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See the Stars  by daw the minstrel

 

1.  A Troubled Homecoming

 

Spring came late to Mirkwood that year.  Indeed, there had been moments when Eilian had feared that the shadow hovering ever more darkly over his home would keep the spring from ever arriving again.  But shadow or no, Arda turned slowly toward the sun, and at last the winter gave way.  Pale buds now showed on the trees through which Eilian and his two companions galloped on their way to the fortress of Mirkwood’s king, Thranduil Oropherion.

 

As they drew nearer to the Woodland King’s Hall, dwellings began to appear in the trees and on the ground on either side of them.  The three Elves did not slow their pace, however, for, accompanied by the guards that were always necessary in Mirkwood now, Eilian was answering a summons from the king himself and such a summons was never to be taken lightly, even by the king’s son.  Moreover, they were all three glad to be seeing home again, for they had spent the last six months on patrol to the south, as far as the Mountains of Mirkwood and sometimes even the Old Forest Road.  There the giant spiders were thick, and Orcs formed an ever present threat. No warrior of the southern patrol ever took returning home for granted.

 

The three rode to the gates of the Woodland King’s fortress as the afternoon sun began to slip west. Before them rose the great doors of the cave that formed Thranduil’s home and the safe haven of his people in times of attack. 

 

Servants ran to take their horses, and the three warriors wearily dismounted.  Eilian turned to other two.  Maltanaur was of Thranduil’s generation.  He had served as Eilian’s mentor when the prince had first joined the southern patrol nearly forty years ago.  During the last few years, as Eilian had accepted his right of command and assumed more of the responsibility for leading the southern patrol, he had valued Maltanaur’s counsel more than that of any other Elf with whom he served.  In contrast, he and Gelmir had been friends from the time they were elflings, and Eilian took great comfort in serving with someone who had known him so well for so many years.

 

At the moment, both of his companions looked eager to be off.  Maltanaur had a new grandchild, Eilian recalled.  He did not know the source of Gelmir’s eagerness.  Likely, his friend was simply reluctant to risk being present when Eilian met with his father.  Gelmir had witnessed Thranduil’s temper first hand when he and Eilian had engaged in childhood escapades together, and the experience had left Gelmir permanently wary of the royal presence.

 

“Go,” Eilian said somewhat ruefully.  “I will let you know how long we will be here after I meet with my father.”  The two sketched hasty bows and, as they departed, Eilian found himself gripped from behind in a bear hug that knocked the breath out of him.

 

“Brother!” The cry could only come from the hearty lungs of Ithilden, Crown Prince of Mirkwood, who at the moment appeared intent on smothering his younger brother.  “So you have escaped the spiders again.  You must have run very fast.”

 

Laughing, Eilian struggled free of Ithilden’s grasp and turned to club his brother on the shoulder and then exchange the clasped forearms of Elven warriors.

 

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

 

“Of course I missed you.  I had no one to pummel when events became too annoying.”

 

“Can you not pummel Legolas?” Eilian inquired as they moved across the bridge over the river that ran through the middle of the green and toward the doors of the hall.

 

“He is still too small to make a good target.  It will not be long though,” Ithilden admitted.  “I am a bit worried that he will turn out taller than I am.  He is growing like frog weed in a summer rain.”

 

Eilian thought it unlikely that Ithilden had anything to worry about.  Like their father and Eilian himself, the Crown Prince was tall, but unlike Eilian, Ithilden also shared Thranduil’s broad shoulders, and the power that most Elves hid in a slender build was obvious at a glance.

 

The brothers entered the ante-chamber of their father’s Hall. Despite its location in a cave, Thranduil’s great fortress was usually considered beautiful.  It had been shaped to imitate the fortress of Thingol; it was lit within by lamps of crystal, and its surfaces were carved all about with leaves and vines and tree branches, to comfort the Elves who dwelled there for the loss of their woodland dwellings. To Eilian’s mind, though, the palace was still a cave. Elves were not meant to live underground. Wood Elves in particular were attuned to nature and suffered when cut off from it. Every time he entered his home, Eilian resented anew the evil that plagued Mirkwood and made the cave dwelling necessary.

 

As they approached Thranduil’s Great Hall, the guards flung the doors open.  As usual in the late afternoon, most of the crowd that attended on and sought audience from the king had dispersed.  Only one courtier and a scribe stood before the King of Mirkwood, who was engrossed in the scroll, the details of which they were explaining.  At the sound of the herald announcing his sons’ names, Thranduil looked up with a welcoming smile.  In the formal setting of the Great Hall, Eilian and Ithilden both dropped to one knee at some distance from the throne, but their father motioned them to their feet and came forward to greet them, clasping arms with Eilian.

 

“It is good to see you home again whole, my son,” he said.

 

As always, Eilian felt the pressure of his father’s forceful presence.  The King of Mirkwood’s power was not merely physical, but also rooted deep in his determined personality. Strangers might regard his handsome features, his elegant clothes, or the jewels he always wore on his fingers or at his throat and briefly think him effeminate, but one long stare from Thranduil’s hard grey eyes would quickly scatter any such idea.  It sometimes seemed to Eilian that his father held the shadow at bay from Mirkwood by the sheer, frightening force of his will.

 

“We have been awaiting your arrival for several days,” Thranduil told him.

 

Eilian felt the familiar burn of resentment that flared so often in his interactions with his father.  Thranduil was chary with praise and quick to find fault in his sons.  Eilian loved his father and knew his father loved him and his two brothers, but he frequently found his father maddening.  The friction between them was one of the reasons that Eilian preferred to patrol at some distance from home, though if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he also drew energy from the ever present danger.

 

“I came as quickly as I could, Adar,” he said evenly.  “We had moved camp, and your message reached us only two days ago.”

 

Thranduil nodded, accepting the explanation.  “We have serious matters to discuss, but I must finish this business now.” He waved toward the patiently waiting attendants.  “Perhaps it would be best to wait until the morning when we are rested. Tonight we will celebrate your arrival.  Ithilden, we need you to look at these supply numbers.”  He turned back to take up the scroll again, dismissing Eilian.

 

Eilian bowed and left the Great Hall only to be pounced upon by Legolas, who had obviously been waiting for him.  “The groom said that you were back, Eilian,” he cried.  “I did not even know that you were coming until yesterday. Adar and Ithilden never tell me anything,” he finished resentfully.

 

Eilian hugged him affectionately.  He saw what Ithilden meant about the youngling’s growth.  The top of his head was already at Eilian’s eye level and he had not yet reached his full height.  At the moment, he had the lanky form that comes when the young grow quickly and would probably be built more like Eilian than Thranduil.  With his father, though, he shared the blond hair that was rare in Mirkwood.

 

“How are you, brat?”  He flicked his finger at the bow that Legolas held. “Are you getting any better at this?”  He had seen Legolas shoot the last time he was home and knew that, unbelievable as it seemed, his little brother could already best him, but he was certainly not going to admit that.

 

The calm demeanor with which Legolas received the insult suggested that perhaps he knew his own strength without being told.  “I have been practicing shooting from horseback.  Penntalion says that I need to improve my balance when leaning and shooting to my right.” It was almost impossible to get Legolas to react to teasing about his skill with weapons.  When it regarded his warrior training, he was intent and serious to an extent that was almost disturbing, even in the increasingly besieged realm of Mirkwood.

 

The two walked toward the family’s private wing.  “How long will you stay this time?”

 

“That will depend on Adar,” Eilian answered.  “He has not yet told me what he requires of me.”

 

“Is it true that the southern patrol defeated an army of Orcs riding wargs last month?” Legolas demanded eagerly.

 

Eilian grimaced.  “I would not call it an army,” he answered. “Orcs are too disorganized to merit that title.  But they were riding wargs.”  He sighed. The encounter had been an unpleasant one.  “Come and talk to me while I bathe,” he invited.  “I want to hear all about what has occurred while I have been away.”

 

Legolas made a face. “I can not.  I promised my tutor that I would translate a passage of Dwarvish before tomorrow morning. If I do it now, I will not miss any of the fun tonight.” With that, he was off toward the library.

 

Looking forward to the evening’s celebration, Eilian ambled toward his chamber.  A long soak in a hot bath sounded deeply inviting after life in a warriors’ camp.  There would be plenty of time before dinner.

 

Dinner that evening was sumptuous as, with typical Elven enthusiasm for a celebration, the household seized on his arrival as an excuse for a feast.  Tables were set up in the open green outside the doors of the cavern and roasted venison was plentiful along with fruit that had been preserved from the previous fall and the first spring shoots of asparagus.  Eilian particularly relished the fresh bread and honey, both luxuries unavailable to warriors on patrol.  Accustomed to living for weeks on lembas and whatever game he and his companions could bring down while they were on the move, he found the food almost decadent.

 

When the feasting was done, the tables were moved aside and Elves made themselves comfortable around low burning fires, listening to the minstrels or raising songs of their own.  Eilian reclined next to Legolas on a rug spread on the grass, listening half to the music and half to Legolas’s account of the problems one of Thranduil’s patrols had recently encountered as they attempted to drive giant spiders away from the path that formed the only safe means of travel to the west.  A large pack of wargs had unexpectedly appeared and the Elves had been lucky to escape with only minor injuries. Legolas was scornful of the patrol’s failure to know that the wargs were in the area, claiming that they must have been insufficiently cautious.  Eilian privately thought that his brother was probably right, although he could not imagine how experienced Mirkwood warriors could have been so careless.  He said nothing to Legolas, though.  In another ten years or so, when Legolas joined the Mirkwood warriors, he would have to respect the authority of those in command.  Encouraging him to think that he knew better than his elders was an invitation to disaster.

 

Scanning the crowd, Eilian found Ithilden off to one side in the shadows.  Unexpectedly, he was deep in conversation with a maiden who, Eilian recalled, was the daughter of one of the palace healers.  Alfirin, was that her name?  That was certainly a new development.  Ithilden was considerably older than his two brothers.  He had been born in a time of war, and indeed had been conceived because in such difficult times even an Elven king needs an heir.  The agelessness of Elves is no defense against a sword.  Thranduil and Lorellin had then waited until the time of the Watchful Peace to bring Eilian into the world, and Eilian rather thought that Legolas’s birth had been an act of defiance thrown in the teeth of the returning enemy.

 

Ithilden had spent years patrolling Mirkwood and then commanding its forces from the field.  He had only recently begun to spend most of his time in Thranduil’s halls, retaining command of Mirkwood’s forces but also relieving Thranduil of some matters of governance.  If Ithilden were actually courting a maiden, Thranduil would be thrilled.  Elves usually married young, and Ithilden was well past the age when his father would have seen him settled. Eilian glanced over at his father, who sat in a raised chair at the head of the green, to see if he had noticed the pair. Thranduil was dressed in a long formal robe of green tonight and wore his crown of spring flowers.  Seated next to him, there was a slim, dark-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. As Eilian watched, Thranduil leaned over to speak into her ear.

 

“Who is that next to Adar, Legolas?” he interrupted.

 

Legolas glanced over at Thranduil and scowled.  “It is Galenadiual, Naneth’s cousin.  Do you not recognize her?  You brought her here the last time that you were home.”

 

Of course.  How could he have forgotten?  Six months ago, he and his patrol had rescued Galenadiual and her serving maid from an Orc attack on a manor near the north edge of their patrol area. Galenadiual was some sort of cousin to Eilian’s deceased mother.  Her husband had recently been killed, and she had written to Thranduil seeking his protection.  In turn, Thranduil had sent a message asking the southern patrol to check on the manor. They had been on their way to carry out the request when they had seen the smoke in the distance.  They had ridden into the manor’s clearing to find an Orc attack in full progress.  The patrol had made short work of the attack but had found only the two women still alive, and the manor house had burned to the ground.  Eilian had brought the two of them back to his father’s hall. As Legolas said, that mission had been the occasion of his last visit home.

 

Now that he looked, he could see that Galenadiual was one of the women they had rescued.  The last time Eilian had seen her, her appearance had been marred by terror and exhaustion.  Six months’ of safety in Thranduil’s hall had worked a remarkable change.  Indeed, in her current guise, Galenadiual looked a great deal like Eilian’s mother.  She even wore her hair in the same way Lorellin had done.  She and his father certainly looked friendly, Eilian thought.  He glanced at Legolas, who was still scowling in their father’s direction.  “Do you not like her?” he asked neutrally.

 

“She does not belong here,” Legolas answered sharply.  “She and her maid are still staying in family quarters’ guest chambers,” he added, in a manner that suggested more than he was saying.

 

Before Eilian could pursue the matter, a hush fell over the assembled Elves as Thranduil’s minstrel rose to sing. Even among Elves who were almost all musical themselves, Thranduil’s minstrel was much admired. The song was one Eilian had not heard before, and the minstrel had probably written it himself, although it was far more melancholy than any song that Eilian had ever before heard in his father’s court.  It spoke not of love, nor did it retell any of the old legends.  Instead, it told of the troubles that were increasingly returning to Mirkwood, after the Watchful Peace had been shattered by the return of the shadow.  It ended in words that chilled Eilian’s heart:

 

Tauron, Lord of Forests,

 

Come with your hot, bright anger

 

And crush my enemies

 

That I may again see the forest floor

 

Splashed with pools of moonlight.

 

Those I love are choking in the darkness.

 

Alas! Alas! I cannot see the stars.

 

Eilian lay back on the rug and looked at the sky.  “I can still see the stars,” he thought rather desperately. “I can.”

 





        

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