, leaving the prince with the most able-bodied warriors. “We will bury the slain under the trees,” Legolas said softly to his group. “The goblins we will burn,” he concluded harshly.

With grim eyes, the prince and his band fanned out among the battlefield. They began piling the bodies of the orcs, allowing Súlinnor and the healers to attend first to the wounded. Calethor and his group had vanished from the field, and Legolas allowed himself to hope that a secret hiding place had been discovered. The sun rose in the sky as the elves worked.

As Legolas bent to shift the stinking carcass of a goblin, he caught a soft moan from beneath the corpse. The prince knelt and with more gentleness than was his wont, he rolled the orc’s body to the side, to reveal the trembling form of Esgaldir. The elf’s skin was white and his entire body shook in pain from an enormous gash from the bottom of his throat to his abdomen. Legolas grimaced, as the wound was so deep that Esgaldir’s organs lay partially exposed.

Upon sighting the prince, Esgaldir’s eyes had widened and his mouth moved in a fruitless effort to speak.

“Be still,” Legolas soothed as he ripped his tunic and attempted the staunch the flow of blood. The prince looked wildly about, hoping to spot one of the healers in the vicinity. Before he could signal another elf, Legolas felt blood on his hands and turned to examine the piece of tunic, which was completely soaked.

The light in Esgaldir’s eyes had begun to fade, and Legolas felt his own eyes grow moist as the prince struggled against that which he could not control.

“Captain.” The word was moaned so faintly that Legolas at first believed he had imagined it.

The prince leaned in closely against the face of his fellow warrior, all the while pressing his hands against the fatal wound. “Your courage will not be forgotten, warrior of the Woodland Realm,” Legolas reassured.

Esgaldir pressed his eyes shut, but opened them quickly and looked at the prince with desperate urgency. “The Captain…fell,” he whispered.

Legolas met the tortured gaze calmly. “He was not slain, Esgaldir. Be at peace—”

The prince was surprised by the strength of the dying elf as Esgaldir grasped Legolas’s wrist. “He fell!” the elf rasped. “I could not…save him.”

Unwilling to prolong Esgaldir’s agony, Legolas could only nod. “You fought bravely,” the prince soothed.

Tears of frustration gathered in the fallen warrior’s eyes, and the prince felt his own chest constrict with the guilt that he had caused them. “Find him…tell him.” Esgaldir’s grip slackened and his hand slid slowly upon his maimed chest.

“Tell the Captain you tried to save him,” Legolas repeated dumbly, his mind spinning to make sense of the words he was hearing.

“Honor,” Esgaldir breathed, and with this last breath, his body shuddered and was still.

Legolas stared into the now dim eyes for a long moment before the prince realized that his hands were still pressed against Esgaldir’s chest. Tears trailed down the sweat and blood on the prince’s face as Legolas repeated that single word to himself: honor. To die without one’s honor…worse yet, to die supposing one was bereft of honor… Legolas closed his eyes. This should not be.

The prince examined his stained hands and attempted to wipe the blood on the grass. He felt sudden anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. Doubt—to doubt one’s honor—even at the moment of death. Must the Shadow pervade every moment of life? Were they never to be free? Legolas trembled in rage as he wrapped Esgaldir’s body in the warrior’s cloak. Sliding the elf’s eyelids shut, Legolas gathered the body in his arms and made for the forest’s edge.

As he approached the tree line, he noticed Galadthor already at work digging a grave. Lying beside the gravesite was the body of Feron. Legolas allowed his tears to flow freely for the young elf, whose merry voice would never again admire the stars. The prince gently placed Esgaldir’s body next to his fallen comrade and began to work beside Galadthor.

“Captain,” the veteran growled and interrupted the prince’s digging with a raised hand. “Let me dig.”

Legolas surveyed the rigid form of the elf before him. Galadthor’s eyes blazed in determination and the set of his chin indicated he would brave his captain’s displeasure. Gravely, Legolas nodded as he belatedly recalled that Feron had been the son of Galadthor’s daughter.

Leaving the grieving warrior to his task, Legolas walked in the direction of the goblin’s former camp, at which point he discerned that a fire had been lit. As he approached the camp, the prince realized that Súlinnor and his elves had brought the wounded to this locale. He spotted Erethion in the group, and thanked the Valar that the healer had been spared. Legolas entered the camp and was immediately accosted by Súlinnor.

“Captain,” the elf saluted briskly. “We have found a dozen elves, only two of whom are too injured to fight. The others are being tended.”

“A dozen…” Legolas trailed off as he summed the number of warriors in his mind. “Not enough, Lieutenant,” the prince concluded grimly.

“We are still searching,” Súlinnor assured.

Legolas nodded absently as he began walking about the camp. He greeted the warriors who saluted him, noting names, wounds, and mentally tallying who were still missing. The prince glanced upwards, observing that the afternoon sun was waning. With a parting glance at the gathered elves, Legolas made toward the foothills as he once again began his search.

oooo

The sun had finished setting when Girithron abandoned his post by the riverbank. He whistled shrilly and nine fully armed elves presented themselves before him, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“They did not signal,” the Crown Prince began without preamble. “The course of action is clear. We will travel through the night.” He examined the elves before him critically, but his orders were met without surprise. “Stay alert, for we know not the place nor the hour in which our enemy will strike. We move with stealth,” he cautioned, “for we will most likely be outnumbered.” Girithron rubbed the handle of his knife as he scanned the southern horizon for the last time. “Move out,” he finally commanded.  

Suddenly, the sound of a desperately galloping horse accosted the prince’s hearing. Girithron turned his head sharply northward and held his hand to stay his warriors’ advance. He need not have done so, however, as every elf heard the noise and wondered at what it could portend. The elves waited in tense silence as the rider approached and finally broke through the tree cover in a pounding explosion of broken leaves and shattered twigs.

“My lord Girithron!” The rider shouted breathlessly. “Hold!”

“Raenlas!” Girithron recognized the messenger and ran to the horse and rider. The beast trembled and lather coated its flanks. Raenlas dismounted quickly, soothing the tired animal with his hands as his eyes frantically sought the Crown Prince’s gaze.

“We are under attack, my lord! A horde of goblins has attacked the Western Company barely a day’s march from the settlement. Prince Hananuir has called all to the defense and bids you journey with most urgent speed to his aid!”

Girithron paled and felt his being somehow devoid of substance. He turned away from Raenlas’s beseeching gaze and swept his eyes over the now shocked countenances of his warriors. He found himself walking toward the river, though he could account for no conscious thought behind his actions.

“My lord Girithron?” Raenlas trailed off uncertainly.

The Crown Prince did not hear nor did he mark the glances trained in his direction. In his mind, he heard echoes of words he could not comprehend: “attack,” “goblins,” “settlement,” “Hananuir,” “aid,” but the ones that reverberated most painfully were “barely a day’s march.” Girithron lost his gaze in the middle distance as he waded through centuries of memories, seeking to find another instance in which the palace-settlement had been in such grave danger. But the prince could not remember for never before had the elves been threatened so close to their last refuge. Ever had they remained one step ahead of their foes, at Amon Lanc, at the Emyn Duir, always had the elves fled before their last escape could be cut off. Girithron knew that if the goblins broke through the defenses, there would be no mercy for the she-elves and the elflings within the palace.  

The prince turned and contemplated the meager group of warriors under his command. What was he expected to achieve with so few? His shoulders sagged in despair. And what of his King, his father, upon his return, would there be none but corpses to greet him? Girithron turned his head southwards. What of Legolas, Rochiron, and the warriors of the Southern Company? Did they await his arrival with desperate need?

“My lord.” Málchanar, the veteran, bowed respectfully. “We are ready to follow you.”

Girithron felt his heart beating and blood coursing through his veins. He felt the fierce loyalty of his warriors steadying his wavering feet and strengthening his trembling arm. He seemed to grow taller before them, every inch a prince and lord of the house of Oropher. With a last glance toward the south, Girithron turned his whole body north. “To battle,” he proclaimed with fire burning in his eyes. “Raenlas.” He pinned the warrior with a look. “Leave the horse for he will find his way back. You journey with us now.”

Raenlas bowed low and joined the other warriors taking their places in the boats.

The evening was overcast, and a sharp wind began to blow, whipping the warriors’ braids about their faces. Standing at the head of the first boat, Girithron felt the fury of the wind mimicking his own wrath. The dark creatures of Sauron had strayed too far in their advance, had crossed the threshold. The Crown Prince experienced a savage thrill shiver through his entire body. The goblins would pay dearly for their audacity.

“Forward!” Girithron cried, and the elves departed.

oooo

“Celegnir, how many?” Legolas demanded as he intercepted an elf from the Southern Company now working to bury the dead.

The elf cast his eyes down as he replied, “We have laid ten to rest, my lord. Captain Rochiron was not among them,” Celegnir added softly.

Legolas frowned as he reconciled this last figure with the recent numbers Súlinnor had imparted to him moments ago at the goblin’s former camp. “We are missing three warriors, including the Captain,” he informed the other elf shortly. “Night will soon be upon us,” he continued. “Celegnir, go to Lieutenant Súlinnor and tell him I want every able-bodied elf not tending the wounded to search the battlefield. Make haste before the light is gone!”

Celegnir bowed and fled on his errand. Legolas exhaled slowly, feeling his body groan with stiffness and the injury at his back throb faintly. He scanned the mounds of goblin carcasses scattered about the fields and grimaced as the acrid smell of their burning assailed his nostrils. The prince cursed as his foot caught upon an orcish scimitar discarded in the grass. Legolas took up the weapon and, with unusual violence, thrust it into the body of an orc lying in his path. The prince drew breath in his lungs to yell when a nearby voice interrupted his rage.

“We have found refuge.” Calethor materialized and regarded Legolas evenly. “We have also found the body of Tulustor,” the dark-haired elf continued quietly. “It appears he was running away from the battle.”

Legolas met the eyes of his friend and noted exhaustion in his bearing. “He will be buried apart,” the prince stated brusquely. “What have you found?”

“’Tis not quite a cave, but rather a rocky overhang that backs directly to the Mountains. The walls are sheer and form a circle, so that the only access is through a narrow path from the eastern foothills. We would spot any foe upon the cliffs before they could reach us,” Calethor asserted. “There is a spring within the circle, and long may we defend it should the need arise.”

“Then we shall remove thither with all speed,” Legolas said appreciatively at his friend’s success. “With haste, you may yet intercept Celegnir with my orders to Súlinnor. The command has changed; our priority is to retreat to this safe hold before nightfall.”

“Would you not give the order yourself, Captain?” Calethor asked with his particular tone of respectful challenge.

Legolas turned away from his friend, and his eyes pierced the shadows gathering around the foothills before him. “I am otherwise occupied,” he said shortly.

The dark-haired elf was so long silent that Legolas wondered and finally turned toward his friend. “Legolas, they look to you for command,” Calethor whispered softly. “I will aid your search once the others are dispatched.”

The prince trembled slightly at the warmth in the eyes of his friend. Suddenly, Legolas felt shame in his heart at his prideful selfishness. He was not the only one grieving this day nor was he the only one concerned for the whereabouts of the missing Captain. He had brushed aside the empathy directed toward himself earlier in the day—from Tuilinnor, Súlinnor, Hadron, and now, his closest friend. Mentally berating himself for his shameful conduct, Legolas met Calethor’s gaze. “Forgive me, mellon nín.”

Calethor’s eyes brightened though he did not smile. “There is naught to forgive, your highness.”

Legolas felt his heart grow lighter as his friend addressed him by that title which no others used. “Come, Lieutenant,” the prince stated formally. “With speed, we may yet meet with Celegnir.”

The two friends began a brisk walk, but increased their pace as their eyes caught sight of Celegnir arriving at the former goblin camp. Legolas and Calethor ran into the camp, surprising several elves, just as Súlinnor approached Celegnir.

“Hold Celegnir!” Legolas commanded as he paused to catch his breath before the astounded elves.

“My lord, I made all haste to obey—” Celegnir sputtered, but the prince cut him short with a raised hand.

“Peace, I doubt not your obedience. Nay, my orders have changed and to prevent confusion, I have come hither to explain.” Legolas spoke loudly, and several elves drew around him in a circle to hear his commands. From the edge of the forest, Galadthor and Barahad joined the group, with the wooden shovels of their former labors in their grasps. The prince quickly described the refuge and outlined his command that the elves should remove to that locale.

“Captain Legolas,” Gilbor addressed the prince respectfully. “What of our missing comrades? Are we not to mourn the slain?”

Legolas felt weariness bear down upon him. It was true that he had not divulged the names of the fallen to the others. Indeed, the prince suspected that only rumors had been available to those too wounded to leave the camp. Legolas scanned the anxious faces before him and realized that he had pushed away his warriors’ need to grieve when he had buried his own sorrow. The prince marveled a second time at his selfishness that day. The silence in the camp was palpable, and Legolas endured the stares of over two-score elves with poise.

“Brother warriors,” he began in a voice just loud enough for all to hear. “I seek not to dismiss your sorrow nor diminish the valor of our fallen comrades. But night falls upon us swiftly, and prudence urges us to seek shelter. It is not fitting that our brethren be remembered in the darkness, but rather, with light shall we sing of their deeds. At dawn shall we gather here by the mounds of the fallen and do justice to their memory! Now, we must hasten to our refuge, and the strong must aid the wounded.” Legolas felt his spirits rising with the trust he read in the eyes of his warriors. “Ere we depart, I will ease your hearts and relate who lies buried yonder.” Legolas closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment before speaking again. With a steady voice, he named each warrior who had fallen in the battle during the day. The warriors listened quietly, though tears flowed freely. After the last name, there was a deep silence among the elves.

Calethor was the first to speak as he indicated the precise location of the overhang. He beckoned Tuilinnor forward to lead the others, since it had been this elf that had discovered the refuge. In silence, the elves began to organize themselves for departure, and Legolas was pleased to note that few were too wounded to walk unaided. Some litters had been constructed over the course of the afternoon, though far fewer than the prince had suspected would be needed.

“Captain,” Súlinnor spoke rapidly in a low voice, and tear-marks stained his cheeks. “There are still two missing: Belegir and Captain Rochiron. Shall we not continue the search?” Anxiety was writ large upon Súlinnor’s usually merry face.

“Peace, Lieutenant,” Legolas replied. “Calethor and I will take a few elves with us to the field. We shall not abandon them.”

“Captain.” Hadron strode over to the prince with the barest limp in his stride. “Let me aid you, please. Belegir is dear to me.”

Shaking his head, Legolas regarded the doughty warrior. “I fear your wounds pain you still, Hadron Spear-Elf. Seek rest and others will aid me.”

The valiant elf would not be dissuaded, and after several exchanges, Legolas was pleased to accept his services. Galadthor also volunteered his aid, and before long the four elves were making ready to part from the others.

Súlinnor was repeating his assurances that Legolas would find everything organized upon his return when the prince heard his name being called by a thin voice on the ground. Turning on his heel, Legolas spotted the pale form of Captain Maeglir being shifted onto a litter. Erethion hovered nearby, but the effects of the poison seemed to be receding.

“Captain Maeglir,” Legolas greeted the elf warmly as he knelt beside the litter. “I am gladdened to meet you again under the stars.”

Maeglir smiled weakly. “I am thankful that such a meeting is possible, my prince.” The elf frowned with concern as he regarded Legolas. “But Rochiron—”

“We will find him,” Legolas asserted with more confidence than he felt.

“He has been my friend for years uncounted,” Maeglir said softly. “He has saved my life many times.”

The prince gripped Maeglir’s shoulder in reassurance and rose to leave.

“Prince Legolas,” the wounded Captain said sternly. He eyed the prince closely as Legolas knelt again. “If you should…he told me once that he wishes his body to be burned.”

Legolas stared in bewilderment. “Such practices are only wrought upon our enemies,” the prince finally declared. “I could not.”

“Custom matters not,” Maeglir said urgently. “Rochiron is not of your kin, Legolas Thranduilion. He lives and dies with the forest. He wishes for the wind to scatter his ashes among the trees he loves. This he entreated from me on another occasion in which we fought together. Let us not sully his memory by denying his request.”

Legolas felt a weight dragging his heart downward into his stomach. Tradition warred with affection and duty with sorrow. Legolas regarded Maeglir keenly. Finally, the prince nodded. “If we should find his body, I will obey his wishes.”

Maeglir visibly relaxed, and Legolas was able to part from the Captain without further words. Súlinnor was directing the retreat as Legolas, Calethor, Hadron, and Galadthor worked their way up into the foothills.

Legolas found himself keeping pace with Hadron, who was eying him curiously. “Speak, Hadron,” Legolas encouraged.

“Captain, did you know my father fought alongside King Thranduil at Dagorlad?”  Hadron declared with pride.

“Nay, I knew not,” Legolas replied with a soft sigh.

“He fell in the attack,” Hadron continued, “but ever are the sons of Magoldir eager to destroy our foes and defend our King.”

“Greatly does the King esteem your service and value your loyalty,” Legolas replied automatically, as his eyes roved among the mounds of goblins the two elves had begun to pass.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my lord, but I am honored to follow in my sire’s steps and have fought beside you this day,” Hadron said softly.

Legolas paused mid-stride and turned to contemplate the gruff warrior. This was no dutiful recitation or false swagger, the prince realized. Genuine admiration and respect shone from Hadron’s eyes, and Legolas felt his spirits rising. The prince smiled with newfound affection for the warrior. “My heart rejoices that I have such warriors as yourself to stand with me in battle. I will remember your words, Hadron, in times of doubt.”

The Spear-Elf dipped his head in acknowledgment and muttered unintelligible words. The prince’s smile grew, and the two elves parted on the field, each working his way among burning piles of goblin carcasses. Legolas examined the piles critically, remembering which ones he himself had created. He had instructed his warriors to set the bodies alight with care so that no unsuspecting wounded would be harmed. The piles had not seemed quite so numerous during the day, when he had worked with such thoroughness and heaviness of heart. But now as the evening shadows grew, Legolas found the number of goblins overwhelming.

The evening seemed unnaturally silent after the cacophony of battle and even the soft sounds of elven warriors en masse. A cold wind wafted the stench of burning corpses about the hills unto the very eaves of the forest. The darkness of the night was sharp, carrying with it the promise of winter. The hours passed.

Calethor closed his eyes against the pounding of his head. The dark-haired elf was well aware his body demanded rest against his injuries but was annoyed that he was fading so quickly. He had slept the night before last, though for few hours as the elves had traveled downriver late into the darkness. If he had not lost so much blood, he mused, he would have been able to remain alert this night as well. Calethor shook himself and stopped in his path, his eyes searching for the other elves. Thanks to the rises in the ground as well as the piles of goblins, he could not spot the other searchers. Light would not be amiss, he thought, considering that their enemy was no longer a threat. Struck by the idea, the elf proceeded to the nearest pile of goblins and reluctantly began probing for a suitable torch-substitute.

Calethor’s rummaging increased the odor emanating from the bodies, and with a choked gasp, the elf broke away, unable to endure the fumes. He took two steps backwards and promptly tripped against a body lying on the ground. He turned with disgust to behold two more goblins, which seemed to have been neglected between the natural hillside and the other pile of corpses.

Calethor rose coughing and promptly swayed on his feet as the world began to spin about him. He took to one knee in an effort to still the motion, and his ears detected a faint moan from behind him. The dark-haired elf opened his eyes wide, unsure whether he himself had unconsciously let the sound escape or whether a goblin yet lived.

The sound came again, and Calethor gasped as he realized that it was an elven voice. The elf whirled upon the two goblins on the ground, and with keen eyes, discerned the shadowy outlines of two elves, lying buried among the orcs.

“To me! To me!” he shouted frantically as he pushed aside the slaughtered goblins. “I have found them!” he bellowed.

Calethor’s hands shook as he distinguished the slight figure of Belegir and the larger body of Rochiron just to one side. The darkness was too deep for the elf to determine the gravity of their wounds by sight, so he began gently probing each body, desperately seeking any sign of life.

His shouts had alerted the others, and Galadthor appeared first, blazing branch in hand. The veteran stopped short as the light of his torch illuminated the maimed bodies of the two fallen warriors. “Do they yet live?” he rasped.

Calethor did not answer. His hands still trailed the length of Belegir’s body, though the elf remained immobile. His eyes were closed, and Calethor could not decide if the warrior’s chest actually rose and fell with breath, or whether Calethor’s head was causing the world to tremble. Belegir’s body was pierced with two arrows, in his shoulder and leg. Blood had pooled about a gash near his throat.

Galadathor seemed transfixed, and Calethor shakily moved his examination to Rochiron’s body. The Captain laid utterly still, with closed eyes, an arrow protruding from his chest and a gash along his side. Calethor felt his own breath coming shorter as the dark-haired elf decided he must have imagined the moan. He placed his ear close to Rochiron’s mouth and waited.

At the next moment, several events occurred simultaneously: Hadron and Legolas approached running from opposite directions; Galadathor’s torch crackled loudly; and Rochiron moaned, causing Calethor to jump and fall backwards in surprise, onto the body of Belegir, whose eyes flew open with a gasp.

“Belegir!” Hadron shouted triumphantly.

The warrior’s eyes examined the company in painful confusion. “Hadron? What has passed? I—” Belegir’s eyes slid shut, and his face paled further. “My head,” he whispered.

Hadron was immediately beside his friend, speaking calmly and gently bandaging the wound along Belegir’s neck.

After his fall, Calethor had rolled to the ground, but found his dizziness return and could not stand. Legolas had cried aloud at the sight of the Captain, but his attention went first to his friend. “Calethor?” the prince queried with a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder. “What ails you?”

The dark-haired elf attempted a smile, which ended up resembling a grimace. “It seems my head wishes to dance, your highness.”

Legolas frowned and pushed his friend down sternly against the ground. “Rest, Calethor. Your prince commands you,” he added gruffly as the other elf began to exclaim. “Galadthor!” Legolas spoke sharply to the veteran, who finally snapped out of his reverie. “Make haste to the refuge. We need three litters, lights, and bandages. Leave your torch behind. Now!” The prince reiterated, and Galadthor fled on his errand.

Ignoring Hadron’s and Belegir’s conversation as well as Calethor’s protests, Legolas finally allowed himself to kneel beside Rochiron. The prince felt his chest constrict as the Captain moaned again. With gentle fingers, Legolas probed the body to discover any hidden injuries or broken bones. Though not formally a healer, the youngest prince of Mirkwood was quite adept at battlefield physic. He proceeded cautiously, unwilling to let even the smallest detail escape his notice. As he ran his hands along the Captain’s legs, Legolas felt his fingers connect with a blood-soaked cloth upon the thigh above the knee.

The prince quickly retrieved the torch Galadthor had abandoned. Positioning the light beside Rochiron’s body, the prince examined the cloth, and, upon close inspection, discovered it to be a piece of the Captain’s tunic. Judging by the amount of cloth and its saturation, the fabric was covering a deep wound. Not daring to remove the bandage, the Prince quickly investigated the cut on Rochiron’s side. The wound was long, but shallow since the ribcage had not been affected. Legolas felt his mind panicking, wondering how long the Captain had lain bleeding to death upon the field.

“I cannot recall what has passed,” Belegir confessed reluctantly to Hadron, though Legolas easily overheard the warrior.

Hadron raised his eyes and exchanged a concerned glance with the prince. Such a severe head-wound could take many days to heal. Legolas sighed and cast his eyes toward the still form of Calethor, who appeared to have either succumbed to slumber or unconsciousness. The prince’s shoulders sagged as he realized that he should have never pushed his friend so far.

Rochiron moaned a fourth time, and Legolas focused his attention on the Captain’s face. The prince could not tell if it was the hazy torchlight or whether Rochiron’s eyelids had indeed trembled. “Captain Rochiron? Legolas asked tentatively.

Hadron met his eyes once more. “Captain Rochiron?” the Spear-Elf’s gruff voice queried.

But Rochiron did not move, and the silence of the night stretched.

“Hadron, why are you here?” Belegir asked suddenly into the silence.

Legolas looked sympathetically at Hadron, as the elf patiently explained again the events of the previous days. The prince shook the Captain gently by the shoulder, but received no response. Settling himself against the hillside, Legolas resigned himself to the frustration of waiting, and fixed his gaze on Rochiron, with occasional glances toward Calethor.

Earlier that evening, the prince had felt the undeniable signs of exhaustion pervade his body, but now he seemed focused, as if woken from long slumber. Legolas tried to strategize, considering the eventuality of a nocturnal attack or the logistics of returning to the palace. However, the elf could not organize his thoughts, and the dim notion that Girithron’s patrol would even now be journeying to their aid arrested his planning. His thoughts spiraled inevitably to the wounded Captain laying in front the prince no matter to which other directions Legolas cast his mind. Nor could he think of Rochiron in a coherent fashion: the prince’s memories flitted through his consciousness, episodes remained incomplete, and dialogue interrupted. He remembered the first patrol during which he had served under Rochiron’s command, but the details would not crystallize. Then, another memory grew in his mind of the Captain’s teaching him to construct a bow. Legolas saw Rochiron’s mouth moving with the words of explanation, but the prince could not hear them. His mind then presented him with the setting of a feast in which he spotted Rochiron seated at Thranduil’s right hand, in the place of honor. His father was speaking, but Legolas was not to remember the words. The prince’s mind thus pounded him mercilessly with hazy recollections of a past he could not visualize.

Hadron had remained preoccupied with Belegir until approaching footsteps heralded the arrival of Galadthor and a party of warriors. The Spear-Elf looked toward Legolas for his orders, and he was startled to behold the prince’s face streaked with tears. Legolas’s eyes were glazed, and Hadron suspected he had forgotten his surroundings. Unwilling to interrupt the prince’s grief, Hadron immediately took charge of the situation. “Come, Belegir,” he soothed his friend. “Let us find refuge.”

The warriors with Galadthor transferred Belegir onto a litter as the elf poured confused questions upon them. Hadron indicated Calethor’s still form, and the dark-haired elf was also moved. Finally kneeling beside Legolas, Hadron steeled himself for the daring of his own actions. The Spear-Elf reached out tentatively and shook the prince by the shoulder. “Captain?” he queried.

Legolas turned unfocused eyes upon the warrior, and a moment passed before the prince shook himself out of his reverie. Legolas jumped up, as he perceived that Galadthor had finally returned. “Gently!” he commanded, as the warriors turned to move the body of Captain Rochiron. “Do not jostle him,” the prince warned.

With the wounded thus transferred, the elves began a slow march toward their refuge for the night. The wind had intensified, and the goblin piles smoked with a foul odor. After a long silent walk, the elves finally arrived at the overhang. A grave Súlinnor and several healers greeted them. Calethor’s condition was proclaimed the least serious: the dark-haired elf had succumbed to exhaustion and the blood-loss from his head and was merely sleeping deeply. Belegir’s arrow wounds were shallow, and Haedirn removed the shafts dexterously. His head-wound was more concerning, but after administering a sleeping draught the healer expressed confidence that Belegir’s memory would return.

Legolas instructed that Rochiron be laid apart from the others, and the Captain was placed in a natural dip in the rock wall. Erethion swiftly removed the arrow in the Captain’s chest, and, though deep, the wound was not poisoned. The healer exhaled softly as he contemplated the gash upon Rochiron’s thigh. Erethion had displaced the blood-soaked bandage to reveal a cruelly jagged wound, running deep into the muscle and tissue of the thigh.

“Erethion?” Legolas asked sharply once the healer paused in his movements.

“Much blood has he lost,” the elf replied quietly. “The wound is not clean, Captain,” he added further.

“But he lives!” The prince asserted fiercely.

The healer nodded slowly. “I will cleanse it, though I dare not stitch it closed. The bandages must be changed regularly,” he continued, rising. “We must wait.”

Legolas remained fixed, watching Erethion’s calm movements. The elves had built a fire to one side and had plenty of boiling water available for the cleaning of wounds. The healer soaked a bandage in water and gingerly cleaned the cut.

“Captain Legolas?” Súlinnor approached the prince cautiously. “I have assigned the watch for the night.”

Legolas nodded once, but did not remove his watch from Rochiron.

The lieutenant of the Southern Company divided his gaze between the prince and the wounded Captain. Sighing, he began, “Captain, with respect, will you not yourself sleep this night?”

The prince shook his head and did not speak.

Súlinnor bit his lip. “Captain,” he essayed a second time, “will you lead us in mourning at dawn? ‘Twould be a great honor to the fallen.”

Legolas nodded.

“Then should you not seek rest now?” Súlinnor persisted.

Finally, the prince turned to meet the lieutenant’s gaze. A ghost of a smile illuminated his countenance. “There are many hours yet ‘til dawn. I will rest later, Súlinnor, and you have my thanks for your concern.”

“I am not wearied, Captain. Let me keep watch,” Súlinnor said unyieldingly.

Erethion had finished his ministrations and retreated with a promise to return regularly to change the bandages.

Legolas settled himself cross-legged on the ground and eyed the lieutenant irritably as Súlinnor imitated his actions. “How is Captain Maeglir?” the prince asked, hoping to change the subject of their discourse.

“He is healing rapidly now that he has expelled the poison. He sleeps yonder, as should you, Captain.” Súlinnor bluntly returned to their former topic. The prince’s shoulders sagged, and the lieutenant was reminded of the other elf’s weariness.

“I cannot sleep yet,” Legolas said softly. He looked fully into Súlinnor’s eyes, and the elf was checked by undisguised pain. “Keep watch with me?” the prince asked gently. 

Súlinnor nodded, his throat too tight for words. Perhaps he had been determined with the prince, but the lieutenant remembered all too well the vigil he wished to have kept over the body of Maeglir. But he had been forced to lie powerless, a prisoner, and wait for rescue.

And so the two elves sat in silence. Watching. Waiting.

A sudden sound of shifting stones jarred Legolas from an uncomfortable sleep. The prince snapped his head up and beheld Erethion quietly changing the bandages upon Rochiron’s leg. Ashamed that he had succumbed to weariness, Legolas glanced at Súlinnor, who was awake.

“You let me sleep,” the prince accused.

Súlinnor regarded him silently. “It is just past midnight,” the lieutenant returned after a pause.

Legolas shook his head to clear its cobwebs as Erethion departed. He stared at Rochiron, willing any change in the Captain’s condition. Rochiron had not made a sound since being moved from the battlefield to the elven refuge and neither had he stirred. Sighing, Legolas hung his head in frustration.

Súlinnor’s sudden movement roused the prince from impending slumber as the lieutenant rose fluidly and bent over Rochiron’s body. “Did you see?” he asked excitedly.

Blinking blearily, Legolas joined Súlinnor. The two elves waited anxiously as Rochiron’s eyelids trembled, fluttered, and finally, were opened. Two grey eyes stared at prince and lieutenant for several moments before any of the elves could speak.

Finally, unable to contain himself, Súlinnor launched into an emphatic discourse of his own personal joy at the Captain’s revival, Captain Maeglir’s recovery and concern for his friend, as well as the sentiments of several other elves among the company.

Rochiron’s eyes flitted briefly to Súlinnor’s face, and the slightest tug at the Captain’s lips suggested the ghost of a smile. The Captain’s eyes came to rest upon Legolas, and the prince felt himself further drained by the intensity of the gaze. “Water,” the wounded elf whispered.

Legolas quickly brought the water, and after drinking deeply, Rochiron regarded the prince anew. “How many?” he asked quietly, oblivious to Súlinnor’s continued monologue, now incorporating the day’s events.

“Eleven,” Legolas replied heavily.

Rochiron closed his eyes briefly. “Less than I feared,” he said, regarding the prince. “You did well.”

Legolas bowed his head in acknowledgement of the praise, though he felt it was more generosity on the part of the Captain than his own merit. “Esgaldir,” the prince remembered suddenly. “As he lay dying, he feared he had lost his honor. He wanted you to know he tried to prevent your fall.”

Rochiron’s stare grew keener. “I never doubted him,” the Captain spoke faintly. “Fear must be overcome, even at the last. I knew he would not run away.” Rochiron sighed and closed his eyes again. “My leg,” he said tightly, “is the wound poisoned?”

“Nay,” the prince countered swiftly. “It will heal.”

The Captain relaxed and fixed his gaze once more on Legolas. “Who is in command?” he demanded with a shadow of his usual taciturnity.

“I am.” Legolas smiled in reply.

Rochiron grunted and turned his eyes upon the lieutenant. “Súlinnor Nandírion, cease your prattle!” he commanded gruffly. “Your Captains require silence to rest.”

Grinning, Súlinnor beamed at Rochiron’s frown and Legolas’s half-smile. The merry lieutenant began a slow song paradoxically at odds with his enthusiastic energy. Legolas settled himself against the rock, allowing his body to finally relax. The prince’s last conscious thought was the hope that someone would wake him before dawn as he drifted to sleep.

oooo

Reformatted for the sake of clarity. Let an “x” by a name denote character death (in case you’re keeping tabs).

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Warriors

Captain Maeglir

Captain Rochiron

Captain Aegnir

Captain Nandír

Lieutenant Súlinnor

Lieutenant Calethor

Amathor

Barahad

Belegir

Brethildor x

Calardir (runner)

Celegnir

Dorothor x

Erethion (healer)

Esgaldir x

Feron x

Filechon x

Galadthor

Gilbor

Hadron

Haedirn (healer)

Helediron

Lalvon x

Lastor x

Málchanar

Ornor x

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

Thanduir

Tuilinnor

Tulustor x

TRANSLATION:

Mellon nín: my friend

Chapter 10: Back Again

A/N: Thank you to all the dedicated readers who have stuck with this story. As of right now, I am anticipating possibly two more chapters before this tale must come to its conclusion. A sequel is in the plans though. I took a bit of a departure in writing this chapter and I am still hesitant about posting it. But the story must go on, and it’s high time for an update, I think. Let me know what you think in a review (please!).

Also, I am without a beta at the moment so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them!

oooo

Legolas sighed anxiously as he reclined against the bole of an oak tree. The day had dawned misty and cold, but the autumn sun had burned through the clouds and now shone in the azure sky. Although never able to fully relax amid the dangers of the forest, the elves were enjoying the rarity of a clear day. The youngest prince of Mirkwood had just withdrawn from the Company, seeking a few moments of solitude to ease the turmoil in his mind.

His senses ever alert, the prince was not idle despite his peaceful posture. Turning his head, Legolas discerned the unmistakable signs of an intruder in his haven.

“I have been searching for you for the better part of two hours, your highness,” came the peeved tones of Calethor from the ground. “Of course,” his voice rose along with his body, “I would not have been quite so disoriented if I had been awoken at dawn and not allowed to gorge myself on slumber like a drunken man.” The dark-haired elf paused in his diatribe as he came into view of the prince. “However, your highness deemed it best that I be excluded from the ceremony despite my official standing as your lieutenant.”

Legolas met his friend’s frown with a slow smile.

“Furthermore,” Calethor glowered, “I am not so fragile a maiden that I require both Erethion and Haedirn to scrutinize my every breath for signs of ailment. Add to that Súlinnor, who has practically smothered me with attention this morning that I am liable to become as cossetted as your royal self.”

The prince laughed merrily as Calethor settled himself moodily against the tree. “Peace, mellon nín,” Legolas finally chuckled. “Your pretense of anger is quite comical.”

“Pretense?” Calethor demanded angrily, though he was betrayed by the slight quirking of one eyebrow. The two friends regarded each other momentarily before the dark-haired elf also dissolved into laughter. “I cannot deceive you.” Calethor grinned as he shook his head in mock-defeat.

Legolas rested his eyes on his friend. “You are well?” he asked seriously after a moment.

Calethor sobered and nodded gravely. “Aye, Legolas, I am well. What of your hurt?” He inclined his head toward the prince.

“It aches,” Legolas confessed candidly, “but no more.”

Calethor nodded sharply. “Report from the camp is that all are healing fast. Maeglir is able to rise, and Rochiron is threatening to do so if only to keep Súlinnor at bay.” The friends shared a smile. “Thanduir is also recovering, but Amathor’s leg will prevent him from traveling for several days. He will have to be carried.”

“What of Belegir?” the prince inquired.

Calethor chewed his lower lip before answering. “Still somewhat dazed, I fear, but otherwise hale. Ai, Maldir and Amborn also have hurts that prevent them from walking. I believe those were all the major injuries.” His eyes grew unfocused as he reviewed the warriors in his mind.

Satisfied, Legolas breathed deeply. “We shall be prepared for Girithron’s arrival, then.”

His friend regarded him briefly before beginning to speak. “Your brother tarries.”

The prince narrowed his eyes. “He may have waited until first light before crossing.”

“Such behavior seems slightly at odds with his nature,” Calethor rejoined.  

Exhaling in defeat, Legolas let his shoulders slump. “In truth, Calethor, I fear some evil has beset their group. I was resolving to lead a scouting party up the peaks ere your arrival.”

The dark-haired elf nodded seriously. “Aye, ‘tis prudent. Though if I may suggest we send Lieutenant Súlinnor on this expedition.”

Legolas smiled. “One cannot help but be drawn to his kindness.”

“Perhaps, but he would put even a Noldo to shame with his loquacity,” Calethor retorted.

The prince chuckled as he began descending the tree. “Come, let us make for the camp. I would send the scouts early and have them return ere nightfall.”

The two friends fell in step together as they crossed the foothills toward a rocky overhang in the east, which had served as their nocturnal refuge and encampment. Despite the beauty of the day, the warriors were far from idle. Those not recovering from wounds were busy crafting arrows or repairing weaponry. Legolas had formed a small hunting party earlier that morn and those elves had not yet returned with their findings. Arriving back at the campsite, Legolas quickly found Súlinnor and informed the lieutenant of his orders. Five other warriors were assembled and without further delay, the scouting party began its ascent into the Mountains.

Gathering his half-empty quiver and selecting pieces of wood from among the warriors’ supply, Legolas made his way toward Captain Rochiron. The captain was sitting upright against the rocky wall of the overhang with his bandaged leg pointing straight out in front of him. He had drawn up his other knee and was leaning his chin against it.

“Captain,” Legolas said cordially as the prince settled himself and his supplies. Legolas selected a broken arrow from the quiver and began scrutinizing its length with an expert eye.

The silence stretched between them as Rochiron’s gaze was lost in the horizon and Legolas was absorbed in his work.

Finally, with an imperceptible sigh, Rochiron turned to watch Legolas. “I spoke with Galadthor earlier,” he began with his customary gravity. “He related to me all who have fallen.”

The prince paused in his actions. “Is he well?” he asked softly.

The captain shrugged. “Feron was beloved by many, not least of all his own kindred. If Galadthor’s son yet lived, but now his descendants are no more.”

Legolas regarded the captain curiously. Rochiron’s own son had perished in the previous century, and the captain rarely spoke of families.

“It must be peaceful,” Rochiron continued, staring again into the distance, “for mortal parents to die before their offspring.”

The prince blinked at this strange line of discourse. “’Tis not always so,” he pronounced slowly. “Several fathers have I met in Esgaroth and Dale whose sons had fallen in battle before them.”

Rochiron remained immobile for a long time, and Legolas returned to his craft. “It cannot be of much consequence to the fathers,” the captain suddenly began, “for their sons to fall in the prime of youth since their own lives will soon be ended as well.”

The prince laid down the arrow shaft and stared at Rochiron. “Captain,” he hedged, “it is my understanding that mortal parents bestow the same love upon their offspring as elven parents. I am sure their sons are of great consequence to them.”

Rochiron regarded the prince skeptically. “Believe you honestly that in so short a span of years a parent can truly love his child? Why, barely does a man know his son before he can lose him in battle. Nay,” the captain shook his head in finality. “The death of one’s child cannot be of the same import to them as it is to us.”

Legolas bit his lip in indecision. He was keenly aware this painful topic of conversation could not be pleasant to Rochiron, though the prince was at a loss to understand why the captain himself had raised it. Unsure whether to pursue the discussion or change the discourse to other matters, Legolas toyed with the arrow in his hand. However, a nagging voice in the back of his mind urged the elf to voice his doubts, and so the prince found himself continuing the debate. “Captain, I believe that mortals experience the same love for their offspring as we do.”

Rochiron shook his head again. “I find this impossible given the brevity of their lives. Tell me, childless-one, how is it that a parent loves his child?”

Disarmed by the sudden taunt, Legolas remained silent.

“I shall tell you,” Rochiron said gruffly. “In the beginning, the love is natural, unconscious, and unforced. Like the child, the love simply exists. But as the child grows into adulthood, this love deepens out of the parent’s respect, admiration, and pride in the wisdom and skills of his progeny.  Thus the love is ever growing, ever new, and ever strong. Mortal love is not thus. They must love naturally throughout their lives, without thought or consideration whether the object of their love merits such admiration. Thus, the death of a child or son early in his manhood cannot trouble them overmuch.”

His eyes growing unfocused, Legolas considered every scrap of knowledge he possessed about men. His personal encounters with that race had been brief: meetings in the marketplaces of Esgaroth and Dale and official business with the civic leaders. True, each time the prince had visited these cities; sons had replaced their fathers. Legolas remembered his studies and bits of lore he had collected from books and conversation. A particular exchange he had once overheard between Girithron and his father suddenly entered his mind.

“Edain,” Girithron had proclaimed scornfully. “Ever they follow, ever they are second to us. Imitating us in all, what would they have become had the Eldar not given them instruction?”

“You speak of that which you have no understanding,” Thranduil had reprimanded, swiftly and wrathfully.  

The rest of the conversation had been lost on the youngest prince as he had passed his father and brother by.

Legolas returned to the present moment and found Rochiron eying him keenly. The prince suddenly felt that the captain was testing him and this entire conversation was only a means to achieve some hidden purpose. Legolas had often felt thus with Rochiron as seemingly innocuous discussions about battle tactics would often grow into conversations about life and death. Now on his guard, Legolas narrowed his eyes as he replied, “If Men have not the luxury of time to understand their loves, then I believe they must love with swifter intensity. Their loyalty once won must prove unbreakable.”

The captain’s eyes gleamed as he recognized that his game had been discovered. “Caution, young prince, caution. Forget not the treachery of Men and that true loyalty must needs be borne out of love.”

The broken arrow lay forgotten in the prince’s relaxed grasp as Legolas cocked his head in confusion. Before he could speak, Rochiron nodded sagely and spoke again.

“Ever deceit perverts faithful service in the hearts of Men and Elves. Love is turned to jealousy and fear, and thus loyalty becomes treachery.” Rochiron looked toward the forest edge and the faint outlines of the mounds of the fallen elves. “Already doubt sways our hearts,” he asserted.

“You speak of Tulustor?” the prince asked directly. “But he committed no treachery,” Legolas countered at Rochiron’s nod.

The captain shifted his injured leg with a grimace of pain. “Galadthor tells me he was found fleeing from the battle. A warrior does not abandon the fight, his comrades, Captains, and Prince without orders to retreat.”

“If his fear—”

“Tulustor was no novice for fear to take hold of him and drive him to madness,” Rochiron said harshly. Both elves were silent before the captain spoke again. “I assume Súlinnor has imparted to you the way in which the Southern Company was lured across the Mountains?”

Legolas nodded bleakly.

“What of that she-elf who lied—for a lie it can only have been. Think you her heart was turned in loyalty toward her kindred?” The captain shook his head vehemently. “Think not we are immune from deceit simply because we have the capacity to love longer than Men.” Rochiron looked southward for a long moment before turning toward the prince. “I tell you this because soon we are to battle the Necromancer, and there can be no foreknowledge of what we shall encounter.”

Legolas felt his spirits sink despite the beauty of the day. The prince was completely baffled by the twists and turns of this conversation with the captain. Legolas was still wearied from the exhaustion of the previous day, and he marveled that Rochiron was able to casually discuss such weighty matters in the aftermath of battle.

As if reading his mind, the captain spoke again. “I find myself in need of distraction, Prince Legolas, and you are most generous to humor my wants.”

The prince dipped his head. “I, too, would rather pass the time in conversation than dwell within my thoughts.”

Immediately, Rochiron’s glance pierced the prince like a spear. “What thoughts trouble you now that we are victorious?”

Legolas shifted uncomfortably and realized that in his uncanny way, the captain was probably already aware of the prince’s worry. “Girithron’s Company,” he confessed boldly. “They have not yet come.”

“They would have been here by now if you had not disobeyed my orders and gone to summon them,” Rochiron promptly replied.

The prince felt his breath catch in surprise. “I did not suppose my actions required justification,” he answered, and his eyes flashed.

“They do not, especially as your valor in leading not one but two attacks is primarily responsible for our triumph.” Rochiron smiled one of his rare and brief smiles. “Loyalty,” he stated simply.

The prince felt a smile growing on his own face and shook his head softly in defeat. “I find myself more wearied by this discussion than by fighting goblins.”

Rochiron’s deep laugh bounced against the rock wall and was soon joined by the prince’s lighter tones.

“Your joy lifts my spirits,” Maeglir said as he proceeded toward the captain and prince. The Captain of the Southern Company leaned heavily against a wooden staff and held himself slightly hunched. Easing himself upon the ground, Maeglir smiled at both elves. “Rochiron, you are healing fast?” he asked.

Rochiron glanced at his injured leg. “So says Erethion, but I suspect mountain climbing is not encouraged for either one of us, Maeglir.” The captains shared a glance before looking at Legolas.

Recognizing the discussion that would occur, the prince sighed as he launched into the inevitable topic. “With the aid of Girithron’s warriors, I propose that those unable to cross the mountains on foot be carried.”

“This does not seem entirely practical,” Maeglir rejoined softly.

Rochiron snorted. “You know well this is the only alternative, Maeglir. I think seeking the eastern river would be folly.”

The Captain of the Southern Company examined the elven warriors scattered about the camp with a critical eye. “We could tarry a few more days until our full strength be recovered.”

“I would not linger in this place,” Legolas countered.

Maeglir shook his head sadly. “Well I remember the days when we still kept the Road. This is the furthest south I have come in many years, and look what has befallen us!”

“Taur-en-Daedelos,” Rochiron said harshly.

All three captains fell silent.

Legolas sighed again as he cast his gaze out upon the afternoon sky. The day was passing rapidly and the prince marveled at its speed. Reluctantly, he brought his mind back to the discussion at hand. “I do not think it prudent to split the company,” he began, “nor tarry. I suggest we repair back to the palace with all haste.”

Rochiron raised an eyebrow.

“This system of rescue patrols,” Maeglir began pensively, “seems problematic to me as it appears that call for aid can come from two directions.”

Both Legolas and Rochiron turned to contemplate the soft-spoken captain. “Explain yourself,” Rochiron commanded.

“Lieutentant Calethor outlined the system of signals, and it appears a good plan, indeed the best method for such an uncertain rescue,” Maeglir said smoothly. “My only qualm is that Prince Girithron’s patrol may have been called in two directions.”

“Aegnir’s group may have been attacked?” Legolas voiced his question in disbelief.

“Precisely.” Maeglir nodded sharply. “Prince Girithron might have received their call for aid before yours, and so hastened north instead of south.”

Rochiron grunted softly and Legolas felt the beginnings of a headache.

“Next time, we shall leave you to the goblins,” Rochiron growled.

“I sent a scouting party up the mountains and they should be returning soon,” Legolas imparted.

“Should their tidings confirm our fears then we must count without Prince Girithron’s aid,” Maeglir warned.

“This possibility only urges greater speed in our return.” Rochiron glared at his injured leg.

Legolas felt the dull ache in his back sharpen as the captains began to discuss in detail each wounded warrior. The prince was drawn into the conversation as the three elves reviewed logistics down to the last possibility. The sun was sinking in the horizon when Súlinnor and his group finally returned to the overhang.

The talkative lieutenant approached the wearied captains with undisguised anxiety upon his usually merry face. “Captains,” he began hurriedly, “there is no sign of Prince Girithron’s group upon the peaks. None whatsoever.”

Maeglir looked unsurprised, Rochiron grunted, and Legolas closed his eyes in frustration.

“What of the goblins?” Calethor asked as he walked up beside Súlinnor.

“Vanished.” The Lieutenant of the Southern Company sighed.

The five elves remained in tense silence, which was finally broken by Erethion’s timid voice as he joined the group. “Forgive me, Captains, Lieutenants, but I must check the dressing of your wound, Captain Rochiron.”

Legolas watched closely as Erethion carefully unwrapped the bandage upon Rochiron’s leg. The healer moved to block the prince’s view, and Legolas could only gauge the seriousness of the cut by Rochiron’s face. The captain had turned completely white and clenched his jaw in obvious agony. Legolas knew few such hardy warriors as Rochiron, but the prince was also aware of the damage that the blades of goblins could wreak. Shifting his gaze to Maeglir, the prince examined the captain critically. Maeglir sat somewhat hunched, and the prince wondered how long it would take for the elf to stand fully upright. Erethion himself was favoring one leg, and Legolas noticed that even Súlinnor sported a bandage the prince had not previously noticed. Finally looking upon Calethor, Legolas tightened his jaw at the gash across his friend’s forehead.

Breathing deeply, Legolas stood and all eyes rested upon him. “Brother warriors,” the prince began resignedly, “it seems we have no choice but to remain in this place on the morrow.”

Maeglir nodded. Rochiron made a sound suggesting agreement, but the captain’s eyes were now tightly closed against Erethion’s ministrations. Calethor shrugged in defeat.

“But what of Prince Girithron?” Súlinnor demanded quickly.

Legolas met his gaze evenly. “We cannot aid anyone in our present conditions, Lieutenant. Girithron’s fate is beyond our control.”

“Lately, everything seems beyond our control,” Rochiron retorted caustically.

Regarding the wounded captains briefly, Legolas bowed his head and turned toward the rest of the camp to announce his orders to the other warriors.

oooo

The rain began shortly after dark. With weary resignation, the elven warriors prepared themselves to endure the stormy night. The overhang provided little shelter, as the rain fell sideways and the wind ensured that every aperture in the elves’ clothing would be soaked. Legolas had initially denied permission for the able-bodied elves to retreat to the forest and benefit from the tree-cover, but by mid-morning of the next day as the rain continued, the prince relented. The company was split, and the warriors were given orders to return to the overhang before night fell. Legolas remained with the wounded by the rock face, attempting to pass the day in relative tranquility.

As the day grew, Legolas felt his temper shrinking. The cut across his back throbbed afresh and the cold dampness of his garments sharpened his pain. Súlinnor had gone to the forest, leaving the prince with a grim bunch. Maeglir sat huddled under a pile of sodden blankets, shivering occasionally. Erethion had finally sewed Rochiron’s wound, but the captain was in such pain that he merely growled at any that approached him. He had wrapped himself in a soaking cloak and had practically turned to stone over the course of the morning. Hadron sat by Legolas, but the Spear-Elf’s taciturnity was grating on the prince’s nerves. Even Calethor’s jests fell on empty ears that day, as the dark-haired elf passed the time by pacing the campsite with frequent glares at the sky.

The other warriors returned from the forest ere nightfall, and their enthusiasm for the unprotected overhang was manifest in their unrestrained grumbling. Legolas reprimanded them sharply, doling out that night’s watch to the most vocal complainers. The temperature dropped rapidly during the night, but the elves could light no fires in the pouring rain.

Shortly after midnight, a party of orcs attacked the warriors.

“Why not?” Calethor challenged furiously as the elves on watch sounded the alarm. “Sleep is impossible in this weather so why not battle goblins!”

Ignoring his friend, Legolas coordinated the attack with Súlinnor. The prince ensured that the wounded were kept closest to the rock face and well protected. Upon hearing the first alarm, Rochiron demanded his bow and would not stop harrying the prince until his wishes were obeyed. Although the elves had advance warning, the defense of the overhang proved trickier than expected. The rain seemed to aid their enemies and to Legolas’s utter frustration, more wounds were amassed in the battle’s short duration.

The grey dawn brought an end to the rain. Hunched miserably in an awkward crouch, Legolas shivered as he listened to Súlinnor’s report.

“Two more out of action, Captain, and several flesh wounds, though nothing serious enough to impair mobility,” the lieutenant recited gloomily.

The prince balled his fists as he attempted to stand, but his back screamed at him to arrest his motion. Legolas gnashed his teeth as he could neither sit nor stand without pain. “We will stay here today,” he ground out in frustration. The prince strode angrily toward a fire that had finally been lit by the wounded.

Maeglir examined him indifferently but said nothing. Rochiron eyed Legolas with unbridled irritation. “I am crossing those mountains tomorrow,” he announced wrathfully, “and if any being attempts to dissuade me, be they goblin or elf, I will not hold my strike.” He finished his declaration with a particularly dire look at Erethion, who lingered nearby.

“Allow me to join you in that endeavor, Captain,” Legolas rejoined heatedly, “as I will not be spending another day in the shadow of these accursed mountains.”

Tempers ran high during the course of the day, and even the sky withheld its rain, perhaps wary of the wrath of thirty-six elven warriors. The night passed uneventfully and dawn revealed a bustling camp full of elves preparing for the journey north.

Legolas eyed Rochiron skeptically as the captain tied another bandage around his leg. Erethion hovered disapprovingly at a distance, though the healer made no sound.

“You are going to reopen the wound,” Legolas remarked dryly once Rochiron had hauled himself to his feet with the aid of a sturdy staff.

The Silvan elf narrowed his eyes. “I believe two litters are trouble enough for the present company,” he retorted. “Worry not over my pain, Prince Legolas. Speed is of the essence as it will likely take us the better part of the day to cross in our states.” The captain indicated the grouped warriors in various states of debilitation, ranging from scratches to Thanduir’s broken leg.

Legolas clenched his jaw in agreement. Mentally cursing every single peak in the range before him, the prince gave orders for the company to begin the march.

oooo

Hananuir sighed deeply as Girithron continued his pacing across the Council Chamber. The Crown Prince still limped from his injury in the recent attack, and it was painful for Hananuir to witness his brother’s crippled gait tread the same path over and over again. Beside him, Captain Nandír shook his head in exasperation, clearly at the end of his patience. Despite the heavy bandage over his forehead, Captain Aegnir’s grimace was clearly visible. Hananuir scanned the other captains and noted that Ivannenth exhibited his customary statuesque poise. Exhaling wearily, Hananauir decided to intervene.

Mirkwood’s third prince rose from his seat and casually relocated himself in the midst of Girithron’s path. The Crown Prince reached his brother and stopped with a scowl. “Well?” Girithron demanded. “Are my ideas the only thoughts in this matter?”

Hananuir deflected the question from himself and turned to contemplate the room’s other occupants, forcing Girithron to change the direction of his gaze.

“My lords,” Nandír began reluctantly, “I am no coward nor would I shirk my duty if it be commanded of me.” The elf narrowed his eyes. “How could I forget that my own son is amongst the lost warriors? There is a part of me that urges haste in his recovery. Yet my heart commands me to remain here in order to aid those whom I have sworn to protect in the last defense.”

“There can be no doubt that the attack in the west is but a foretaste of the enemy’s plan,” Tarthuir said heavily. “First, he distracts us in the south. Then, he gauges our strength in the west. His next attack will come swiftly with numbers we cannot possibly best. No warriors can be spared from the defense.” The ancient captain said this with a pointed look at the Crown Prince.

Girithron felt like a caged bear, and, in his frustration to expend energy, skirted Hananuir and resumed his pacing. The two princes had been in council with Ivanneth and all the captains for the better part of the day. The elves had discussed the recent attack in the west, particularly the heavy losses they had incurred. The palace-defenses were reorganized, and it was only with his authority that Girithron prevented the summoning of every travelling warrior back to the settlement. Captain Aegnir had even advocated the extreme circumstance of forbidding all patrols and requiring every forest warden to abandon his post. The Crown Prince was determined to resume the aborted rescue mission, but the captains were eloquently undermining Girithron’s plans.

The Crown Prince felt that the conversation was running in circles, but he could not refrain from repeating his earlier arguments. “We were victorious over the goblin-horde,” he proclaimed. “No foes escaped alive.”

“This is of no consequence to the enemy,” Tarthuir replied hotly. “He will only send another, larger force.”

“We are being felled like leaves in the autumn,” Malaithlon said miserably.

“If King Thranduil were here,” Aegnir muttered under his breath, but to his shame, Girthron’s keen ears overheard the whisper.

His wrath blazing, the Crown Prince spun on his heel and glared at Aegnir. “If King Thranduil were here?” he demanded vehemently. Immediately, the room was deathly still. “Aye, ‘tis well for you to wonder the reaction of your King if he had the misfortune to be privy to such cowardice and disloyalty as I am witnessing this day! Must I reprimand you as novices? Must I draw out your shame as you would an elfling?”

“I meant no disloyalty, my lord,” Aegnir said softly in the silence that followed the prince’s diatribe. “I only question the prudence of weakening the palace’s defenses in these uncertain times.”

“Nandír.” Girithron pinned the captain with a look. “If your son had been slain, would you not know it in your heart?”

All eyes turned toward Nandír as the elf held the Crown Prince’s gaze evenly. “I believe he yet lives, my lord,” Súlinnor’s father asserted gently. “But where and in what circumstances, I cannot say.”

“That is the problem,” Hananuir broke in smoothly. “Our total lack of knowledge of their conditions prevents us from coordinating any successful rescue. Our plans have already been foiled once.”

“There is no certainty the Enemy will attack immediately,” Girithron repeated his former logic.

“With all due respect, my lord,” Tarthuir rejoined with raised eyebrows. “This pattern of attack is hardly innovative.”

Realizing that the discussion was becoming endless, Girithron turned with sudden inspiration toward Ivanneth. Thranduil’s advisor had not spoken a single word during the course of the afternoon’s debate. The Crown Prince regarded the ancient elf respectfully. “Ivanneth, counsel us. You have witnessed the Enemy’s tactics far longer than any of us. What say you?”

Ivanneth studied the elves dispassionately for a moment before speaking. He finally settled his eyes upon Girithron. “The darkest times herald the darkest decisions,” he said meditatively. “None should have to choose between duty and a brother,” his eyes flickered to include Hananuir, “or a son,” and he looked at Nandír. “Sadly, fate has determined that—”

“Such a decision is not yours to make,” finished a voice at the wide doorway of the chamber.

“Legolas!” Girithron cried in disbelief, and several voices joined his exclamation. Hananuir laughed aloud in joy at his brother’s arrival, but also at the unprecedented look of complete surprise upon Ivanneth’s face.

Smiling broadly, the youngest prince of Mirkwood bowed to the assorted elves. Captain Maeglir drew up behind the prince with an equally wide smile while Captain Rochiron limped up beside them with his particular expression of serious pleasure.

“My lords,” Legolas began formally, “I have not the words to describe with what joy and relief we return to you.” Sobering suddenly, the prince continued, “Our mission was successful in that we have retrieved our missing brethren, but lives have been lost.”

“Aye, and many more have fallen in your absence, my lord,” Captain Tarthuir announced somberly.

Several voices began asking questions together, and Girithron raised his hands for silence. “We would hear your report, Captain Legolas, and no doubt you would know our doings. Yet you must be wearied from your journey. Desire you rest before the telling?” Despite his formality, the Crown Prince’s anxiety was clearly evident in his expression.

Legolas shook his head. “Our journey was not overly taxing, but our hearts can find no peace until our questions be assuaged. I beseech you to put our minds at rest.” Chairs were quickly brought for the three captains, and in a moment, all eyes were turned upon Girithron.

“Captain Nandír,” the Crown Prince said. “I fear the beginning must fall to you.”

As he rose, Nandír sought Legolas’s eyes. The pain in the captain’s eyes was unmistakable, and the prince quickly shook his head in answer to the unspoken question. Nandír sighed audibly before he began speaking. The Captain of the Western Company related how the sudden goblin attack had begun. Hananuir dexterously intercepted the narrative and described how he had rallied to Nandír’s aid. Other captains contributed sporadic details, until Girithron finally concluded the tale.

Without waiting a moment, Maeglir began to relate the misadventures of the Southern Company, stopping at the point of his capture. Rochiron continued heavily, with aid from Legolas. Together, the three elves patched together the events of the past fortnight.

As the elves spoke, Legolas read the faces of his brothers and knew that they, in turn, were examining his. The sons of Thranduil did not betray their fears and retained their lordly composures. Yet Legolas felt clearly that his panic was obvious, and he descried doubt in Hananuir’s posture and anxiety in Girithron’s mannerisms. The situation within the Woodland Realm was now dire.

oooo

An “x” by a name denotes character death.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir x—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Warriors

Captain Aegnir

Captain Maeglir

Captain Malaithlon

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron

Captain Tarthuir

Lieutenant Calethor

Lieutenant Súlinnor

Amathor

Amborn

Barahad

Belegir

Brethildor x

Calardir (runner)

Celegnir

Dorothor x

Erethion (healer)

Esgaldir x

Feron x

Filechon x

Galadthor

Gilbor

Hadron

Haedirn (healer)

Helediron

Lalvon x

Lastor x

Málchanar

Maldir

Ornor x

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

Thanduir

Tuilinnor

Tulustor x

TRANSLATIONS:

Mellon nín: my friend

Taur-en-Daedelos: the Forest of the Great-Fear

Chapter 11: The King’s Wrath

A/N: My only excuse for taking this long to update the story is that I’m traveling and my muse seems to have bolted at the unfamiliar locale. I think she’s gotten used to the new surroundings though, as only your reviews of this chapter will prove!

Once again, I am without a beta at the moment so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them!

oooo

The evening shadows wrapped themselves more thickly around the trees of Mirkwood, and the sensation of smothering increased. The sounds of squirrels in the underbrush and spiders overhead grew muted, and the entire forest seemed suspended in a realm of silent darkness.

Thranduil had not relaxed since entering his realm four days ago. The Elven-King could not determine the first cause of his anxiety. It could have been that the horses they had left in the western edge of the forest had disappeared. Elven horses are faithful and obedient to their masters. The horses should have remained within calling distance of where their masters had left them. Only great fear or danger would have driven the elven mounts to abandon their riders. The fact that the elven party had spent the better part of a day searching for these horses suggested that some danger had indeed occurred. The border guards had also been mysteriously absent, and this hinted at an even graver threat than missing horses.

But Thranduil had sensed danger long before the elves had discovered their horses were missing. Even before entering the forest proper, the Elven-King had felt a wall of foreboding slam into him and draw his breath in shorter intervals. It was not a feeling of impending disaster, but rather, of arriving too late. He had been anxious while in Isengard, upon the borders of Lothlórien, and on the Anduin. However, Thranduil always felt a certain level of mental turmoil when he was away from his kingdom and apart from his children and subjects. He feared that aught would occur in his absence and that he would return to ruin. Such worries were often groundless and had never transpired, but the Elven-King could not suppress these thoughts. And so Thranduil’s self-control would splinter the further he traveled from his kingdom and crack at the first evidence of danger.

Two days into the forest, Thranduil had noted he was not alone in his uneasiness. The senior elves of his escort began to manifest their anxieties—Aewenor barely slept and Tháron stopped reluctantly at every break in their march. Now, after four days of their relentless pace deeper into Mirkwood, the Elven-King observed that every elf was on edge.

A sudden snapping of branches above their heads drew a myriad of reactions: Aewenor flinched involuntarily, several others snapped their heads upward, and Círion drew his bow and almost fired into the forest canopy.

“The trees are dry and the branches brittle,” Thranduil said evenly into the tense stillness.  He paused to survey his warriors, who had grouped themselves loosely around the king. Thranduil narrowed his eyes slightly as he resolved to break their unspoken pact of silence on a particular subject. “The watchfulness of the forest has turned to sorrow in our absence,” he pronounced calmly. “I fear some misfortune has befallen our home.”

“I also have felt this, my lord.” Aewenor looked relieved.

Círion frowned into the middle-space. “This uneasiness...” he trailed off uncertainly. “I suspected it was merely the contrast with…healthier climes,” he confessed bashfully.

Thranduil eyed the young warrior sympathetically, and Tháron chuckled in the back of his throat.

“Shall we double the watch tonight, my lord?” Maegdir scanned the forest mistrustfully as he spoke.

The Elven-King examined each warrior carefully before finally replying. “If we march through the night at our current rate, we will make the palace midmorning.”

“I can walk faster,” Círion said hurriedly, which elicited a few laughs from the otherwise grim band.

Thranduil smiled broadly as he spoke. “Then by all means, Círion Círandirion, you shall set the pace. Onward!”

The elves quickly fell in line with renewed vigor. Although their spirits were somewhat lifted, the warriors’ vigilance was not diminished. Thranduil’s smile faded rapidly as he confronted the dark mass of trees before him. He perceived such sorrow in the song of the forest and notes of despair in the elusive music, which hovered at the furthest recesses of his consciousness.

The king’s initial decision to remain on the elven path running east-to-west within the forest had been controversial. His warriors had favored the greater speed and stealth possible for wood-elves traveling among the branches. While this logic was irrefutable, Thranduil had stubbornly determined the group would stay on the ground. For the Elven-King had not forgotten the trespassing dwarves.

During the several weeks of his travels, thoughts of his prisoners would frequently nag his mind and invade other preoccupations. Thranduil carried the sword Orcrist wrapped in cloth and concealed in his pack. But the Elven-King did not need to see the sword to recall its existence for its presence weighed both on his shoulders and on his thoughts. The idea would come upon him unawares that perhaps the dwarves had not been lying. In which case, signs of their presence upon the elven-path had to exist and Thranduil had been determined to find this evidence.

But nothing significant had attracted the Elven-King’s attention. The path wound its way among the trees in a manner least likely to disturb the forest. His father had been reluctant to build any trail within the woods, but eventually Oropher had relented. The natural design of the passageway often proved confounding to foreigners, and Thranduil was hoping that if the dwarves had originally traveled along this road, they must have left it at some point. The king doubted whether thirteen dwarves crashing through the forest underbrush would conceal their tracks. So far, he had not been able to conclude definitively whether the unmistakable signs of travelers upon the path had been made by the dwarven party, and his hopes in that direction were dwindling. The king had been baffled as to how the dwarves had crossed the river. The boat, which the elves kept moored to the shore for the use of travelers, had disappeared. A short search in the underbrush and among the trees had revealed no boat and a fishing hook attached to a length of rope. Thranduil sincerely doubted whether the rope would have held together for thirteen dwarves to swing themselves across the water. And yet, despite concrete evidence to the contrary, the Elven-King still found himself committed to discovering signs of the dwarves.

The darkness was rapidly becoming absolute. Thranduil knew that no danger would catch them unawares despite their increasing blindness to the surrounding forest. However, the king was anxious lest he miss some sign of the dwarves’ passage.

“Halt!” Thranduil ordered abruptly.

Círion had set a grueling pace and it was with surprise that the elves ceased their march.

“Torches,” the king explained briefly at the questioning glances cast in his direction.

Although he was not questioned, Thranduil sensed utter bafflement at his command. The king almost chuckled as his warriors obediently assembled wood for the torches. His priority this night was twofold: to arrive at the palace as quickly as possible and to discover aught of his prisoners’ journey through the forest. Thranduil was no fool; he would never expose his warriors to harm without cause. But the king knew instinctively that the danger was past, and that their undisguised presence in the woods would attract no evil.

Torches in hand the elves pressed forward among the ancient beeches and oaks of Eryn Galen that was and Taur-nu-Fuin that is.

oooo

Shortly after dawn, Legolas found himself reporting to the unofficially named “Patrol Room,” which consisted of nothing more than two enormous oak trees flanking a copse of birches. Rumor had it that in bygone days a younger Rochiron had devised a system of announcing patrol rotations by securing a length of hide on two birch trees. The stretched canvas contained the names of the all the active warriors within the realm, and patrols were organized and announced among that group of trees. The markings designating which warriors were away on patrol had been wiped away, and now, only the king’s escort, the Northern Patrol, and the marchwardens were absent. Ever since the orc attack upon the settlement, warriors had been flocking to the palace. Hunting parties were recalled, patrols summoned, and settlers relocated. All came to pledge their allegiance to Thranduil their king and prepare for war.

Legolas stared with unfocused eyes at the list of warriors upon the stretched hide. There were to be no more patrols until the king returned. The young prince ran his hands through his hair, demonstrating his impatience that his father’s arrival remained a mystery for the woodland elves. By his reckoning, the king’s party should have returned several days ago. Hananuir had proposed that a patrol be sent into the forest in search of them, but Girithron had denied permission until the end of the week had elapsed. The Crown Prince’s logic was sound: rarely did the Wise mark an end date for their Council, and the length of such meetings varied widely. Further, the princes of Mirkwood doubted their father would undertake so great a journey merely to return in haste. Legolas had heard that one could spend years within the forest of Lórien and account it as but a single day. He had consulted Girithron and Gwiwileth in the matter, since both of them had spent time in Caras Galadhon, and they had provided vague accounts of the beauty of that forest.

But the elves had promised to be prepared for war ere the king’s arrival. And so warriors trained battle formations, weapons were manufactured, and the palace defenses improved. Legolas had not forgotten his father’s decision that the youngest prince should command the archers in the attack against Dol Guldur. And so, quietly and carefully as was his wont, Legolas had begun to observe the other archers. He paid special attention to the ones he did not know as well. Schooling his mind toward his purpose, the young prince memorized a fresh batch of names off the patrol list.

Turning on his heel in search of the archers he would observe that day, Legolas nearly collided with his brother, Girithron.

“Legolas,” the Crown Prince said impatiently. “Off to the archery grounds as usual?”

Examining his brother’s strained features, Legolas paused before replying. “Aye.”

“I will join you.” Girithron fell in step beside his youngest brother. “Believe you, Legolas,” the Crown Prince began abruptly, “that Galion approached me yestereve with details about the celebration of the autumn solstice? I never had mind for such trivialities, and so I directed him to speak with Gwiwileth on the matter.” Girithron clenched his jaw.

Glancing upwards at his brother, Legolas queried, “Shall the festivities proceed as usual?”

Girithron grunted irritably. “The solstice is on the morrow,” he ground out.

“This I know,” said Legolas frowning, “but shall we feast without our king?”

The Crown Prince shrugged in frustration. “Gwiwileth is responsible for the preparations,” he replied and clearly wished to have nothing more to do with the subject.

Rolling his eyes at his brother’s ire, Legolas sighed imperceptibly. Girithron’s edginess was contagious, and the youngest prince felt himself growing impatient. A whirlwind of thoughts cascaded through his mind, and in his diminishing temper, he was unable to grasp a single one.

“He should have been back by now,” the Crown Prince said harshly.

Legolas eyed his brother with only a modicum of sympathy. Girithron’s ill humor was grating on his nerves. Conversation ceased between them as the brothers neared the archery shooting grounds. Despite the early hour, several elves were already practicing their shots while still more loitered about, apparently uneasy in their idleness. As the two princes approached the group, they were greeted respectfully and soft “my lord’s” floated into the morning air.

Wishing to distance himself from his irate brother, Legolas sought out Calethor. The dark-haired elf stood with Tuilinor, and the two seemed unusually at odds. Both bowed shortly at the young prince’s approach, though neither elf looked at the other.

“The day shall be fine, your highness,” Calethor remarked drily.

His jibes sounded hollow and Legolas only nodded in reply. To his annoyance, Girithron joined their group and began to remark caustically on an error made by one of the novice archers. Tuilinor took offense, but rather than dispute with the Crown Prince, returned to his earlier discussion with Calethor. Irritated that his comments earned no replies, Girithron threw himself into the argument, now arguing for the one side, now for the other.

Legolas clenched his fists in frustration at the prevailing tempers of that morning. The archers were shooting badly, perhaps in consequence of the loud argument occurring just behind them. The young prince felt that everything was off kilter that day and could not account for what had so soured his usually good-natured brethren. He himself was on edge, impatient, and thoroughly frustrated with his brother and comrades.  

Legolas had been attempting to block out the argument occurring around him, but a sudden shift in the moods of his comrades alerted the young prince. Shaking himself to attention, Legolas met the baleful glare of Calethor, which was leveled upon Tuilinor.

“Let me understand you aright,” the dark-haired elf said chillingly. “Accuse you my father of theft?”

Tuilinor had paled somewhat, but the slighter elf did not cast down his gaze. “If those are the words you choose,” he pronounced slowly, “then so be it. Let it be known that I— ”

“You suggest that as my father is responsible for keeping the trading accounts that he has misdirected our supplies for his own profit?” Calethor trembled in his rage.

“See here, Calethor,” Girithron began vehemently. “Why jump to these conclusions if Tuilinor did not use those words?”

“Peace, mellon nín.” Legolas placed a hand on Calethor’s shoulder and attempted to pacify his friend. “I am sure Tuilinor meant no offense,” the prince said acidly, narrowing his eyes toward that elf.

“None whatsoever,” Tuilinor amended.

Legolas nodded and began to lead Calethor away from the group. Girithron shrugged as he met his brother’s gaze, refusing to accept blame for his participation in the quarrel.

“And yet,” Tuilinor said in sudden inspiration, “food is still missing.”

With a bellow, Calethor wrenched his shoulder from Legolas’s grip and would have attacked Tuilinor on the spot had Girithron not placed himself between them. Several bystanders intervened, and a cacophony of arguments now caused the archers to abandon their practice.

“The king!” a small voice shouted suddenly into the melee. “King Thranduil has arrived!” The messenger was but an elfling, and the small boy blushed at his boldness and importance. “The king!”

In the middle of the press, Legolas and Girithron were side to side restraining Calethor, but with the announcement, all three elves froze in their movements. Their anger vanished immediately and excited murmurs rose around them. All four elves regarded each other with amazement and sudden shame at their actions.

“Forgive my insult, Calethor Tegilborion,” Tuilinor said shamefacedly. “My heart was turned against itself and you, my brother-in-arms.”

Calethor grasped Tuilinor’s hand in a warrior’s salute. “All is forgiven.”

Girithron all but pushed Legolas past the others, and the brothers made haste back toward the bridge. Legolas felt the warriors gathering behind the princes and heard the glad call echoing among the treetops and the elves on the ground. He felt a thrill of excitement squeeze his heart and render him slightly breathless as he followed his taller brother through the crowd. He met smiling faces nodding in his direction and answered with a broad grin of his own. Rare were the times when the king left his realm, and so instances of his homecoming were infrequent. The entire kingdom had been in mourning for the past ten days, and it was with palpable relief that the elves welcomed their lord.

The two princes crossed the bridge and met Hananuir, Gwiwileth, and Ivanneth together by the Gate. Other elves grouped around them as well as all the palace guards. The settlements had been emptied and a great crowd now waited for the king.

Legolas felt that his grin would crack his face as he met Hananuir’s dancing eyes and Gwiwileth’s warm smile. Taking his place at end of the bridge, Girithron assumed a formal posture, though his face beamed.

“It is the king!”

“King Thranduil has returned!”

“Long may the house of Oropher rule!”

“Welcome, my lord!”

Hundreds of throats took up the call and soon the forest rang with the sound of elven voices.

Standing across the bridge, the children of Thranduil could not see their father beyond the press of elves.

And quite unexpectedly he was before them crossing the bridge. The King of the Woodland Realm was tall and walked with authority. He demonstrated no signs of weariness in his easy gait, and his golden hair reflected the early morning sunlight. Thranduil smiled as he met his people. His eyes traveled among them, noting the pride and love with which he was greeted. He wished to reflect pride and love back upon his subjects, and all who saw him that morning would afterwards confirm that their lord was of great kingly bearing despite the simplicity of his garb. Finally, Thranduil’s eyes met those of his offspring and deep love pooled in their depths.

Reaching Girithron first, the king saluted his heir formally before embracing him briefly. He kissed Gwiwileth’s cheek, and affectionately motioned Legolas and Hannauir forward through the Gate. Thranduil gripped Ivanneth’s shoulder by way of welcome as the family entered the palace proper. Nodding to the guards who saluted him enthusiastically, the Elven-King indicated that his offspring should assemble in the family’s breakfast chamber.

Girithron, Hananuir, and Legolas waited for their father and sister to be seated first at the small wooden table occupying the majority of the room. All began speaking at once and only a loud knock on the door calmed their excitement.

“Enter,” Thranduil commanded with laughing eyes.

Galion the butler grinned as he transported a laden tray into the room. He placed the food before the king with a quick bow. “My lord, your arrival is a most joyous occasion!”

The Elven-King smiled. “I heartily agree, my faithful friend. My timing is enviable, is it not?” He winked at the butler.

“Indeed, my lord,” Galion acquiesced seriously. “Lady Gwiwileth has been kind enough to oversee the preparations.”

“I am glad to hear of it.” Thranduil nodded as the butler bowed himself out of the room. “Well.” The Elven-King contemplated his children without speaking.

“Adar, are you well?” Gwiwileth broke the silence.

“Perfectly so, my dear.” The king smiled as he began eating quickly. “I see each of you remains in one piece?” he quipped.

The siblings exchanged a look, and Hananuir opened his mouth several times to reply. However, any honest response he could give somehow alluded to or involved the recent events in the realm, and Hananuir knew his father hated discussing military matters during a meal.

Sensing his children’s discomfort, Thranduil himself provided an escape. “I am pleased to hear that plans for the solstice feast are in place.”

Latching eagerly onto this topic, Hananuir and Gwiwileth briefly outlined the preparations. Girithron hardly had time to grow impatient of the subject before his father had finished eating. Thranduil swallowed his wine thoughtfully as silence descended upon the family. The king’s face had sobered, and now he lost his gaze within his goblet.

Unwilling and unsure of breaking the silence, his children waited for the father to speak first.

Taking a final sip, Thranduil laid down the goblet with a careful hand. “My heart tells me that I am to hear heavy news,” he began slowly as he regarded his sons seriously. “I bear tidings of war and such matters are not fit for this quaint chamber. I would regress to my study.”

“As you will, Adar,” Girithron pronounced and his brothers nodded.

Gwiwileth rose suddenly. “Will you excuse me, Adar? I am content to know that you are well. Talk of war will soon be inescapable,” she said, smiling humorlessly.

Thranduil reached for her hand across the table and pressed it gently. “Let us speak later, iell nín, for your presence is always a balm to my troubled thoughts.”

Gwiwileth dipped her head as she left the room. Thranduil rose and his sons followed suit, but before Girithron could exit, the king detained him.

“Girithron, ere you join us in my study, send word to the captains. I wish to convene a full council in an hour’s time.”

“My lord.” The Crown Prince nodded once and quickly departed on his errand.

Thranduil, Hananuir, and Legolas proceeded to the king’s study and were soon joined by Girithron. Ivanneth materialized and exchanged quiet words with the king before taking his place in the back of the room.

“So,” Thranduil began heavily. “I am ready.”

With a deep breath, Girithron began to relate all that had occurred in the king’s absence. He started with Calardir’s desperate return to the palace and the account of that elf. Girithron indicated that Legolas should continue the narrative, and the youngest prince spoke slowly, imparting every detail of the mission south. Legolas described the aftermath of the battle across the mountains, and with a nod, ceded the tale to Hananuir. The third prince of Mirkwood detailed the orc attack that had so nearly threatened the palace. Girithron interjected with his participation in that battle, after having been recalled from his patrol south. Finally, Legolas spoke of the return journey to the palace.

Throughout the narrative, Thranduil had not moved, and sat with his fingers laced together upon his desk. The Elven-King’s jaw was set tightly and his eyes glittered. As Legolas concluded, the three princes regarded their father for his reaction. Thranduil was silent for a long time. “How many fallen?” he asked roughly.

Girithron answered quietly.

Thranduil rose suddenly and pushed his chair against the desk with unusual force. Bowing his head, the king placed both hands upon the table before him and seemed to draw strength from the wood. “Goblins attacked initially north of the Mountains, and then drew our warriors south?” he asked Legolas directly.

“Aye,” the youngest prince replied.

“And more goblins invaded west, less than a day’s march from the palace?” the king questioned Hananuir.

“Thus it was,” he answered.

Thranduil closed his eyes for a long moment. Finally, he shuffled some maps on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. “Show me,” he commanded, tossing the parchment to Girithron.

His sons dutifully marked the areas that had witnessed bloodshed over the past several weeks. Upon receiving the map, Thranduil stared at it with unfocused eyes. Abruptly, the king threw down the document with disgust and began to pace the area behind his desk. His sons exchanged worried glances as their father rarely paced. By the color suffusing the king’s face, it was obvious that Thranduil was growing enraged.

Brashly, Hananuir interrupted his father’s thoughts. “What of the Council, Adar?” he asked too eagerly. “What say the Wise?”

At the first question, Thranduil had stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at his son until Mirkwood’s third prince lowered his eyes. “What say the Wise?” the Elven-King echoed. “What say the Wise?” he repeated loudly. Suddenly drawing to his full height, Thranduil’s face became completely white. “The Wise wait while my people are being slaughtered,” he said tightly, and all warmth seemed to drain from the room. “The Wise agree to defeat the Necromancer,” he spat, “but only at their leisure. The Wise ‘gather their forces,’” he mocked, “while my kingdom is beset with enemies! No more!” he growled.

Girithron regarded his father evenly, though inwardly the Crown Prince was desperately thinking how it would be possible to calm the king. Blushing since his blunder, Hananuir stared at his hands, unable to meet his father’s eye. Legolas felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising and shivered.

“I say no more!” Thranduil pounded the desk in front of him with such strength that it was a wonder he did no injury to himself or the wood. “Goblins defiling my realm! Orcs desecrating my forest! And the blood of my people—of my warriors, sons and their fathers—spilt recklessly, mercilessly! I say no more!” the king yelled.

Feeling absolutely powerless in the wake of their father’s wrath, the three princes of the Greenwood could only nod dumbly as the king glared at them. Ivanneth had opened his mouth to speak, but apparently the ancient elf thought better of it, as he now sat with bowed head.

Thranduil had recommenced his pacing and his steps thundered across the floor. Small clouds of dust rose from the ground, but the king paid them no heed. Periodically, he clenched his fists, and his breathing grew heavier. “I refuse to be surrounded and destroyed,” he roared at his offspring. “Neither shall my kingdom fall because of goblins! I do not fear this Necromancer!” he bellowed. “I will not allow him to continue! I say no more!”

As if released from the spell of immobility cast by his father’s wrath, Legolas now felt strangely elated. He was thirsting for battle. Glancing to his side, the youngest prince observed that Hananuir now sat tall with a gleam in his eye. Girithron had clenched his fist and an eager smile graced his face.

The Elven-King stopped in front of his desk and pounded his flat palm against the wood. “I say to war! I will wait no longer for friend or foe! Let the servants of the Enemy fear my wrath!” he challenged and his eyes glinted like steel.

Girithron stood abruptly and placed his fisted hand across his chest. “I once again pledge my fealty, my love, and my life to my lord and king,” he stated with pride.  

Gradually, the color returned to Thranduil’s face as each of his sons repeated their allegiance. Finally, the Elven-King smiled with purpose and confidence. Before the king could speak, however, a rap on the door revealed Galion.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord,” the butler said hurriedly, “but the captains are gathered as you requested and await your leisure.”

“Good,” Thranduil replied as Galion bowed out of the room. Gesturing toward the door, he smiled again at his sons. “Shall we, Thranduilionnath? I take it our captains shall require small convincing to march to battle.”

“I doubt it not,” Ivanneth said suddenly, emerging from his corner. Thranduil’s advisor smiled conspiratorially at the royal family as he joined Girithron, Hananuir, and Legolas before the king’s desk. “Your warriors wait to follow you, my lord,” he pronounced firmly.

Thranduil emitted a bark of a laugh as he fixed his burning gaze upon the elves before him. “I have done with waiting,” he announced and strode regally from the room.

A veteran of many hard-fought wars, Girithron had sobered and now followed his father with iron in his gaze. Hananuir bowed his head briefly, and, although his face had paled, there was determination in the set of his jaw. He marched resolutely after his brother. Legolas stood breathlessly exhilarated, unable to move.

Perhaps the young prince’s excitement was contagious for Ivanneth now regarded him with unusual vivacity. “I do not believe you have marched under a banner of war?” he asked softly.

Legolas could only shake his head, as his breath was too quick for speech.

The advisor nodded. “Do not forget your eagerness at this moment, young prince,” he cautioned quietly. “You will have need of it, I fear.”

With these words, Ivanneth departed and Legolas was left to follow.

oooo

Rochiron blinked blearily into the sunset as the palace guards opened the Gate for him to depart. The captain felt unusually disoriented and stopped walking in order to recall his destination. Forcefully controlling his emotions, Rochiron limped forward a few steps before pausing once more. Memories of the recent council flooded his mind and he could not suppress a smile of elation. He could not remember the last time he had felt so giddy and actually gripped the bridge for support.

It had not been like other councils.

Despite the rotating patrol system and long journeys outside the realm, King Thranduil had commanded a full gathering of all military captains twice yearly since the ending of the Watchful Peace. Rochiron hated these gatherings as they more often than not yielded lengthy and purposeless discussions of the harsh realities of living in Mirkwood. He disliked the circles in which the discussion always, inevitably ran, and he grew impatient with the vague generalizations often pronounced at such meetings. In his experience, facts and ideas were typically related and exchanged, while no decisions were made. The captain found little use in these conversations as their enemy’s attack could not be anticipated and there was nothing to be said after the fact. It had struck the old captain that the king seemed to participate in these meetings with as much displeasure as Rochiron himself.

But this afternoon had been different.

The captains had assembled with enthusiasm, eager to hear the news from the White Council. Before the king had arrived, several elves had voiced their hopes that with support from the Istari, Lórien, and perhaps even Imladris, the warriors of Mirkwood would finally defeat the Necromancer. Rochiron had entertained no such delusions.

And then King Thranduil had entered.

The king had always impressed Rochiron by his bearing and authority. Rochiron had sworn allegiance to the house of Oropher since his youth and could not imagine serving another lord. The confidence with which Thranduil walked inspired Rochiron with resilient courage. The wisdom gracing the king’s face and words garnered Rochiron’s admiration and respect. The kindness in the king’s eyes awoke deep love in the hardy captain. He could serve no other master.

First, the king called upon Maeglir to recount what had befallen the Southern Company. Rochiron then spoke briefly about the rescue mission. Finally, Nandír recounted the attack upon the settlement. King Thranduil described the White Council and its results. Then the king paused.

It was at this moment that Rochiron suspected the endless discussions would commence. So far, the meeting had proceeded straightforwardly, with accounts rendered concisely and chronologically. And then King Thranduil had stood. The king’s body was taut and his eyes snapping. The force of his being, rather than pushing against the other occupants of the room or dragging them down, instead seemed to serve as a massive pillar of strength. And then the king spoke.

Rochiron swayed slightly against the bridge, which supported him as the dizzying memories of that afternoon threatened to overwhelm him. Never had he been so moved during a council in all his years of service. The captain could not remember the words that the king had used, but no matter. The Elven-King had spoken of death, which should not have been an elven reality but now haunted their everyday. He spoke of the deaths of the young who had fallen in defense of their home. Thranduil spoke of the forest and freedom and peace—and his words were intoxicating. And then the king described the waiting and watching in which the warriors of Mirkwood had been engaged for the past several decades.

“I am done with waiting,” King Thranduil had proclaimed.

At this point, Rochiron had unconsciously shouted “aye,” but found he was not alone in his vocal support. The captains were unanimous and there were no petty squabbles for power.

And then the planning had begun. The elves had not been idle during their lord’s absence and a draft of attack had already been formulated. However, the plans were revised since the warriors of Lórien only had pledged their aid, and even so, had committed to arriving in Mirkwood in two month’s time. Rochiron’s chest had swelled with pride as king and his captains began stipulating the details of the plan.

As was their custom, the elves of Mirkwood had devised a tightly organized method of dividing their warriors. Units were grouped into companies, which were grouped into divisions, and finally, the army itself. At the council, the captains had volunteered for leadership positions and the king made several assignments. Rochiron smiled broadly as he recalled the king’s announcement that Prince Legolas would command all the realm’s archers.

Lost in his thoughts, Rochiron crossed the bridge. He did not acknowledge Hadron, who passed him by and greeted him warmly. The captain continued toward his flet until out of the whirlwind of his thoughts, his mind selected a particular memory with which to halt the elf in his steps. Rochiron caught his breath in his throat as the emotions of that moment engulfed him.

Rochiron had stood in the council, as was procedure, and had asked politely for command of a company.

“Permission denied,” the king had replied curtly.

Slightly embarrassed by the smiles he had received immediately from his fellow captains, Rochiron had cleared his throat in confusion. King Thranduil was regarding him with undisguised excitement. The Silvan elf would never understand what prompted the next words that came from his mouth. Perhaps it was the encouragement flowing from the king’s eyes or the smile that Prince Girithron could not contain, but Rochiron found himself speaking again.

“My lord, might I request permission to command the western division?” he had essayed a second time.

“Permission denied,” Thranduil had rejoined with an undeniable gleam in his eye.

Thoroughly beaten, Rochiron had only been able to sink in his chair with a stiff nod. Something within the elf collapsed and he became quite deaf to his surroundings. It was only Nandír’s firm grip on his arm that roused that Silvan elf to the council once more. Rochiron had found that all eyes were on him and that the faces of his companions reflected joy.

“My lord?” Rochiron had asked in confusion as Nandír pushed him gently to his feet.

King Thranduil had actually laughed and several others had joined his amusement. Rochiron had felt the color rising to his face and was about to speak out in anger, but the king’s voice had stopped him. “I asked you, Captain, whether you would accept to command the army under the Crown Prince?”

Rochiron had felt all the breath stop in his lungs and had quickly grabbed his chair in support. His heart suddenly pounded in his chest, and the Silvan elf could not formulate a single coherent thought. He had stared blankly at the king. He had found himself looking into the eyes of the monarch he had long served, respected, and loved. As he studied the king’s face, Rochiron had recalled Oropher’s eyes, brow, and jaw. Memories rushed chaotically through his mind’s eye of the great deeds of his king. Whom else could he serve?

“I am honored to accept, your majesty,” Rochiron had finally found voice to speak. For the remainder of the council, Rochiron had remained in a state of blissful shock, and, as Girithron later quipped, was compensating for all his years of taciturnity with his smiles that afternoon.

Captain Rochiron leant against the trunk of the tree that housed his flet. He sought to draw strength from the oak and inhaled deeply. He, Rochiron, son of Grawthir, son of Arassion would be second-in-command of Mirkwood’s army, serving under Crown Prince Girithron Thranduilion of the House of Oropher. The captain laughed aloud as he contemplated his total unworthiness for such an honor. That day was almost spent; the next would be one of preparation culminating in the solstice feast. The following day after that was one of rest and finally, the next day would be their departure. Stunned, as if replete with strong wine, Rochiron ascended the tree in a daze. Suddenly remembering his wife, Nídhel, in the flet above, the captain accelerated his pace. She would not believe his news.

oooo

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Celeguir x—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Nídhel—Rochiron’s wife

Warriors

Captain Aegnir

Captain Maeglir

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron (Grawthirion)

Lieutenant Calethor (Tegilborion)

Aewenor

Calardir (runner)

Círion (Círandirion)

Hadron (Magoldirion)

Maegdir

Tháron

Tuilinnor

TRANSLATIONS:

Eryn Galen: the Greenwood

Taur-nu-Fuin: “forest under nightshade,” literal translation of Mirkwood

Mellon nín: my friend

Adar: father

Iell nín: my daughter

Chapter 12: Feasting

A/N: And we’re finally back to the text! Dialogue has been taken verbatim from: “Barrels out of Bond,” pgs. 160-161, and 164-166 of the Houghton Mifflin paperback edition of The Hobbit. I’ve also included both songs from that chapter (p.165 and p.166) since they’re so delightful to read.

Also, it appears that I was a little too optimistic in wrapping up this story so soon. Definitely at least one more chapter coming your way! ; ) Thank you for reading, and especially for reviewing!

oooo

Thranduil buried his head in his hands in total frustration as yet another knock on the door prevented him from leaving his study. The Elven-King had been attempting to escape this room for the past several hours in order to enact an idea he had had during his morning rounds of the palace defenses. First, Girithron had insisted on reviewing the battle plans that had been drafted the previous day. Thranduil was a master strategist, but even he realized that a certain amount of planning would have to wait until the elves were in sight of Dol Guldur. Then, Malaithlon had decided to agonize further over the defenses. Galion had asked the king’s advice twice on that night’s festivities. Tegilbor and Duindir had spent over an hour with the king searching for discrepancies in the trading accounts. Finally, Captain Tarthuir had been in to inquire if and how the warriors slain in the recent attacks would be honored at that night’s commemoration. And who was it now?

“Enter,” Thranduil sighed in defeat. The king’s frown quickly faded as Gwiwileth entered the room.

“Adar,” she greeted him warmly. “I come as Galion’s messenger.” The princess smiled mischievously. “He bids me tell you that the wine from Dorwinion has arrived after all.”

The Elven-King nodded approvingly. “Glad tidings indeed. The wine will prove an excellent addition to our celebration, which is growing by the minute,” he added wryly.

Gwiwileth shrugged. “We do not customarily lump occasions together, but as the time is short…” she trailed off. “I hope the quantity of wine will prove sufficient.”

 Thranduil rose from his desk and rolled his shoulders. “Dorwinion wine is quite potent, and so a smaller quantity will produce like effects to a larger amount of our usual vintage. I hope this mysterious food shortage we are experiencing has not affected our stores of wine?” he asked sarcastically.

The princess frowned. “It is no laughing matter, Adar. I remain quite concerned about the whole situation and entirely baffled as to how—”

“Forgive me, iell nín, but I have just spent a good deal of time discussing the accounts with Tegilbor, and we have concluded that such an insignificant amount of pilfering is no cause to raise the alarm.” Thranduil moved toward the door. “You will pardon your father’s haste, but I have not had the opportunity to leave this prison all day.”

Gwiwileth shook her head affectionately. “Of course, Adar, but I should warn you: I will find the thief during my stewardship.”

Chuckling, Thranduil replied, “It eases my mind knowing that Ivanneth will remain to temper your severity.” The king laughingly fended off a mock blow from his daughter as he finally made his way out of the room. Thranduil quickly sobered as he recalled his errand and strode purposefully into the lower hallways of the palace.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Elves rushed hither and thither involved with either festival or military preparations. Hoping that the bustle would decrease as he descended, the Elven-King quickened his pace, only to nearly collide with a great wheel of cheese that was being rolled up from the lower cellars toward the upper halls where the feasting would occur. Feeling thoroughly stifled, the king entered the Guards’ Chamber eagerly. He was slightly dismayed to discover another hive of activity, as Malaithlon was conducting a weapons inventory with several other guards.

“My lord.” The guards immediately stood to attention and saluted the king smartly.

“Captain Malaithlon, I must speak with one of the dwarven prisoners. The leader,” Thranduil stipulated briefly.

“At once, your majesty,” Malaithlon replied enthusiastically. “I myself will conduct you to his cell.”

The Elven-King nodded appreciatively, unwilling to spark further conversation with the overly florid elf. In silence, the two elves worked their way lower underground, passing cellars, storerooms, and the dungeons in which the other dwarves were being kept. The corridors twisted and turned, now ascending, now descending, until after several minutes, the king and captain arrived at a wooden door standing alone at the end of the passageway. Malaithlon carried a torch, and its flickering light cast weird shadows upon the elves.

Drawing a large bunch of keys from his belt, Malaithlon slowly unbolted the heavy door. The wood creaked open and the dwarf’s heavy breathing became audible.

“Please wait here, Captain.” The Elven-King ducked into the low frame of the doorway and the door closed loudly behind him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows in the room, Thranduil discerned the figure of the dwarf. His prisoner stood hastily upon the king’s arrival, and now regarded him balefully with folded arms. Thranduil examined the dwarf closer, seeking to discover signs of the dwarf’s weary imprisonment. Curiously, the dwarf was less emaciated than at the month’s beginning, which irked the king slightly. He did not want to starve his prisoners, but at the same time, he was not providing a banquet for dwarves. Perhaps the guards were being overly generous with the prisoners’ rations. The creature’s pride was not broken, and its eyes snapped with hatred.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes as he began speaking. “Listen closely, dwarf. I have made a decision regarding yourself and your kin which may result in your freedom if you are willing to cooperate.”

The dwarf made no reply, but the gleam in his eyes indicated his attention.

Choosing his words carefully, the king continued. “I am in need of information regarding a certain place within the forest from whence you have come.”

His glare deepening, the dwarf growled, “And what place may that be?”

“The fortress of Dol Guldur,” Thranduil replied casually.

The Elven-King’s words so shocked the dwarf that he actually took a full step backward. Regaining control, the dwarf stared at Thranduil with open malice. “Now, listen here, you elf! I have never ventured near that place of horror and neither have my people. If that is truly what you believe, then why have you kept us alive this long?”

The Elven-King nodded slowly. “I suspect I have concluded rightly, dwarf, about your allegiances.” Thranduil stared intently at his prisoner for several long moments. “I am willing to bargain with you,” the king said finally.

Growling deep in his throat, the dwarf raised both eyebrows as he regarded the Elven-King. “What makes you think I am willing to bargain with an elf? Especially one who has imprisoned and insulted myself and my kin,” he added malevolently.

Thranduil shrugged, and his eyes glinted. “It appears you have little choice in the matter, dwarf. Either you agree to my terms or you continue imprisoned. However, the decision is yours.”

The dwarf sputtered under his breath, and Thranduil chose to ignore the diatribe that was entirely audible to his acute hearing. Finally, the dwarf growled in defeat. “State your terms, elf.”

Thranduil nodded sharply. “My terms are these: I require a group of spies to precede my army to Dol Guldur and draw out the Enemy.”

The dwarf coughed loudly. “Madness!” he expostulated. “We will certainly be killed on the spot! I will not trade my life nor those of my kin for your wars, elf.”

“I doubt you will be harmed when you offer the Necromancer a great prize, one he has long desired,” Thranduil trailed off pensively.

The dwarf glanced curiously at the king. “What prize would that be, elf?” he spat.

“The Elven-King,” Thranduil replied majestically.

The dwarf simply stared at the elf.

A thin smile graced Thranduil’s face. “You have the night to think it over. I will return on the morrow for your decision.” He turned toward the door and knocked once for it to be opened. “Consider carefully, dwarf,” he added abruptly. “You will find that my mercy is not boundless.”

Thranduil waited in the passageway for Malaithlon to lock the prison door securely. As the two elves began ascending, they passed a pair of guards bearing the prisoner’s evening rations. The Elven-King eyed the food curiously as they crossed each other in the hallway.

“My lord?” Malaithlon questioned, uncertain whether there was aught amiss.

Thranduil shook his head briefly. “I assume, Captain, the prisoners will not be left unguarded this night, despite our festivities?”

A faint blush rose in Malaithlon’s cheeks. “Of course not, your majesty. I have reduced the number of guards, certainly, but I am leaving Gáthanar in charge. He is extremely responsible.”

“I should like a word with him,” Thranduil replied.

“Of course, my lord. As it happens, he awaits my return in the Guards’ Chamber.” Malaithlon indicated the passageway ahead, and the two elves quickly closed the distance. “Gáthanar,” Malaithlon announced as they cleared the threshold of the room.

Immediately, a fair-haired elf stood to attention and saluted smartly.

Thranduil approached the guard and examined him critically. Apparently satisfied, the king nodded. “Your king is pleased to receive your duty, Gáthanar.”

“My lord.” Gáthanar bowed. He puffed his chest in pride as Malaithlon silently handed him the keys to the prisoners’ cells.

“King Thranduil!” A messenger breathlessly ran into the chamber and saluted the king. “Captain Lennor and the Northern Company have just returned.”

The king immediately departed the room with Malaithlon and the messenger fast on his heels. Gáthanar smiled amiably at the few guards left in the room.

“Comrades, I go to my post!” he said merrily. Smiling at the taunts he received in reply, Gáthanar jingled the keys authoritatively as he slid them onto his belt. The fair-haired elf began his descent into the lower passageways. As he neared the cellars, Gáthanar met with Galion.

“Why, Galion! Should not you be in the upper halls preparing the feast?” Gáthanar asked jovially.

The old butler shook his head. “There is work to be done here, young Gáthanar! I am come to inspect the Dorwinion just arrived.”

“Dorwinion, eh?” Gáthanar remarked with sudden interest. “I fine vintage, I hear.”

“As do I.” Galion nodded appreciatively.

“I have a weary night of guarding ahead of me,” Gáthanar remarked sadly.

Galion nodded sympathetically. “Now come with me,” he said suddenly, “and taste the new wine that has just come in. I shall be hard at work tonight clearing the cellars of the empty wood so let us have a drink first to help the labor.”

Gáthanar was immensely touched that the king’s butler had issued him such an invitation. He had never tasted the famous beverage from Dorwinion. “Very good,” he laughed in anticipation. “I’ll taste with you, and see if it is fit for the king’s table. There is a feast tonight and it would not do to send up poor stuff!” He winked conspiratorially at the butler.

Together, they made their way to a tiny room adjacent to the main cellars. There, a small wooden table had been set up for the wine tasting. Gáthanar sat at the table while Galion departed with two large flagons in hand. In a moment, the butler had returned with the flagons full of the coveted wine.

“To King Thranduil!” Gáthanar raised his flagon.

“Long may the house of Oropher rule!” Galion rejoined.

The two elves drank deeply.

“Hmm,” Gáthanar uttered appreciatively. “’Tis truly a fine vintage.”

Galion smacked his lips. “The fruit is quite powerful. Delicious!” He took another sip.

“To Crown Prince Girithron!” Gáthanar announced energetically before drinking.

“To Prince Hananuir!” Galion proposed another toast.

“To the fair princess Gwiwileth,” Gáthanar winked merrily at the butler before both elves drank from their flagons.

“To the memory of Prince Celeguir,” Galion said softly. Butler and guard passed a moment in silence before taking a long sip of wine.

“And to young Prince Legolas.” The butler grew cheerful again as he clinked his flagon against Gáthanar’s.

“To you, Galion, and your generosity!” Gáthanar raised his flagon with a smile. “I shall never forget your invitation to me this eve.”

Galion waved his hand dismissively. “To you, Gáthanar!”

Butler and guard drank in silence for a few minutes.

Suddenly, Gáthanar laughed. “This reminds me of the summer solstice feast two years ago,” he remarked with another drink.

Galion chuckled. “That was quite an occasion,” he replied, also delving into his flagon.

Grinning, the fair-haired guard laughed again. “Do you recall the look on Malaithlon’s face when he fell in the river?” He took another sip.

Galion guffawed with gusto. “And he was singing!” The butler wiped tears from his eyes as he collapsed again in laughter.

Shaking in merriment, Gáthanar lurched rather awkwardly to his feet. “In summer’s lengthy days,” he began enthusiastically.

“Nay,” Galion interrupted him with a giggle. “That’s not the tune. It was more,” he laughed again, “like this: in summer’s lengthy days, the—” The butler giggled again. “What’s the next wor’?”

“Iss birds!” Gáthanar announced from inside his flagon. The elf grinned stupidly. “Somethin’ to do wi’ birds.”

“Righ’.” Galion took another swig of wine. He squinted into the distance. “The birds fly further south!” He slapped his thigh in merriment.

“Nay, nay, nay, Galion!” Gáthanar sat heavily with a booming laugh. “Y’are confusin’ two songs! Birds don’ fly south in winter!” he laughed loudly.

“Haha!” the butler pointed at the guard. “In winter!” he guffawed.

Gáthanar eyed him with sudden irritation as an enormous yawn threatened to swallow the guard’s entire face. “Birds don’ fly south in winter,” he repeated drowsily.

“Malaithlon sang about birds!” Galion stated jovially. “But that was ‘fore he fell in the river.” He grinned at Gáthanar. “I remember,” he said proudly.

“’Member the river,” Gáthanar trailed off sleepily as he nodded. Suddenly, he leaned forward and laid his head upon the table. In another moment, he was fast asleep.

Galion took no notice of his companion as he tipped his flagon as far back as it would go. The last few precious drops of wine trickled into his open mouth. “’Spose we should get s’more wine!” he announced with a laugh. “Dorwonin knows how to make wine! Dirwonion.” He giggled. “Dordiwonion!” The butler collapsed in mirth. Suddenly, he yawned. “Doworion,” he muttered sleepily. “Dor…won…ion,” he uttered as he too fell upon the table and succumbed to sleep.

oooo

Thranduil smiled affectionately as he observed his people merrymaking. The feast had been splendid, the food superb. The men of Dorwinion had not disappointed with their latest shipment, and the king was extremely pleased. The celebrations had spilled out into the surrounding wood, and the Elven-King smiled quietly to himself as various snatches of music came to his hearing. Thranduil drank sparingly from a full goblet, relishing the fruity bouquet of the vintage. The taste was familiar, but the wine never failed to produce an impression of novelty upon him. Every vintage was slightly different than the one before, and, despite elven memory, Thranduil did not tire of tasting the drink over the years.

The Elven-King swirled the ruby liquid in his goblet as he observed the celebration around him. The feast was similar to those that had preceded it and those that were still to come. Familiar faces danced and smiled about him, but Thranduil was ever conscious of those who would be forever absent from those halls. Feeling that he had been sitting for too long, the king rose from his table with a nod to Ivanneth and its other occupants.

As he moved away from the first table, Thranduil turned to contemplate the king’s oaken chair at its head. It seemed to him that he saw his father seated in all his majesty upon the wooden seat. Oropher’s booming laugh filled his son’s ears, and Thranduil smiled at that memory of amusement. His father had been so full of life, so exuberant, so vast in a way, that the forest could not contain him. Oropher had been totally fearless, an explorer, a wanderer, quick to anger but gentle in kindness. All of his pursuits were accomplished with fierce and tireless energy. The image of Oropher seemed to grow larger in Thranduil’s mind the longer he stared at the king’s empty chair. In the same way, his father’s personality had seemed to expand from Thranduil’s youth until that last tragic day.

Suddenly, the music and laugher of the feast rushed back into Thranduil’s hearing. He blinked rapidly and realized belatedly that Captain Tarthuir was speaking to him. The Elven-King nodded seriously and exchanged pleasantries with the captain, who appeared unaware that the king had not been listening to his earlier comments. The two elves parted, and Thranduil moved with unshakable purpose toward the entryway of the hall. The king felt unusually stifled.

Thranduil made his way out of the hall and into the woods. The evening was perfect with a refreshing breeze ruffling the trees. There were lights in many of the treetops, and songs floated out of the forest canopy. The Elven-King made his way toward the center of the merrymaking, which was a bonfire lit up in one of the larger clearings by the settlement. He was pleased to find musicians and dancers in full swing with hardly any elves left out of the celebration. Thranduil took up a position on the outer perimeter of the dancing and began to observe the revelers.

His eyes lit first upon Gwiwileth. His daughter was radiant in her beauty, as rare joy shone unblemished upon her face. Thranduil smiled tenderly as he watched Súlinnor dancing with her. The Elven-King had noted that Nandír’s son openly admired his daughter, but Gwiwileth had not demonstrated any serious inclinations. Thranduil shrugged away that train of thought—at least she was enjoying herself this night. The music changed and each couple now joined with another couple to form a circle of four dancers. The king’s smile grew as Hananuir and a fair maiden joined Gwiwileth and Súlinnor. The couples wove in and out with expert grace and Thranduil watched with pleasure.

The music changed yet again and several of the younger couples hesitated. The melody was much slower, haunting and poignant. Hananuir and his partner retreated to the growing circle of elves that stood watching the dancing. The dismay on Súlinnor’s face expressed clearly that he did not know the dance, but Gwiwileth reassured him with a smile. The princess stepped calmly and confidently as she instructed him in the dance. Captain Rochiron and his wife, Nídhel, joined the princess as they danced with faultless grace.

Memories long buried stirred within Thranduil’s heart as he could not ignore the music. It was an ancient Silvan song that had not been played for years or, at least, the king had not heard it for a long time. In his mind, Thranduil stood not in the forest but in his father’s halls away on a hill far to the south, during a feast long ago. Oropher sat in his chair, and his booming laugh cut across the music for a moment. But that night, Thranduil had eyes only for a dark-haired maiden with sad eyes. For that particular occasion, several settlements of elves had journeyed to Amon Lanc to commemorate Oropher’s kingship. She belonged to a Silvan clan living deep within the forest, and she had never seen the Sindar princes now ruling Eryn Galen. The memory of her beauty still rendered the Elven-King breathless.

The Silvan melody continued as Thranduil lost himself in the past. He was unconscious of the smile on his face as he remembered the first conversation with her. He had approached her, awkwardly, shyly, completely aware that she probably thought him a fool.

“My lady,” he had said softly, “I would beg your name, so that I may know to whom such beauty belongs.”

She had fixed her sad eyes upon him, and then she laughed. Her laughter flowed like clear water over pebbles, and Thranduil had also laughed. “My lord,” she replied with a slight accent, “my name is not in your tongue.”

Dismayed, Thranduil pressed her. “I would know it, lady.”

She regarded him gently. “They call my father Lanthiron.”

His heart pounding in his chest, Thranduil began tentatively, “The falls create a new course, do they not? May I call you Ýriel, lady?”

Her eyes rested upon his anxious face with calm reassurance. “This is a beautiful word,” she said finally, and her eyes seemed less sad.

At that moment, the music had begun. It was a Silvan song, and in those days, Thranduil did not know the dance. He looked about him in perplexity as couples began moving to the tune.

Ýriel rose fluidly and indicated the dancing. “Would you learn the steps, my lord?”

Dizzy at what was transpiring, Thranduil had only been able to nod and take her hand. The rest of the night had been lost to him and he could not account for the time that passed. It seemed to him that when he had looked into her eyes, every problem had faded until he knew only joy.

A sudden snapping of branches just above his head brought Thranduil back to the present and caused him to sidestep just in time. He watched in amazement as the form of Calethor came hurtling through the treetops to land in an undignified heap on the ground. An explosion of laughter above identified the tones of Legolas, and Thranduil shook his head in mock exasperation at the duo.

“My apologies, my lord.” Calethor swayed as he bowed to the king. He smiled foolishly.

“Perhaps you have drunk enough, Calethor?” Thranduil asked gently.

More laughter rang out from the tree above. The song had ended and the couples were dispersing. Rochiron and Nídhel approached the king.

“How much wine does it take to knock a wood-elf out of a tree?” Rochiron mused sarcastically with a sidelong look at Calethor, as he dipped his head in greeting to the king.

Grinning unabashedly, Calethor disappeared back up the trunk as Nandír joined the group. Another song was beginning.

“My lord,” Nandír addressed the king energetically. “A wonderful celebration!”

Thranduil agreed kindly, though he regretted Calethor’s interruption. He felt his memories fleeing as the Silvan song had died, and he could not even recall the melody. The elves talked about him, but the king felt disjointed and absent from their conversation. Suddenly feeling a warm gaze upon him, Thranduil looked up and met the grey orbs of Nídhel. She looked at him sympathetically, and the king felt somewhat cheered by her compassion. The Elven-King began listening to the remarks of his companions and, at Nandír’s suggestion, agreed to accompany them back to the palace. As Thranduil crossed the Bridge, he shook his head, determined to dispel his melancholy and leave his memories with the forest.

oooo

Thorchanar sighed irritably over his glass of wine. He exchanged a look with Belton. Together, they grimaced at Túgnir and Faervel.

“Why now?” Thorchanar complained. “The barrels can wait.”

Túgnir shook his head resolutely. “Galion said otherwise.”

“As did Captain Malaithlon,” Faervel added. “He instructed us to go now and have done with the task as quickly as we can, and we may return to the feast.”

Belton shrugged as he rose from the table. “Come Thorchanar!” he said merrily. “Let us have done with the work speedily and we may return!”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Thorchanar joined the trio as they made their way from the halls. The group recruited a couple more guards as they descended into the lower hallways of the palace. The going was not entirely unpleasant, as all the elves had drunk enough to render them even merrier than they were naturally. Belton, in particular, was quite lively, and sang for the entertainment of the group.

“Haha, Belton,” laughed Faervel. “Your voice is worse than Thorchanar’s!”

“What of your own dulcet tones, Faervel?” Belton retorted glibly.

“Where’s old Galion, the butler?” Túgnir interrupted their argument as they arrived at the main cellar. “I haven’t seen him at the tables tonight. He ought to be here now to show us what is to be done.” The guard narrowed his eyes in slight irritation.

“I shall be angry if the old slowcoach is late,” Thorchanar muttered. “I have no wish to waste time down here while the song is up!” He crossed his arms moodily.

Belton shrugged as he searched the cellar half-heartedly to reveal no Galion.

“Ha, ha!” Faervel cried suddenly from an adjoining room.

The others quickly approached the small doorway to one side of the cellar.

“Here’s the old villain with his head on a jug!” Faervel gleefully indicated the slumbering Galion. “He’s been having a little feast all to himself and his friend the captain.” The elf emphasized the last word sarcastically as he pointed to the snoring form of Gáthanar. 

“Shake him! Wake him!” Thorchanar and Belton cried out together in mischievous anticipation.

The guards grouped themselves loosely about the table at which Galion and Gáthanar slept. They were delighted to have caught the careful butler in an embarrassing lapse of responsibility and were eager to share a laugh at his expense.

After several prods and shakes, Galion muttered something incomprehensible and lifted his head from the table. He blinked blearily for several moments as his eyes met with the smiling countenances of six guards. His face reddened, as the guards’ smiles became laughs. “You’re all late,” he grumbled with a frown. “Here am I waiting and waiting down here, while you fellows drink and make merry and forget your tasks. Small wonder if I fall asleep from weariness!” He rose with an affronted sniff.

“Small wonder,” replied Belton innocently, “when the explanation stands close at hand in a jug!”

General laughter met his comment and Galion’s blush deepened.

“Come,” Thorchanar said merrily, “give us a taste of your sleeping draught before we fall to!” 

Túgnir winked conspiratorially at his fellow guards. “No need to wake the turnkey yonder.” He snickered as Gáthanar emitted a particularly loud snore. “He has had his share by the looks of it.”

Huffing in exasperation, Galion filled his flagon with the wine. “Be quick about it,” he muttered in defeat.

The elves passed the flagon around with running commentary about the quality of the beverage. Several guesses were made as to how much the butler had imbibed to put him to sleep. Despite their merriment, the six guards made short work of the flagon and were soon examining the barrels to be dispatched.

“Save us, Galion!” Faervel frowned as he and Belton made to move a barrel toward the trapdoor in the floor of the cellar. “You began your feasting early and muddled your wits!” The guard accused. “You have stacked some full casks here instead of the empty ones, if there is anything in weight.”

Thorchanar shrugged as he lifted his barrel easily. Túgnir frowned as his barrel also proved heavy to move.

Galion was thoroughly embarrassed to have been discovered in such a position, but the butler was still suffering from the after-effects of alcohol abuse. He closed his eyes as the cellar about him teetered dangerously. “Get on with the work!” he growled as his stomach rumbled in protest. “There is nothing in the feeling of weight in an idle toss-pot’s arms. These are the ones to go and no others. Do as I say!” he commanded, grabbing onto a nearby barrel for support.

“Very well, very well,” Túgnir replied soothingly. “On your head be it, if the king’s full buttertubs and his best wine is pushed into the river for the Lake-men to feast on for nothing!”

The others laughed at his comment as they began rolling barrels in earnest. With a broad wink, Belton began a work song, and the others rapidly joined in.

Roll—roll—roll—roll,

Roll—roll—rolling down the hole!

Heave ho! Splash plump!

Down they go, down they bump!

Galion groaned aloud as the song worsened his pounding headache. The butler passed his hands over his face, wishing with all his heart that there were less barrels and that the guards would work faster and sing less. In fact, Galion chided himself mentally, he would have much preferred never to have sampled the blasted wine in the first place. Resolving never to drink again, the butler lowered his body into a chair as he observed the guards at work. Galion was astounded that Gáthanar slept on, despite the racket. The barrels were disappearing rapidly, and two guards had already gone to haul the ropes, which raised the portcullis up ahead. The elves had no mercy on the suffering butler and continued their song with great enthusiasm.

Down the swift dark stream you go

Back to lands you once did know!

Leave the halls and caverns deep,

Leave the northern mountains steep,

When the forest wide and dim

Stoops in shadow grey and grim!

Float beyond the world of trees

Out into the whispering breeze,

Past the rushes, past the reeds,

Past the marsh’s waving weeds,

Through the mist that riseth white

Up from mere and pool at night!

Follow, follow stars that leap

Up the heavens cold and steep;

Turn when dawn comes over land,

Over rapid, over sand,

South away! And South away!

Seek the sunlight and the day,

Back to pasture, back to mead,

Where the kine and oxen feed!

Back to gardens on the hills

Where the berry swells and fills

Under sunlight, under day!

South away! And South away!

Down the swift dark stream you go

Back to lands you once did know!

Belton drew out the last note after the others had stopped. With a flourish, he bowed deeply amidst applause. The guards laughed as Galion had buried his head in his hands during the latter half of the song.

“Why such misery, eh Galion?” Thorchanar quipped with a wink to his companions. “The work is finished!”

“Aye, Galion,” Faervel said innocently. “Is not this what you wanted?”

“Perhaps Galion is thirsty?” Túgnir suggested slyly.

“Or has he drunk his fill?” Belton asked the room in general.

Loud laughter met these remarks as Galion straightened furiously. “Now see here! Your obligation is complete, now be off with the lot of you lest I mention certain comments to your captain!”

The guards guffawed in answer as they began to file out of the room. Galion had to endure several broad winks and grins before he was finally left in peace. The butler eyed the snoring form of Gáthanar in mild disgust. Deciding that he was under no obligation to the sleeping elf, Galion departed shakily from the cellar. A single snore floated through the cellar door as the butler turned the corridor and disappeared down the hall.

oooo

A/N: Just to explain a few names I’m using. According to an online Sindarin dictionary that I found, “lanthir” means waterfall and “ŷr” means river course. So that’s my “etymology,” so to speak, for the name Ýriel.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Ýriel x –Thranduil’s wife

Celeguir x—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Duindir—Chief of the raft-elves (so I guess we could call him head of transportation)

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Tegilbor—Chief of Trade

Nídhel—Rochiron’s wife

Warriors

Captain Lennor—captain of the Northern Company

Captain Malaithlon—captian of the guard

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron (Grawthirion)

Captain Tarthuir

Lieutenant Calethor (Tegilborion)

Lieutenant Súlinnor (Nandírion)

Guards

Belton

Faervel

Thorchanar

Túgnir

TRANSLATIONS:

Eryn Galen: the Greenwood

Adar: father

Iell nín: my daughter

Chapter 13: And Then There Were None

A/N: Please PLEASE read the notes I’ve included at the bottom of the chapter. I promise it’s worth your time. Before anything else, I must offer a most sincere APOLOGY for how ridiculously long it’s taken me to write and upload this chapter. A bad combination of real life + writer’s block has stalled this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

oooo

In the lifting darkness just before dawn, Thranduil leaned against the parapet of the bridge and examined the horizon with expertise. The sun had yet to make an appearance that morn, but the king knew that the day was not far off. He listened attentively to sparse birdcalls, as many of the winged creatures had abandoned Mirkwood in the previous years. Thranduil felt the River running strongly and swiftly below him.

Ironically, it had been Thranduil himself who had decided upon this day of rest ere his army would set forth to Dol Guldur, but the king could find no rest. Thranduil had left the celebration in the early hours past midnight, and yet many had remained merrymaking. The king had found no sleep and so had resolved to greet the dawn before seeking out Malaithlon. The Elven-King had already determined a course of action for each possible answer the dwarf could give him. Although his prisoner’s cooperation was not essential, it would facilitate the initial attack and perhaps decrease elven losses. However, Thranduil admitted to himself, that was not entirely the reason for his anxiety regarding the dwarf’s decision. He wanted the leader to recognize their common enemy and perhaps swallow some of its pride and help the elves.

The Elven-King sighed softly as a cynical voice in his head mocked his thoughts. The past is written in stone, his father’s voice resonated inside his head. The naugrim were lesser beings, stunted in body and limited in mind. Irascible and unreasonable, it was impossible to cooperate with them for long in any endeavor. And yet, if…Thranduil shook his head. The past is written in stone.

The king blinked as he realized that while he had been lost in his thoughts, the sun had begun its journey across the sky. Thranduil loved the quality of light peculiar to that brief time just after sunrise. It made the world seem somehow clean and young.

The Elven-King raised his head sharply as the familiar voices of his sons carried on the breeze. He smiled as he noted that he had long been aware of their presence in the near distance, but his mind had been preoccupied. Turning his full attention to their discourse, Thranduil mentally joined their conversation.

“Perhaps if you would perform some heroic deed, the lady will speak with you again.” Girithron’s bass sounded amidst the trees, and Thranduil pictured the mocking grin with which these words had undoubtedly been delivered.

The brevity of Legolas’s laugh indicated that this topic had already been discussed, and the king pondered whether Hananuir was irritated or amused by his brothers.

“I think not, muindor,” Hananuir’s cheerful voice replied. “I need not engage in any sort of activity for fair ladies to speak to me.”

“Is their pity for you so great?” Girithron quipped rapidly.

Thranduil’s smile broadened as he recognized Hananuir’s tactic of baiting his elder brother. In his mind’s eye, he saw Hananuir’s barely restrained composure of serenity.

“Nay, but given their other options, I am the only prince with whom it is worth speaking!”

The king chuckled as Hananuir’s laugh floated from the forest together with Girithron’s expression of disgust and Legolas’s assertions to the contrary. Thranduil walked the length of the bridge as his three sons emerged from the woods and came within his sight. He watched the three fair heads as they approached him. Girithron was the tallest in stature and broadest in build. His heir seemed to have been designed especially for warfare. Legolas was the next tallest, but much more lithe than his brother. The quiet strength of his youngest son reminded Thranduil of the aspen tree, which always grew back, no matter fire and ice. Hananuir stood shorter than his brothers, but possessed a calm confidence commensurate with his inexhaustible patience.

“Adar!” Legolas hailed the king as the brothers finally realized his presence.

“Still celebrating?” Thranduil’s eyes twinkled as he greeted his offspring.

“We watched the sunrise,” Hananuir provided.

“I take it you have not been reveling all night, Adar?” Girithron raised his eyebrows in amusement.

“Would my vast age prevent such nocturnal pursuits?” the king replied archly as the four elves fell in step together back across the bridge toward the gate.

Legolas chuckled as his elder brothers broke into smiles.

“’Twould be unusual.” Hananuir remarked.

Suppressing a laugh, Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, ionnath nín, I rose early with a particular purpose in mind.”

“Indeed?” Girithron prompted after several moments of silence.

The Elven-King did not bother to hide his smile. Girithron’s tone had been politely respectful, but layers of curiosity had broken to the surface. Hananuir’s face appeared neutral, but his natural inquisitiveness sparkled in his eyes. For his part, Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it.

“Aye,” Thranduil replied evasively.

The group had entered the palace, and the king directed his steps down a corridor. Realizing that their destination was not the family’s private chambers, the sons of Thranduil followed their father with heightened interest. All three of them knew that the king was baiting them deliberately for his own amusement, but none of the elves took offense at to this somewhat juvenile game. The elves of Mirkwood did not forego an opportunity for levity.

Working his way down the twisting hallways of the lower caverns, the Elven-King suspected that his sons had guessed their endpoint. However, he doubted whether they would surmise the purpose of this trip.

Thranduil entered the guard’s chamber first. The novice on duty literally fell off his chair in surprise at the arrival of so many illustrious personages so soon after dawn on a day of rest.

“My…my l…lords,” the young elf stuttered with a deep bow.

“And you are?” Thranduil asked kindly.

“Círdir,” the guard whispered.  

“Círdir, I am looking for Gáthanar. I believe he was assigned to guard the dwarven prisoners yester night. Has he been here this morn?” the Elven-King asked.

Círdir shook his head.

“When did your shift begin?” Girithron interjected firmly.

“Dawn,” came the faint reply.

“Ah, in that case, go find Captain Malaithlon. Please inform him that I need the keys to the dwarf leader’s cell. I will meet him thither.” Thranduil eyed the youth as he hurriedly bowed and fled from the room.

“Adar?” Hananuir began in confusion. “Surely the dwarves have not altered their manners? Why seek you discourse with them?”

“Come.” Thranduil indicated the door and the passageway beyond with a thin smile. “I will explain my plan as we walk.”

oooo

 Malaithlon gazed across the bridge as he approached the palace gates. The morning was yet unspoiled and no elves moved about the forest. The guards on either side of the entryway saluted him briefly as he walked into the nearly empty corridor. The Captain of the Guard arrived at an intersection of several hallways, a place usually bustling with activity. Today, the way was deserted.

Malaithlon sighed deep within himself. Such would be the norm on the morrow and continuing until the king’s army returned from war. The silence was always jarring in the beginning until the captain accustomed himself once again to the parity of elves in the palace. Once the quiet was established, Malaithlon remarked upon it not. He knew himself to be the last guardian of the last home and refuge of an ancient people. With pride did he remain at his post.

The Captain of the Guard turned his head sharply as the rapid pounding of an elf running assailed his hearing.

“Captain!” A wide-eyed novice skidded to a halt in front of Malaithlon.

“Is aught amiss, Círdir?” Malaithlon demanded with his senses immediately primed for possible problems.

“The king and the Crown Prince and Prince Hananuir and Prince Legolas are in the Guards’ Chamber, and King Thranduil requires the keys to the dwarf leader’s cell!” The young guard spoke with breathless velocity and was forced to trail his captain as Malaithlon immediately began making his way to the lower halls upon hearing half of the information.

Malaithlon’s curiosity was piqued, but he was not overly concerned. It was unusual for King Thranduil and all of his sons to deal jointly with the same issue. Moreover, unless he was grossly misinformed, Malaithlon knew of no matter affecting the Palace Guards that would warrant such early attention from the royal family.

Entering the Guard’s Chamber at a furious pace, Malaithlon made straight for a thick ledger displayed prominently on a side table. The Captain of the Guard scanned the entries of guards’ names, searching for Gáthanar’s mark. He found it for the previous night, but the space for that morning’s check lay empty.

“Círdir.” Malaithlon pinned the guard with a severe look. “When you relieved Glíchon this morn, did he say aught of receiving keys from Gáthanar?”

Círdir paled as he shook his head.

Malaithlon frowned as the failure to follow routine grated on his nerves. “Círdir, go to the barracks and see if you can find Gáthanar, or any that know of his whereabouts. Send the next two on-duty down here immediately. Now!” he reiterated the young guard fled.

The Captain of the Guard did not have long to wait as Brastor and Losdir soon reported to the Guards’ Chamber. Malaithlon rapidly delegated the impromptu search he had contrived as he finally departed the room toward the prisoners’ cells. Malaithlon was so focused that he walked past Galion without noticing, but turned on his heel as he realized whom he had just crossed.

“Galion!” the Captain of the Guard called the butler back.

The old elf frowned as he nodded stiffly. “Captain,” he practically whispered.

Raising an eyebrow at Galion’s unusual taciturnity, Malaithlon related, “I am searching for a guard, Gáthanar. Should you see him, tell him to report to the Guards’ Chamber immediately.”

Galion froze. “As you wish,” he managed after a pause.

Malaithlon eyed the butler for the barest of moments before turning back down the hall. He had more important matters with which to concern himself that morn that Galion’s ill humor.

oooo

The first sensation was one of burning. His lungs were on fire and his throat screamed for water. His tongue felt nailed into his mouth. The next feeling was one of weakness. He could not move his arms nor shift his head. His limbs were weighty, as if he were somehow made of sand and had gotten wet. The last realization was of confusion. He could not remember how he came to be in such a state. He could not understand his whereabouts.

Despite these impediments, Gáthanar had always been a curious elf, and so in conjunction with his lack of judgment, he opened his eyes. Immediately, painful pinpricks of light accosted his sensitive eyes, and Gáthanar heard himself groan aloud. He did not recall this malaise and wondered at its source. Had he been attacked? Was he wounded? Was he imprisoned?

With his eyes tightly shut, Gáthanar shifted his head, inhaling deeply and hoping to discover clues of the world around him. The air was cool and slightly stale, and he realized he was in the caverns of the Palace. Surely, there had been no battle? Breathing deeper, Gáthanar identified the rich smells of wood and…wine?

Starting upright with his eyes bulging, Gáthanar cried aloud. “Wine! Dorwinion!” But surely, surely he had not drunk to excess! He would not have behaved as a mortal! Surely this had not been.

Gáthanar braced himself against the table in front of him. His pounding head, shaking limbs, and agonizing thirst confirmed his worst suspicions. He had indeed drunk very much to excess.

Gáthanar hung his head in shame. He was unworthy to serve the house of Oropher. If Captain Malaithlon could see him now, he would be unfit even as a target for the novices’ archery practice. Perhaps the Captain did not know? Gáthanar lifted his head as a faint ray of hope illuminated his countenance. Perhaps his misdeed would go unnoticed? Realizing that a stealthy retreat was his only option for evading catastrophe, Gáthanar crept silently from the room. At least, he attempted to creep. His actual gait resembled more of a lurch punctuated by the occasional groan. Praying that he would not encounter other elves, Gáthanar continued along the hall.

Suddenly, the world spun violently about him, and Gáthanar quickly brought up his right hand to hold his head in place. With his left hand, the guard gripped the wall. The motion subsided, and, as Gáthanar lowered his hands, he realized that he had brushed against something metallic strung upon his belt. He probed the object in question and brought it up to his face for closer inspection. A bunch of keys! He pondered this reality. He did not remember possessing so many keys.

A thought nagged his mind. Something important had happened before the wine. He had been given a task—nay, it was more formal, a command. It must have been given to him by Captain Malaithlon. But this did not explain the keys…Keys were used for storing valuables or opening doors or locking doors...

Locking doors! The prisoners! He was in charge! These thoughts attacked Gáthanar’s fragile mind in unrelenting succession, and the poor elf physically cringed as the weight of responsibility bore down upon his shoulders. He was supposed to have guarded the dwarven prisoners during the feast! He had done no such thing. And now, here he was with a bunch of keys that did not belong to him. How was he to return them to the captain without confessing his blunder?

Gáthanar’s brow furrowed in perplexity as he attempted to solve this dilemma. If he returned the keys immediately, someone might question him about the prisoners. If he delayed, then he would be punished for his tardiness. He was sadly lacking in creative information regarding dwarves. He tilted his head to one side a novel idea introduced itself in his mind. He could simply check on the prisoners now and then return the keys. Then, if any questioned the delay, he could truthfully attest to having been round to inspect the prisoners.

Satisfied, Gáthanar straightened. Turning down a corridor, he decided to begin at the furthest cell. He would check on the leader first.

oooo

Blowing out his breath in frustration, Girithron folded his arms and regarded his father with a raised eyebrow. “And how long do you propose to wait?” he demanded with restrained irritation.

Thranduil eyed him warningly, but did not reply. The Elven-King was also annoyed by the amount of time it was taking Malaithlon to produce the keys to the prisoners’ cells. The Captain of the Guard had already been by twice with rushed apologies for his disorganization and assurances that the keys were to arrive at any moment. For his part, Thranduil was surprised at Malaithlon’s unusual incompetence.

The father and his sons had not noticed the wait in the beginning, as their discourse was deep and lengthy. Yet all conversations must come to an end, and as the silences stretched longer, Thranduil began to wonder exactly how long they had been in the lowest caverns.

Hananuir and Legolas bore the wait quietly, though the latter was beginning to demonstrate signs of wishing to be elsewhere. Thranduil could not blame his youngest. The hallway was not exactly the most interesting locale, and all of them had plenty of other matters to attend to before their departure on the morrow.

With a deep sigh, Thranduil decided that enough was enough. The Elven-King moved away from the door to the dwarf leader’s cell and began to make his way up the corridor. Before he had taken two paces and his sons had not yet had chance to follow him, an elf turned the corner and all but walked into the monarch.

The elf was Gáthanar, and when he realized his mistake, the guard turned completely white.

Before any words could be exchanged, Malaithlon rounded the exact same corner, and Gáthanar actually began to tremble.

“Captain,” Thranduil remarked dryly as the Elven-King shifted his gaze between Malaithlon and Gáthanar. “Is aught amiss?”

Malaithlon was furious. The Captain of the Guard had spent the better part of the past hour searching for the missing Gáthanar. He was embarrassed and ashamed of having kept his lord waiting so long on a triviality. And now the truant guard stood quaking in front of him. Malaithlon clenched his jaw against the tirade that threatened to escape his control. Gáthanar would not be spared.

“My most sincere apologies, my lord,” Malaithlon ground out with a deferential bow to the Elven-King. “Here are the keys.” Without looking at the guard, Malaithlon grabbed the ring of keys from Gáthanar’s weak grasp. The captain proceeded to the cell door. He placed the key in the lock and turned it with perhaps more force than necessary. The lock clicked, and the heavy door creaked open.

Thranduil regarded Malaithlon for the barest of seconds before entering the cell. Girithron followed with a torch in hand, and Hananuir and Legolas brought up the rear.  As the last prince disappeared into the cell, Malaithlon turned to glare at Gáthanar.

“Why did you not report this morn?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

Gáthanar’s mouth moved to respond, but his eyes widened instead. Turning to see what had captivated the guard’s attention, Malaithlon was startled to behold King Thranduil and his three sons practically running out of the cell.

“The prisoner has escaped!” the Crown Prince all but shouted into Malaithlon’s face. “Search the other cells! Now!”

The Captain of the Guard froze, and finally giving vent to his frustration, Girithron took the keys from Malaithlon. Followed closely by Hananuir and Legolas, the Crown Prince made short work of inspecting the other cells. They were all empty.

“They are gone!” Girithron called as the brothers returned to Thranduil, Malaithlon, and Gáthanar. The captain and guard had withered considerably under the Elven-King’s stern gaze.

“The palace must be searched!” Thranduil commanded with a severe look at Malaithlon. The Captain of the Guard remained immobile, but somehow Gáthanar revived himself enough to obey the king’s command. The guard ran down the hallway bellowing a rallying call to all and sundry.

“Girithron, organize some kind of search in the palace. Legolas—search the forest,” Thranduil ordered rapidly with a look of disgust at Gáthanar’s retreating back.

“They cannot have traveled far,” Hananuir asserted as the royal family moved past the stunned Malaithlon.

“Captain.” Thranduil turned back to speak to Malaithlon before the king rounded the corridor.

The Captain of the Guard found himself compelled to meet the eyes of his lord, despite his utter incapability of movement only moments prior.

 The Elven-King’s eyes snapped and his face was grim. “See to it that the prisoners are recovered. I expect your report this evening.” Without awaiting a reply, Thranduil turned the corridor, and Malaithlon was left alone.

The Captain of the Guard proceeded weakly into the open cell. There were neither signs of destruction nor any possible apertures that a dwarf could have used to escape. Malaithlon sank slowly to the floor.

The dwarf had simply vanished.

oooo

Thranduil was exhausted. The Elven-King rested his head in his hands and pressed his elbows deeper into the wood of his desk. He did not have enough patience for the events of the day. Rolling his shoulders, Thranduil amended his thought. No one had enough patience for the events of this particular day.

The dwarves were not in the Palace and neither were they in the immediate surrounds of the forest. Legolas had taken a patrol deeper into the forest, and his youngest son had yet to return with news of the prisoners.

Thranduil sighed deeply. He had managed to quarrel with both Girithron and Hananuir during the course of the day. Girithron was furious with the dwarves’ escape and advocated harsh punishments for the authority figures involved in the debacle. Thranduil was more lenient. Hananuir had succeeded in unnerving Thranduil’s entire Council with a diatribe regarding Sauron’s complicity in the dwarves’ escape. Thranduil had responded to both his sons with more anger than he would have wished to use, and the king did not relish the tense atmosphere among the family.

The king’s interview with Gáthanar had been draining. Despite Girithron’s suppositions to the contrary, Thranduil was also furious at the dwarves’ escape. Especially because the king could not fathom how it had been achieved without outside help. Thranduil was astonished that a guard could be so totally irresponsible as Gáthanar had been. However, the Elven-King’s wrath was somewhat cooled by the pathetic remorse of the chastised guard in question.

Gáthanar was hiding his tears, but they were evident in the quavering voice with which he spoke. “Let me give my life in the attack upon Dol Guldur, my lord,” Gáthanar had begged. “This way will I die knowing that I have served you in some small way.”

Biting back the sharp reprimand that had come to mind, Thranduil had denied the guard’s plea. The Elven-King had been satisfied to strip Gáthanar of his rank, relegating him to a status even below novices.

“You will remain in the Palace for the last defense,” Thranduil had ordered. “See to it that you do not abandon your comrades when the hour grows dark.”

By the time Malaithlon materialized to report to the king, Thranduil’s anger had dissipated to disappointment.

The Captain of the Guard had been subdued. He hung his head and refused to meet the king’s eyes. “I have failed you, my lord, in every aspect of my duty. I am ashamed to call myself ‘captain’. Take from me, I beg, the charge of service that you had the generosity to bestow on my unworthy self. I ask your leave to depart.”

Thranduil had known Malaithlon for centuries, and the king knew of the captain’s unswerving loyalty and total devotion to his house and family. Malaithlon did not often make mistakes and never had his faith in a guard been so misplaced. Thranduil knew that in this case, nothing he could say would punish Malaithlon more than that captain’s own regretful thoughts.

It had taken the Elven-King the better part of an hour to convince Malaithlon that he must keep his rank. By the time a subdued yet grateful captain had left the throne room, Thranduil was enjoying a rare headache. From the moment of his discovery of the prisoners’ escape that morn to his last conversation with Malaithlon, the Elven-King had not stopped resolving problems. He had eagerly sought the refuge of his study only to sit and review the frustrating day.

A timid knock roused Thranduil from his somber thoughts. “Enter,” he said wearily.

Without looking at the king, Galion shuffled into the room. He stood before Thranduil’s desk and did not speak.

The Elven-King raised his brows at the butler’s demeanor, as Galion was not one to succumb to the myriad disappointments of life. “Galion, is aught amiss?” Thranduil asked gently.

The silence stretched between them as Galion did not respond immediately, and the king did not press him. Finally, the butler heaved a sigh from the depths of his being and turned to regard the king. In his countenance, Thranduil read shame. “My lord,” the butler began softly, “I have aught I must relate to you, though my heart trembles and my mind rebels.”

Shaking the last of his weariness from his shoulders, Thranduil straightened in his chair. “Take a chair, Galion. I would hear you.”

The butler shook his head briefly and remained standing. “My lord, it…’twas I, my lord, who allowed for the prisoners to escape.”

The words lay heavily in the air, and the Elven-King regarded his butler in mild shock. “Exactly how could you be responsible? As I recall, were you not organizing a feast that night?”

Once again, Galion denied the statement. “Thus was I charged, yet this I did not do. In the early eve, I went down to the cellars…to receive the wine.” The butler paused.

A series of conclusions from this statement flashed through Thranduil’s mind. Firmly dismissing these conjectures until Galion had confirmed them, the king indicated for the butler to continue.

“As is customary, I sampled the wine to ensure the vintage was fit for your tables. However, I…there was another who sampled with me,” he finished hurriedly.

Thranduil met Galion’s eyes. “Gáthanar,” the king stated without preamble.

The butler closed his eyes and nodded. “’Twas I, my lord, who offered him the drink, and I who sought not to curb his enjoyment. Never had he tasted Dorwinion and little did he know of its potency. We drank til slumber overcame us.” Galion confessed reluctantly.

Thranduil’s jaw tightened as he digested this information. So the incompetent guard had slept through the prisoners’ escape. The Elven-King frowned. The mystery had deepened. “How long did you sleep?” he inquired evenly.

Galion blushed. “I was roused by the guard’s who came down from the feast to dispose of the empty barrels. ‘Twas full dark, I believe, perhaps ere midnight. I…allowed Gáthanar to sleep on.”

“Who were the guards?” Thranduil demanded.

“Faervel, Belton, Thorchanar and Túgnir. They can corroborate my tale.”

The king waved his hand dismissively. “My trust in you has been shaken, but not broken. I need hear no others to believe your words.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galion whispered.

“So the barrels were disposed of?” Thranduil prompted.

“Aye, my lord, in the same manner as is customary. I admit to…feeling the ill effects of drink, but I remained with the guards throughout their labor. We parted upon completion of the task, and I must confess to having sought my quarters.”

“And Gáthanar slept on?”

“As far as I know, my lord. I saw him no more.” Galion hung his head.

Thranduil stared in the middle space as he contemplated Galion’s narrative. Gáthanar’s absence was now explained, but this shed no light on the manner in which the dwarves managed to unlock their cell doors, escape the palace, and return the keys without exciting elven attention. The Elven-King frowned. True, his people had been merrymaking and the wine had flowed freely. However, Thranduil would eat his staff if one dwarf, never mind thirteen, had managed to so much as tiptoe past an elf, even in a state of drunkenness, and evade detection. Thranduil turned his eyes back to his butler, and the lines around the king’s mouth softened.

“As much as I wish that you had not issued the invitation, Galion, I find no cause to blame you for the prisoners’ escape.”

Galion lifted his head in amazement. “My lord, I came to beg your pardon, for had I not—”

“We cannot arrive at those conclusions, my old and faithful friend. I see no correlation between your actions and the dwarves’ escape.” The Elven-King spoke from the sincerity of his heart, and as the words escape him, Thranduil felt the levity that comes with acting justly enter his being.

Galion blushed again. “Thank you, my lord. I am unworthy.”

“Nay, I wish not to enter upon this conversation,” Thranduil admonished teasingly. “I am depending upon you in my absence, Galion,” the king said suddenly serious.

“I shall not fail you again, my lord,” Galion swore with utter conviction in his eyes.

Thranduil nodded in satisfaction and dismissed the butler. Despite the gravity of the situation, he could not resist smiling as the mental picture of an inebriated Galion entered his thoughts. Thranduil chuckled, but immediately sobered, as his eyes lit upon a map on the wall that highlighted the southern half of the forest. The Elven-King narrowed his eyes slightly as he contemplated the marking that read Dol Guldur.

How could it be, he mused, that Sauron had utilized some dark and secret magic to help the dwarves escape? In his many and varied encounters with the Enemy, Thranduil was long familiar with the taint that evil carried and abandoned in its wake. There was always a particular feel to darkness, a presence in the mind and in the heart. Yet the Elven-King had felt neither stirrings of danger nor portents of shadow during the night’s festivities. Nor had he experienced warning signs when speaking with the dwarves personally. Surely, there would have been some slight presentiment, even a shiver of perception, which he would have noticed and whose warning he would have heeded. And yet, Thranduil and his brethren had remained blind, almost as if an invisible hand had stretched forth and snatched the dwarves without the barest whisper of a sound.

The Elven-King sighed deeply as he returned to himself. He would not forget this conundrum, but neither could he dwell on it to the exclusion of all other matters. The day had been brazen evidence of this fact as last-minute details of the attack had accosted the king without mercy.

A flicker of doubt pierced Thranduil’s heart. Was this the right course of action? Would his decisions be deemed rash and foolhardy once enough time had passed for them to reflected upon? He had prepared his mind for death…for defeat…for ruin. The Elven-King stood abruptly. Nay, his mind told him firmly. This is the only course of action and I will take it courageously, without hesitation.

Thranduil rolled his shoulders and decided that the hour had grown late enough. He should seek rest ere daybreak. The king turned from his desk, and just then, there came another knock on the door.

Closing his eyes in resigned disbelief, Thranduil ground out the command to enter. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the grimly determined face of Ivanneth.

“Thranduil.” His advisor greeted him informally. “I debated whether I would talk to you on this matter this night or wait til the morrow. I have sworn my loyalty and allegiance to you, and so I will speak as my heart bids me.”

Taken aback by the urgency in his advisor’s tone, Thranduil sat once again behind his desk. “Then I bid you speak quickly, long trusted counselor. What matter so weighs upon you?”

“I will fight,” Ivanneth said simply.

The Elven-King stared at the fire in Ivanneth’s eyes and was lost for words. “Fight?” he found himself repeating dumbly. “Yet the oath you had sworn?” Thranduil regained his composure as his advisor’s unprecedented statement fully bore down upon his mind. Ivanneth had sworn to never raise blade or spear nor draw arrow since the fall of Gondolin.

A thin smile graced the otherwise marble face of the king’s advisor. “It is precisely my oath which bids me fight. You were not there, Thranduil, when I made this promise, and so you did not hear the words that I spoke. Though I have related them to you.”

The Elven-King frowned slightly as he attempted to recall the exact phrase which, centuries before, Ivanneth had presented to him as the unbreakable vow of his refusal to participate in any military campaign. “I will raise no blade, heft no spear, nor draw any arrow in vengeance of my kin…” Thranduil pronounced slowly and trailed off as he found the last few words were vague in his memory. He regarded his advisor expectantly.

“Until I may challenge the Dark One himself and crush him forever,” Ivanneth finished with triumph.

Thranduil felt himself pale somewhat as he regarded the usually placid elf before him. No longer stood a tranquil source of quiet wisdom. Now, the king saw a warrior, fell and burning with a long-festering desire for vengeance. And this elf before him awoke in Thranduil the steely valor, which had driven the king to dole out death to his enemies.

The Elven-King rose and walked to stand before his advisor. Thranduil reached and clasped Ivanneth’s hand as warriors salute each other in mutual companionship. No words were necessary. Ivanneth departed in silence.

Once again alone, Thranduil remained standing in front of the door for a long moment. He felt stronger and more alert than in weeks prior. Victory would be theirs—and if Sauron proved invincible, if his orcs proved too many, and his traps too cunning—then Thranduil would die with all the glory of an ancient people’s legacy.

A knock sounded on the door. His mind no longer dwelling in the petty trivialities of the day, Thranduil evinced no surprise that yet another sought to speak with the king. “Enter,” he commanded, moving behind his desk.

A fair-haired elf slipped quickly into the room and bowed his head to his king.

“Legolas,” Thranduil greeted his son warmly. “Late is the hour.”

“Aye,” Legolas agreed ruefully as he settled himself into a chair.

“Well?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, though his son’s dejected demeanor was answer enough.

“Absolutely no sign of them, Adar. It cannot be!” Legolas threw up his hands in frustration.  “I divided the patrol, sending a group to the eastern edge of the forest, and then again north. I myself went as far west as should be possible for dwarves, and then again south, and we found nothing!”

Thranduil raised a hand to pacify his son. “Peace, Legolas. There is a deep mystery here that puzzles me exceedingly. Those dwarves were aided by some higher power, and so their limits must extend beyond what normal dwarves can and will do.”

Legolas grunted. “I sent a trio northwards, as far as Lake Town. It occurred to me men may find what elves have lost.”

Thranduil shrugged noncommittally. “As you wish. ‘Twould be the first time, I imagine,” he concluded acerbically.

His youngest heaved a sigh. “Forgive me if I acted rashly, but truly—”

“Nay, I am not reprimanding your decision, ion nín. Perhaps the strangest course will prove the most rewarding,” Thranduil mused. “Never before have prisoners escaped my halls, much less thirteen dwarves of all creatures, so I am at a loss with advice. Let it be as you have done.”

Nodding wearily, Legolas cast his gaze about the room. Barely a moment passed before the prince rose in frustration and began to pace the room. “I simply cannot understand it, Adar! The forest is completely undisturbed! Not a single track, broken twig, or trampled bush! ‘Tis unnatural!”

“Aye,” Thranduil agreed seriously and rose. He closed the distance between them and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “That much is clear to me. Put it from your mind—as best you can,” the king amended as Legolas raised both eyebrows at his father. “Your mind must be clear to focus on our attack.”

Legolas looked away for a moment. “Aye, my lord,” he said formally.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said warningly. He would not be appeased by half-hearted formality.

His son sighed. “I will turn my heart and mind fully upon the attack, Adar, but do not expect me to forget this.”

“I expect no such thing from a son of mine,” Thranduil replied warmly. He smiled as the tension in Legolas’s face subsided. “Come.” He opened the study door and gestured down the hallway. “The morrow will arrive far too quickly.”

oooo

A/N: Yes, my friends, you read that correctly up at the top: this chapter is indeed the end of this particular fic. Before you freak out at me though, know that there will ABSOLUTELY be a sequel. My original intention in beginning this story was to write my version of the elven perspective on the events in The Hobbit. As everybody knows, those events are FAR from over. Unlike Mr. Jackson, however, I am not trying to milk this for all it’s worth, but I really do feel that the upcoming chapters deserve a story of their own, separate from this interlude. The next story will be all about The Battle of the Five Armies. Oh yeah, bigtime warfare. And I really want to be able to update the next fic on a more regular basis. SO I am going to try and write as much of it as I can in the next couple of months, and then begin posting with less time between updates. Hopefully, that’ll make for a more enjoyable read for everybody. I don’t want to make any promises though, since I’ve recently signed my life away in my new career path. Though, really, it’s gonna happen.

I want to take up some more of your time and ask for a review (pretty please?) Now that the story is complete, I am dying to hear opinions/likes/dislikes (politely of course). I know some readers wait until a story is complete before reviewing, so now’s your chance! Of course, I want to say an enormous THANK YOU to those dedicated readers who have stuck with me since the beginning and have reviewed. I hope that the story has gotten better (I think my writing has at any rate!) So, without more rambling from me, THANK YOU TO:

Fiondil

eiluj

ellie

Larner

Agape4Gondor

demeter d

obsidian

rikwen

Your words literally made my day on several occasions!

~Estel_Mi_Olor

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Warriors

Captain Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Guards

Belton

Brastor

Círdir

Faervel

Gáthanar

Glíchon

Losdir

Thorchanar

Túgnir

TRANSLATIONS:

Adar: father

Ion nín: my son

Muindor: brother

Naugrim: literally “stunted people,” derogatory Elven name for Dwarves