I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain only the enriched imaginative life I assume he hoped I would gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

2.  Struggling with Weapons

“Watch your bow hand, Legolas,” said the archery master.  “Move your little finger out further.”  Obediently, Legolas adjusted the grip of his bow hand.  “Go!” called Penntalion, and Legolas ran the twenty feet to where the other students in his class were standing, firing down the training field at the target as he went.

“Good!” Penntalion approved, and Legolas could see for himself that his arrow had hit the target’s center ring.  He frowned a little, moving his bow hand experimentally and trying to think if he had been letting its angle drop lately.

“That is enough for today,” Penntalion told them.  “Retrieve your arrows before you go. You can leave the target there for the next class.”  He left his own gear where it lay and walked off toward the water bucket that stood on the edge of the training field.  Legolas started toward the target, walking between Annael and Turgon.

“When are you coming to work on the flet?” Annael asked.

“As soon as my lessons are over,” Legolas answered.  Annael nodded. He and Turgon had lessons this afternoon too, although theirs were usually over before Legolas’s were.

“What did your adar say about sleeping on it?” Turgon asked, pulling his arrow from the target’s outer ring. He frowned at it, as if it had failed him deliberately.

Legolas scowled, jerking his own arrow from the center ring.  “He has not said yes yet, but I will ask him again.”  He could not believe that his father would forbid him to sleep on a flet only thirty feet from Annael’s cottage.  He would explain all that as soon as he had the chance, and surely Thranduil would change his mind.

“You could probably do it even if your adar says no,” Turgon said practically.  “You could just tell him you were sleeping in Annael’s cottage.”

“No,” said Legolas firmly. “I cannot lie to him.  He does not like it, and I do not like it either.”

Turgon shrugged. “I was only saying that you could do it.  I would if I were you and my adar was so unreasonable.”

Annael rolled his eyes. “Your adar never stops you from doing anything, Turgon, so it is easy for you to say what you would do.  I want a drink before we go,” he added, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. The day was hot, and Legolas found that he was thirsty too.

The three of them started toward where Penntalion stood near the water bucket, drinking from the dipper and talking to a maiden who was the sister of one of their classmates, an amiable Elf named Tonduil.  Legolas recognized her. She was the healer’s daughter, the one he and Ithilden had met on their way home yesterday.  He had seen her often at the infirmary and knew that her name was Alfirin.

Legolas stopped a short distance from the water bucket, feeling it would impolite to interrupt the archery master, and Annael hovered at his elbow.   Turgon moved in close, however, and Penntalion saw him, handed over the dipper with a smile, and then moved off a short distance to talk to Alfirin some more.

Tonduil was shifting from one foot to the other as he waited for her. He smiled tentatively at Legolas and his friends, and Legolas smiled back. He did not know Tonduil very well, but he seemed nice enough, and Legolas liked having friends his own age.  They were interested in the same things he was, and unlike his family, they talked to him as if they thought he had opinions that were as good as theirs.  Turgon passed the dipper to Annael, who took a long drink and then gave it to Legolas, who decided that lukewarm water was better than nothing and helped himself.

“What is happening over there?” Turgon asked, looking behind Legolas toward the other end of the training field.  Few things penetrated Legolas’s concentration when he had a bow in his hand, but he realized that since their class had ended, he had been half conscious that a stir had been underway for some time there.

He turned to look where Turgon was pointing and felt a sudden thrill.  Some of the senior warriors stood in a group there, and judging by the clang of swords and the presence of Ithilden’s master combat officer, they must be practicing their sword work.  With one accord, Turgon and Annael started trotting down the field toward the display, and Legolas dropped the dipper back into the bucket and ran after them.

As they drew near enough to see through the gaps in the small crowd that had gathering to watch the exercise, Legolas’s attention quickened, for he saw that one of the pair of warriors who were now battling was Ithilden.  Legolas did not know who the other warrior was, and he did not really care. He had eyes only for his brother, who, like his opponent, was dressed in light leather armor meant to protect him, for even a blunted practice sword could do damage when wielded with the speed and strength of Ithilden’s best troops.

At the moment, Ithilden and other warrior were circling one another warily, their blades in horizontal guard position, although both of them were also moving their swords up and down and side to side all the time, probing for an opening each other’s defenses.  They must have been fighting for a while, Legolas thought, because sweat was running freely down both their faces beneath their helmets.

Then, almost quicker than Legolas’s eye could follow, Ithilden thrust toward the other warrior’s mid-section, and when his opponent twisted sideways, he drew the blade back, trying to slash the other warrior’s side.  The other warrior was fast enough that he managed to get out of the way, and Ithilden barely got his sword back in position in time to parry the chop that the other aimed at his shoulder.  He shoved the other warrior’s sword to the side, and they broke apart again.

This time they did not circle, however, because Ithilden attacked again in a whirl of vertical and diagonal slashes that had the other warrior backing up and parrying, with no chance to launch an attack of his own before Ithilden suddenly varied his pattern and thrust under the other warrior’s guard to tap his sword against the other’s chest.  Both of them froze for a second, and then they lowered their swords with mutual grins and clouts on the shoulder, and the onlookers broke into a ragged round of applause.  Legolas let out an exultant cheer.

“Your brother is really good,” Annael said admiringly.

“He is indeed,” said Penntalion, who had come up behind them, still accompanied by Alfirin and Tonduil, who were both looking wide-eyed at Ithilden.  “Ithilden is not someone I would ever want to have to face on a battlefield.”  Legolas turned to grin at the archery master and then began edging his way through the crowd to where his brother stood, pulling off his helmet and leather armor.

***

Ithilden handed the armor to one of the watching warriors, and then dragged the sleeve of his tunic across his sweaty face.  The tunic itself was also soaked, for the leather armor had been stiflingly hot.  Accepting congratulations as he went, he walked toward the water bucket, where he scooped up water to pour over his head.  Then he unbuckled his belt and dragged off his tunic and his thin undertunic, wiping himself off with them as best he could. Calith appeared at his elbow.  He handed his aide the sweaty clothes, and Calith disappeared to exchange them for a spare tunic that Ithilden kept in his office for just such situations.

“You were wonderful, Ithilden!” cried a familiar voice, and he looked around to find Legolas beaming at him.

“Thank you.”  He smiled at his little brother, surprisingly gratified by his obvious admiration.  Legolas’s friend Annael stood shyly just behind him with an equally appreciative look on his face.  On the other hand, his friend Turgon was fiddling with the practice swords that were slotted into the nearby rack.  “Leave those alone, Turgon,” Ithilden said sharply, and the child jumped and jerked his hand away from them.

“I was only looking,” he protested.  Legolas frowned at Ithilden, who sincerely wished that Legolas and Turgon would have some sort of quarrel that would drive them apart forever.

Unexpectedly, he caught a glimpse of a long, thick braid, and he realized that Alfirin stood not ten feet away, talking to Penntalion with her back to Ithilden.  It was uncommon, although not unheard of, to see maidens at the training fields, and he had never seen Alfirin here before.  The archery master was smiling down into her upturned face.  With a fierceness that startled him, Ithilden felt an overwhelming stab of jealousy.  Without pause for thought, he walked toward the pair.  Penntalion looked up, and Alfirin turned to him.

“Good match, my lord,” said the archery master.

“Thank you,” Ithilden said stiffly. “I believe you have a class waiting for you.”

Penntalion flushed slightly and glanced back down the training field to where a group of novices awaited him.  “Yes, my lord,” he said, and with a nod to Alfirin, he started back toward them.  Ithilden was immediately ashamed of himself.  Penntalion was one of his warriors, and Ithilden had just come very close to bullying him.

Alfirin looked puzzled and a little startled by the exchange. She turned to look Ithilden full in the face, and then her eyes traveled downward and he became aware that he was stripped to the waist and was wearing only snuggly fitted leggings. He felt himself blushing, an event so rare he could not remember the last time it had happened.  The youngling who had been standing nearby took Alfirin’s hand and tugged it.  “Come on,” he begged. “I want to have time to swim before mid-day meal.”

Alfirin raised her eyes to Ithilden’s, and it seemed to him that her face too was reddened, although perhaps that was only due to the heat.  “I bid you good day, my lord,” she said, and before he could respond, she had turned and walked off with the child who evidently was her brother.

Calith reappeared and handed him a clean tunic, which he absently pulled over his head, still staring after the maiden.  “Are you coming home for mid-day meal?” Legolas asked, handing him his belt, holding it a little awkwardly because it was wrapped around his sheathed sword, which was too long for Legolas to handle easily.  Ithilden was surprised to realize that he was still nearby, looking a little hurt at the loss of his older brother’s attention.

“Yes, but it is not quite time yet,” Ithilden told him, reaching out to caress the blond head.  “You should go swimming too.  You have time, and you look hot.”

“I am,” Legolas admitted. Then he grinned. “I hit the center of the target every time today even though I was running while I fired. Penntalion says that I am doing very well, and he is helping me change how I hold my bow.”

Ithilden grimaced slightly.  Even his little brother seemed to be admiring the archery master today.  “Good,” he said, with what seemed to him to be heroic effort.

“Are you coming, Legolas?” called Turgon, and Ithilden looked up to see Legolas’s two friends waiting for him with obvious impatience.

“Go on,” he said. “I will see you at home in a little while.”  Legolas flashed him a grin and ran off with Turgon and Annael.

“My lord?” said Calith in a low voice, and Ithilden turned to him.

“Yes?”

“The master armorer is waiting in your office.  He wants to talk about the shipment of Dwarven weapons that has just arrived.”

Ithilden frowned and started walking back toward his office, dragging his mind back to his responsibilities. “Is something the matter?”

“Probably,” Calith answered.  “He looked worried.”

Ithilden strode through the door to find the armorer waiting and led him into his own office.  “You wanted to speak to me about the Dwarven weapons?” he asked, settling behind his desk and motioning the armorer into the chair.

Without speaking, the armorer unsheathed the sword he had been holding and laid it on Ithilden’s desk.  Ithilden slowly reached out and ran his finger along the narrow groove than ran the length of the blade.  “What is this?” he asked in dismay.  He had never seen such a groove in a sword before.

“The Men who brought it say that the Dwarves claim that the groove will make the sword lighter but will not weaken it,” the armorer said.

Ithilden looked up at him. “Do you believe that?”

The armorer lifted his hands helplessly. “I do not know. I can test it, but that will take time, and the Men want payment for the next shipment now or they say the Dwarves will not send it.”

Ithilden blew out his breath in exasperation. “I swear there are times when I think my father is right and dealing with the Dwarves is just too much trouble.”  He eyed the offending sword distastefully, trying to decide what to do.  His warriors needed the Dwarven weapons but there was no point in supplying them with weak swords.  He considered the question of what his father was going to say about the matter and flinched at the thought.  “Very well,” he finally said reluctantly.  “Test the swords of this design, and in the meantime we will have to withhold payment.  Be as quick as you can. See if the Men will wait here for however long you think it will take you to do it.”

“Yes, my lord.” The armorer reached for the sword, but Ithilden stopped him.

“I had better take this one to show to the king,” he said unhappily.

“Better you than me, my lord,” the armorer observed, and Ithilden smiled weakly at him.  The two of them had talked to Thranduil about buying Dwarven weapons, and the armorer knew how the king was likely to react to the sword on Ithilden’s desk. “I will get started testing the blades immediately,” the armorer said and left the room.

Ithilden looked at the grooved sword again.  If the Dwarves were being truthful, a lighter sword would allow his warriors to fight for a longer time without tiring.  He could feel himself beginning to hope and grimaced.  He would need to persuade his father to patience and that was always a difficult task.  He stood and picked up the sword, hefting it to test its weight.  The difference was not great, but it was certainly noticeable.  He slid it into its sheath, drew a deep breath, and started out of his office, carrying the sword.

“I will be back this afternoon, Calith,” he told his aide.

“My lord,” Calith said hesitantly, “there is something else I need to speak to you about before I can finish making up the list of warriors on leave this coming week.”

“What is it?” Ithilden asked impatiently. Now that he was on his way to speak to Thranduil, he did not like being delayed. The sooner he began this task, the sooner it would be over.

“You will recall that you decided that warriors would have to take leave whether they wanted to or not,” Calith said. He looked apprehensive but also faintly amused.

Ithilden nodded.  Warriors who did not take regular leaves eventually suffered for it, and he had decided that he could no longer tolerate their lack of care for their own well-being.

“I have been going over the lists,” Calith went on, “and I have found an officer who has not taken a leave in four years.”

“He will have to do it,” Ithilden declared, “and I do not care what excuse he has. Who is it?”

“You, my lord,” Calith said.

Ithilden stared at him open-mouthed and was irritated to realize that the aide actually seemed to be suppressing a grin.  “I cannot take a leave now,” he protested weakly.  Calith held his tongue and simply let his grin become open. Ithilden scowled at him. “You are enjoying this,” he accused.

Calith laughed outright.  “You need a leave,” he said.  “Let Deler run the day-to-day things for a week.  We can find you if we have to. For that matter, we can speak to the king. He did run the troops himself for years, you know.”

“I know,” said Ithilden in instant alarm.  He had worked too hard to gain control of what went on with the Realm’s forces to let Thranduil have it back now.  “Deler can manage, and I will keep you informed of where I am.” Deler captained the Home Guard and would be only too glad to go back to doing so after a week in Ithilden’s office.

“I will send word to Deler immediately,” Calith said cheerfully.  “Your leave will start in two days.”

“Thank you,” said Ithilden and was not surprised when Calith ignored the note of sarcasm in his voice.  As he left the building and started toward the palace, Ithilden was aware that his day had gone steadily downhill from the moment he had won the sword fight.  Given that he now had to speak to his father about the grooved sword, the idea did not cheer him. As strode along, he thought briefly about Alfirin and was vexed with himself for having stood gawping at her, tongue tied.  The unpleasant truth was that her presence reduced him to being slightly older than Legolas, and he did not like the feeling at all.  He spent an unhappy moment in picturing her talking to Penntalion, but then he crossed the bridge into the palace and put his personal concerns aside. He had responsibilities to attend to.

To his relief, he found his father just leaving the Great Hall.  Discussing the swords in the public space of the Hall would have been unpleasant.  “I need to speak to you before mid-day meal, Adar,” he said.  Thranduil gestured him into his office, and Ithilden laid the still-sheathed sword on his father’s desk. “The Dwarves have sent us swords of a different design,” he said, and then hastened on when his father’s brows drew together into a frown.  “They are lighter but are supposedly just as strong.  The armorer is testing the weapons before we pay the Men who delivered them.”

Thranduil reached impatiently for the sword, drew it, and then froze, staring at the grooved blade.  Then, color rising up his neck, he turned hard grey eyes on Ithilden. “Just what is it the Dwarves are playing at?”

“The armorer is testing the swords, Adar,” Ithilden repeated, forcing himself to sound calm in the hopes that his father would stay that way too.  “If they are not as strong as the others we have bought, we will send them back and demand that they be replaced with the swords to which we are accustomed. These are lighter though,” he added.

Thranduil tossed the weapon onto his desk with a clang.  “Of course they are lighter!  The Dwarves have skimped on the metal!”

“If they will not serve, we will insist on getting what we have asked for,” Ithilden said again. His own irritation was beginning to increase too.  In his opinion, Thranduil was much too quick to leap to the conclusion that the Dwarves were deceiving them.  Surely he could see that old grudges needed to be laid aside in the interests of the Realm’s warriors!

As if hearing something in Ithilden’s tone, his father sat for a moment, regarding Ithilden steadily, with his own angry face gradually becoming impenetrable.  Then he looked away briefly before focusing on Ithilden again. “We pay the greedy creatures in advance, as I recall.  We will get what we have already paid for and will buy no more until the armorer says we have received sound weapons,” he said, his voice still tight.

“Of course,” Ithilden assured him, relief flooding his system.  For the moment at least, the way remained open for the Dwarven weapons.  “Thank you, Adar,” he added.  He strongly suspected that his father was not at all convinced that dealing with the Dwarves was a wise idea, but had only made a difficult concession because Ithilden was asking him to. Despite his gratitude for the effort his father was making, Ithilden could not help but be exasperated at how stubborn Thranduil was.  He found that he wanted his father to do more than simply humor him; he wanted Thranduil to have to acknowledge that Ithilden had been right.

Thranduil rose, drawing Ithilden to his feet too.  “Legolas will be waiting for us,” he said and led the way to the dining room, where Legolas was, indeed, already seated.

He scrambled to his feet briefly until his father indicated he could sit again.  “You should have seen Ithilden sword fighting today!” he told Thranduil happily, taking a forkful of the roast duck that Thranduil had put on his plate.

Thranduil smiled and glanced at Ithilden.  “You were on the practice fields today?”

“Yes,” Ithilden said, amused at his little brother’s enthusiastic praise.  “I thought it was time to try my hand again and show the rest of them that I have not forgotten anything while I am sitting behind my desk.” He winked at Legolas, who smiled back.  “Perhaps I will spend next week training for a change.  My aide tells me I am due for a leave and am required to take it.”

Thranduil looked startled.  “Of course you are due for a leave. You are undoubtedly overdue. But surely you can think of something more relaxing to do than train.  That hardly sounds like a leave to me.”

Ithilden laughed.  “Perhaps I will go camping,” he said thoughtfully. The idea of time in the woods suddenly filled him with yearning. It had been a long time since he had been able to sleep quietly under the stars without watching for some creature of darkness. He would get away from everything: from maidens who reduced him to idiocy, from arguments with his father, from decisions to hold territory at the possible cost of injury and death to his warriors.

“That is an excellent idea,” said Thranduil approvingly.  “You need the time away.”

Across the table, Legolas’s eyes had grown huge. “Can I go?” he suddenly asked.  “Please, Ithilden, will you take me with you?”

“Legolas, Ithilden needs to relax,” Thranduil said reprovingly.

“I will not be any trouble, I promise!” Legolas begged.  “Please take me!  We could sleep outside. We could hunt.  I still have not killed my first deer.  Please, Ithilden?”

Ithilden looked at the eager young face.  Why not? he suddenly thought. Legolas needed attention, and maybe he could provide it.  He would get his little brother away from Turgon and perhaps be able to give him some of the guidance he so sorely needed.  “Of course you can come,” he said, watching with delight as Legolas’s face lit up. “I would be happy to have you along.”

“Are you sure?” asked Thranduil, who was looking a bit skeptical.

Ithilden grinned at his little brother, who looked ready to leap across the table and hug him. “Of course I am sure.  We will go the day after tomorrow.”  That would give him enough time to learn how the new swords had fared in the armorer’s tests, he thought.  He did not want to leave until that matter was settled.

“Thank you!” Legolas cried.   A sudden thought seemed to strike him. “I suppose you would not want Turgon and Annael to come,” he said tentatively.

“You suppose correctly!”

Legolas paused for only a moment and then smiled. “It will be more fun if it is just us anyway,” he said, and settled happily to his mid-day meal.