THE GOLDEN BELL OF GREENLEAF

Author: lwarren

Disclaimer: The Prince, the King and Arod (not to mention Ithilien and Middle-earth) belong to JRR Tolkien, drat it. I am only borrowing them for a time and promise to return them…eventually. I make no profit from this, but it sure is fun playing here!

Summary: Back home, and life returns to normal…sort of.

A/N: I do so apologize for the long delay in updating (stubborn muses…). I am completing this story NOW, although events seem to suggest a sequel will soon follow! LOL Thank you all who followed the story and reviewed…you will never know how much comfort and encouragement I gained from your kind words. Thank you again.

Chapter 21: Seasons of Change

Legolas slipped from his talan and walked quickly across the lawn to the great house. The sun had not yet risen, but he knew Lomelas always began an initial breakfast well before first light, as the replacements in some of the closer patrols were made frequently and had to be fed and provisioned before they departed on their assignments.

The newly returned Prince slowed a bit, lifting his face and breathing deeply of the earthy spice-filled scent of the forest even as he watched a pair of kingfishers pursue their morning meal with quick, splashing dives into the still water of a nearby pool.

He was to breakfast with Aravir and his lieutenants, receiving their formal reports at that time. Following that, his entire morning was over run with meetings…with his advisors…his staff…anyone and everyone within shouting distance wanted to see the Prince today.

The only one he was not meeting with was his adar. A fond smile replaced the pained expression for a moment as Legolas thought back to the day before. It was strange how just talking with his father had a way of putting things into perspective. He felt much steadier now; his rest the night before had been uninterrupted for the first time in days.

Legolas huffed quietly. It most definitely would not do to let his adar know that little bit of information. He had spent uncounted years establishing his independence and his father had grown, if not totally accepting, then at least resigned to letting his only child seek his own path.

Yet there were still times when Thranduil would subtly let him know of the place he still held in his son’s life. Take the evening of his homecoming, for instance. Legolas had been smugly proud of the way he had handled the ceremony and festivities. He had felt calm and in control, and everything had been proceeding smoothly until a freshening breeze had whisked through the trees surrounding the green, filling the air with the sighing, rustling susurration of the leaves. It had sounded like the sea – and he had been lost in a moment, staring into the darkness, stricken with the unexpected pain in his heart. His father had sensed his predicament somehow, and come up behind him silently, his strength a steady, warm presence that Legolas could not deny…had not the strength to deny.

Legolas recalled the rest of the encounter reluctantly. It had not been his finest moment. He had remained stubbornly stiff and silent, refusing to acknowledge his father’s presence. Moments passed uncomfortably, until his father had squeezed his shoulder once and walked away to rejoin the others. It was then he had felt the jolt of energy and strength imparted to him by his father with that simple touch. His skin still hummed from the contact hours later. Sneaky old ada. He had to admire his sire’s single mindedness…and appreciate the unconditional love from the elf who understood him better than he did himself.

Now, in light of the day ahead, he wished he could have snared his father into attending some of these interminable meetings with him. He had even asked him as they prepared to retire, but Thranduil had cocked one eyebrow at his son’s invitation and shaken his head – an emphatic NO. He was, he informed Legolas, going to sleep late (if one could consider dawn late), get up, eat a hearty breakfast, and go for a ride, after which…well, his father was not certain, but he was sure it involved a delicious luncheon and then a lengthy contemplation of some nearby trees.

Legolas groaned. His father was more than willing to help him with the sea’s call; meetings however, were ranked as one of the Dark Lord’s most abominable creations. As he had reminded his son, one must face one’s responsibilities head on… and if one was going to be absent from his duties for almost a year, one got what he deserved.

Thranduil had laughed at the outraged, guilty look on Legolas’ face at that reminder, and kissed his son on the forehead. “I believe I will forego the pleasure of your company until AFTER you have discharged your duties.” And the King had cheerfully wished him a restful night and gone off to bed.

Legolas grinned ruefully. Bless his adar…he had forgotten how quickly and efficiently Thranduil could cut through to the heart of the matter. Word had it from among his escort he planned to spend the winter in Ithilien. It would be good to have him around for awhile. Humming softly and preoccupied with the morning schedule, Legolas walked quickly through the terrace doors that led into the communal dining area, not noticing Aravir’s sister until he collided with her.

His hands shot out to steady her as he exclaimed, “Tasarien! Forgive me; I was not watching where I was going! Are you all right?”

Tasarien glanced up at him coldly, stepping back and standing stiffly at attention, as she replied flatly, “I am fine, Ernil Legolas.”

Legolas started at her tone and looked at her more closely. “Tasarien?” he inquired quietly.

“Your pardon, hir nin,” she stated shortly. “I am due in the stables.” She stepped around him and stalked away, her shoulders set in an attitude of angered affront.

Legolas watched her go thoughtfully. Since she had followed her brother to Ithilien twelve years before, she had been reserved, but friendly towards him in her quiet, shy way…always open and natural, not reacting overmuch to his rank and always, always accepting of his ‘affliction’. While some had looked at him in wary confusion, she and Aravir had made up part of the small group that sought to comfort him with their unquestioning support.

Legolas sighed. He had his suspicions about the cause of her unexpected and uncharacteristic behavior, but knew not how to resolve the matter. Valar! He did not have any idea how to even approach her about it! He slumped against the door facing, suddenly overwhelmed by his guilt and her rejection, when a strong hand grasped his shoulder and turned him around. Aravir examined his Prince’s wan face closely before his troubled eyes left to follow his sister’s progress toward the stables.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” he said softly.

Legolas smiled sadly. “She is angry with me.”

“Oh, not just with you, my lord,” Aravir replied, his chagrin obvious. “I told her you sent me home before you left for Lebennin and that I had disobeyed orders. She was not impressed.”

He shrugged. “Give her some time,” he said gently. “Once she sees I am not seriously affected by the call, she will calm down and see that her anger is misplaced.”

Legolas shook his head, hoping the captain’s optimism was warranted. “I hope so, Aravir.”

Aravir squeezed the tense shoulder reassuringly. “She will.”

Legolas gazed at him steadily. “No, Aravir. I hope YOU are right – that you will not be seriously affected by the call.”

“What will be, will be, hir nin. We may protest all we like and it will change absolutely nothing.” He clapped Legolas on the back. “Come along, my friend. Our meal and a multitude of reports await us.”

As he guided Legolas towards the appetizing smells drifting through the open doors of the dining hall, Aravir promised himself a private conversation with his little sister later, once his duties to the Prince had been satisfactorily completed.

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

Eloriel watched from a corner hallway as the two tall elves passed through the doors into the large room beyond. She sensed something was wrong – indeed, she had suspected all was not well the day of their return. The familiar tension in Legolas remained undiminished, but Aravir was…had felt…different. Then, the two had returned the next day from their excursion to Henneth Annun in a very subdued state, and with the exception of Thranduil, the others who had accompanied them had looked positively stricken.

This morning, she had watched Tasarien pick and poke at her favorite omelet and refuse the company of her usual friends. The brief confrontation between the normally even-tempered elleth and Legolas only heightened her suspicions.

Deep inside, she knew what that “something wrong” was, although she really did not wish to face it at this time. Especially if “it” now involved Aravir. Aravir! She clamped down on her shaky emotions, shying away from the thought of the tall, black-haired warrior.

Shaking her head, mentally chastising herself for acting a self-indulgent coward, she leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes. I have never backed away from a challenge before! Yes, her unruly heart countered, but such challenges have never before involved such a threat to him! Eloriel fought the quick rush of fear, commanding her quick mind to consider what might be done to offer additional aid and comfort to two of the most stubborn, secretive elves alive.

“When are you going to give him some hint of your feelings, Eloriel?”

The soft voice whispering in her ear startled her and she jumped, turning to find Aran Thranduil behind her, his deep gray eyes also fixed on the door she had been watching. Those eyes lowered to examine her knowingly, the King considering her flush of embarrassment and smiling slightly. Eloriel’s heart sank. There was no way on Arda she could possibly escape the coming…inquisition.

“No, you are not,” Thranduil said softly. She looked at him questioningly. “Going to escape.” Her heart sank a little further.

“Walk with me, child,” he ordered, taking her chilled hand and placing it on his arm in a gallant, courtly gesture that brought foolish tears to her eyes. Thranduil patted her hand gently, giving her time to regain her self-control as they walked along.

“Aravir is a good elf,” Thranduil mused as they strolled through one of the many side doors leading into the various courtyards. “Kind…intelligent…responsible to a fault…”

“Blind,” she interjected, finally finding her voice and a small measure of composure.

Thranduil chuckled. “Oh, yes indeed,” he agreed amiably. “He is most definitely blind. He would not dream than any elleth could look at him ‘that way’.”

She snorted softly; looking away from the King’s smiling face she studiously examined the last of the autumn flowers blooming in the small garden. Thranduil led her to a bench beneath a graceful, old beech tree. They sat silently for a time until the King spoke.

“He has lost much. He has lived his life since coming of age in memory of his parents and brothers, his grandparents, aunt and uncle. His constant battle against Shadow consumed him, Eloriel.”

“Just as his care of your son consumes him now,” she retorted unthinkingly. Suddenly recalling just who she was speaking to, she gasped and buried her face in her hands.

“Yes,” Thranduil said, placing an understanding hand on her shoulder. “It does…and I am so grateful…I cannot tell you how much.”

He stood suddenly and moved to the edge of the terrace, gazing blindly out across the gardens. “It has been difficult, as a father, to let my son go. For so long he was Legolas, son of Thranduil. I was content with that.”

He shrugged. “I did not want that to change.”

The King turned to face her again. “But life IS change, Eloriel…even if we do not wish it, it will come.”

He returned his gaze to the grounds as Eloriel rose and came to stand by him. “I am proud of all he has accomplished here. It is even more than I had hoped for him.”

He smiled at the elleth at his side. “For all of you.”

She nodded in understanding. The elves who had accompanied their Prince to Ithilien had come for various reasons, and in the long term, had ultimately found new purpose and a new home.

She drew a deep breath. “Do you truly believe I should pursue what I feel for Aravir, aran brannon?”

“I believe that now, above all else, he will need your strength and love to balance and anchor him here, Eloriel,” he replied, holding her gaze with his own. “You do know why?”

She nodded hesitantly. “I believe so, my lord.”

“And it makes no difference to you?”

She snorted softly. “Hardly, Aran Thranduil. Where the Captain is concerned, it is merely another challenge to be met.”

She glanced up at the King, her smile fierce. “I like challenges.”

Thranduil laughed softly and surprised her with a quick, fatherly hug. “Take care of them both, my dear.”

She touched his arm briefly in reassurance and comfort. “You may count on me, my lord.”

They reentered the house and as Eloriel left him to make her way to the kitchens, Thranduil called quietly. “Oh. And Eloriel?”

She stopped and looked back at the tall, imposing elf studying her so closely. “My lord?” she asked.

“Do send me an invitation to the betrothal, hmmm?”

She grinned. “Of course, sire.” Dropping a quick curtsey to the King, she left him smiling as she practically skipped off to attend to her morning duties.

~~~~*~~~~

Aravir considered himself an intelligent elf – logical, not given to flights of fancy or bouts of temper or melancholy. Balanced. As a leader of his lord’s warriors, he had always made it a habit of knowing those he worked with inside out, and of all the elves he had ever lived and worked with throughout his life, he felt he knew his sister the best.

He smiled wryly. His little sister…quiet, calm, more often than not shy Tasarien…she had a temper comparable to Mount Doom. And she had not reacted well yesterday to his revelation of his ‘heightened awareness’ of the sea. In fact, she had been unexpectedly angry.

“Heightened awareness?” she had hissed at him, her eyes blurred with tears. “Is that how you would describe it, brother? Couch it in such bland terms as to make it less threatening than it is?”

At his blank look, she had thrown up her hands in disgust and stormed off. Now, after crossing paths with her several times during the day since her morning confrontation with Legolas – she had pointedly ignored him each time – he could only conclude that there was trouble ahead. Yes, indeed, a storm was brewing.

Ai, there was no help for it. He was going to have to poke, prod, and pry the anger out of her. If he did not, it would only fester and churn and make her miserable…not to mention everyone around her.

He shrugged, sighing heavily as he looked up at the bright, sunlit sky. Yes, today seemed like a good a day to die. Aravir squared his shoulders. But first, he had to find her. He made the long trek to her talan. Empty, her possessions in telling disarray.

A quick trip to the stables revealed the stable master energetically grooming a young filly before releasing her to graze. In response to his question about Tasarien, Caladir had stared at him grimly before answering, “I sent her to eat, Captain. She is not fit company for elf or horse right now.”

“I see,” Aravir murmured before taking his leave of the fuming elf. And he did see – Tasarien in a snit was such a rare occurrence that everyone forgot just how unpleasant it could be.

He tracked her finally to a small table in an alcove off the main kitchen overlooking the fountain in the rose garden. Judging from the bits of straw still clinging to her tunic, she had managed to work part of her anger off in the stables before being banished. Now she sat alone, systematically shredding one of Lomelas’ sticky buns to crumbs.

“Are you going to do something about whatever is bothering you, or merely sit on it like a broody hen?” he asked, standing over her and watching carefully.

She ignored him pointedly. “Nothing is bothering me.”

“Ah, I beg to differ, sister mine,” he retorted.

She glared up at him silently as he continued. “Your anger has been at a slow boil since I last spoke with you yesterday.”

“I do not boil. You boil,” she replied hotly. Their eyes held – green to green, hers snapping with temper, his considering.

He slowly arched one expressive eyebrow. “I only simmer,” he corrected.

She snorted derisively. “I fail to see the difference.”

He sat down across from her, snatching one of the larger pieces of the bun from her plate and popping it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“Simmering,” he mused reflectively, “Is a slow process, actually.”

He took another piece of the bread and pointed it at her. She stiffened further as he rambled on. “It achieves its goal, cooking the food in a calm, orderly manner.”

Lomelas set two mugs of cold cider before them. “Boiling, however – hannon le, Lomelas,” Aravir nodded to the grinning cook.

“Boiling however,” he continued to lecture, “Involves an increasingly violent bubbling of the mixture, which often spills over on anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.” He took a long drink of the sweet cider, eyeing his fuming sibling. Almost there.

“As I happen to be the one closest to this particular pot, and am always interested in maintaining my excellent health, I find it necessary to remove said pot from the fire before I get burned.”

Another piece of bread found its way into his mouth. Tasarien sat in silence for a heartbeat. “That is the most asinine thing I have ever heard leave your lips, muindor nin,” she snarled.

He grinned and toasted her with his mug. “But you still love me.”

“You are insufferable, Aravir,” she sniped, bouncing a crumb off his nose.

He brushed the bread away and took another sip, watching her anger slowly seep away to be replaced by an infinitely sad expression. She looked up. “Do you remember what comes next, brother?”

He waited. He was also a patient elf.

She sniffed. “Now you should say, ‘Tell me who has angered you so, Sari, and we will go and pound them to dust together.’”

He smiled sadly. “We cannot do that this time.”

“No,” she whispered. “We cannot.”

Aravir reached across the table and took her hand. “It is not Legolas’ fault, pen neth.”

She tried to tug her hand free, but he clasped it firmly, refusing to let go. “Tasarien.”

She lifted her tear-glazed eyes reluctantly. He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “You know in your heart that he would die before knowingly bringing harm to anyone.”

She opened her mouth to protest hotly that unfortunately the Prince seemed to have forgotten this time, but the stern, uncompromising look in her brother’s eyes stopped the words.

“You KNOW,” he insisted, and watched her shoulders slump in defeat.

“I know,” she whispered. “He is a good lord…kind and just…”

Aravir nodded.

“…and in so much pain!” she finished, her voice anguished. “And now you have joined him in his pain and we will lose you both!”

Her tears broke free, along with a sob. Aravir left his chair quickly and knelt beside her, gathering her into his arms as she cried brokenly on his shoulder. He did not try to calm her with platitudes or false promises. Her fears were very real. They all faced an unknown that could very well end up in wrenching division.

“We face this together, Sari,” he whispered, stroking her long, dark hair. “We are not alone. Legolas, on the other hand, has been alone with this for years. But now we can help him – and he can help us.”

He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “I learned much on this sojourn with him. I realized so many things which were never clear before. We are not here by accident,” he whispered, tenderly wiping her tears away. “Neither is Legolas. He is here for a reason beyond our comprehension. And we are here to support him…and each other, for as long as possible.”

He examined her face. “All right?”

She sniffed and he took a linen napkin from the table and pressed it into her hand. She wiped her face slowly and nodded. “I will try.”

“And blame him no more, tithen nin,” he ordered. “Believe me when I say that he already blames himself enough.”

He stood, looking across the room at Lomelas and nodding. The elf had been waiting for his signal and hurried to bring a tray of fruit, a fresh loaf of bread, and cheese to their table. Regaining his seat, Aravir deftly scooped up the crumb-filled napkin in front of his sister and handed it to the cook.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said as he and the cook exchanged smiles.

“Of course, Captain,” Lomelas said. “Let me know if you require anything else. And Tasarien…” She looked up at the elf. “Eat. Do try not to kill the food this time.”

She blushed, looking down and muttering something under her breath. Aravir winced and waved Lomelas away before serving his sister and himself generous helpings of the fruit and large slices of bread and cheese.

“He is right,” he said. “Eat. You will feel better.”

She nibbled on the cheese obediently, watching as her brother began clearing his plate quickly and allowed the relatively peaceful silence to stretch between them for a time.

“Thalion is in love,” she announced suddenly.

Aravir choked on a piece of fruit and looked at her, laughing. “I know,” he said.

“He is such a big love-struck lummox, Aravir,” she complained. “We had to keep him in the stall next to Legolas’ new mare…he was kicking up such a fuss.”

She smiled slightly. “Arod thought it all very amusing, I think.”

She watched her brother for another moment. “Do you plan on breeding the two?”

Aravir coughed and looked at her askance. “Thalion and Arod?”

She gaped at him, at a loss briefly, before threatening him with an apple slice. “No, you dolt. The new mare and that rose bush over there.”

As her brother snickered, she frowned mightily. “Honestly, Aravir...” He held up both hands in surrender, managing to look so contrite that she finally relented and, with a warning look, continued with her previous thoughts.

“Because,” she continued huffily, “We believe she…the mare NOT the rose bush, you idiot… is showing signs of coming into season. So maybe you and Legolas should decide if you want a little one running around this time next year.”

Aravir chuckled. “I will speak with the Prince later today, Sari.”

She sniffed. “The mare is a beauty, though. Alfirin?” She glanced at her brother questioningly.

“Yes, that is what Legolas finally named her,” he replied.

“How appropriate,” she commented snippily.

At her brother’s frown, she said, “Well, it is. Appropriate….and beautiful.”

She watched him eat for another minute, finally realizing he had slowed and was deliberately wasting time. Losing all patience, she jumped up. “For Valar’s sake, Aravir, take it with you! Come! I need to feel the wind in my face and leave all this behind for a time. Let us go for a long ride…that is, if we can drag Thalion away from his lady-love!” She headed for the nearest exit, looking back to make sure her brother was behind her.

Aravir laughingly scooped up several pieces of fruit and followed her out the door.

~~~~~*~~~~~

“Berenthil!”

At the sound of his name, the tall elf turned from his conversation with the small group of elves, his face lighting with pleasure as he watched the King make his way down the staircase towards him.

“Good evening, Sire,” he called, bowing slightly to Thranduil. “I trust your day was pleasant…and uneventful?” His deep blue eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

Thranduil grinned appreciatively in return. “Ah, my old friend, what can I say? The entire day was blessed…unmarred by trials…free of argument and debate and…” Here, he leaned closer, looking both ways before whispering, “…council meetings!”

Berenthil and the other members of Legolas’ advisory council threw back their heads and laughed before crowding around their lord’s father, calling greetings and pounding him on the back enthusiastically. The Elvenking’s thoughts on those subjects were, of course to them, a matter of record.

Thranduil smiled at the expressions on the faces of this crowd of his contemporaries. The eldest members of the group accompanying his son south, they had helped Legolas form the administrative backbone of the colony. Presently all seemed at ease, with nothing pressing bothering any one of them. That boded well for Legolas’ frame of mind, especially following a morning and afternoon laden with intense meetings.

“It is good to see all of you again…Aldaron, how is Miriel?”

The mahogany-haired elf laughed and stepped forward, clasping Thranduil’s shoulder. “She does well, hir nin! You must come for dinner soon! She will never let you hear the end of it if you do not!”

“Let us make plans for a few days from now,” Thranduil agreed. Miriel, a close relative of his dear wife’s, had made it a point to keep a close eye on her cousin’s husband and son. Deeming Legolas too young and inexperienced to let out of her motherly sights, she had convinced her husband to offer his services as one of the advisory council once word spread Legolas would relocate to Ithilien. To her way of thinking, Thranduil would do well enough on his own…finally.

Thranduil turned to the auburn haired elf standing beside Aldaron. “Ornendil, how are you? And how is that scapegrace brother of yours?”

The seneschal of the colony bowed slightly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I am well, Highness. And Tathor is…Tathor.”

Thranduil nodded in understanding. That meant young Tathor still exhibited some of the wilder, more enthusiastic tendencies of his youth. Of an age with Legolas, he had come south as one of the warriors under Aravir’s command. He would check on the youngling’s progress with Aravir later. Not as King…just as an interested observer, and Ornendil’s friend.

Thranduil turned to the last member of the council. “Well, Ohtar?” he asked the solemn elf standing to the side, quietly observing the reunions.

“I am well, aran brannon,” the dark-haired elf replied. “And you look in fine fettle yourself, Oropherion.”

Thranduil snorted softly. “Come here, you old curmudgeon,” he groused affectionately, grabbing the elf and embracing him quickly.

“Some things never change, it seems,” he said, leaning back to smile at his father’s old friend. Ohtar nodded his head slightly, a faint smile brightening his deep gray eyes to silver.

Thranduil looked around at the group. “It is good to see each of you and I look forward to visiting with all before we leave to return to the Greenwood in the spring.”

He turned to Berenthil. “Now, pen aiur, have you seen my son?”

Berenthil nodded, glancing at the others with a grin. “I do believe we succeeded in surprising the youngling, my lord. He came into the council room weighted down with the thought of all that must be accomplished this day.” Quiet chuckles rippled through the group. “However, he soon found he was mistaken, as we completed our business shortly after lunch and released the young Prince forthwith to the freedom of the outdoors.”

Thranduil gave a mock gasp of affront. “Ai, you will spoil my offspring, mellon nin!”

Once the laughter had died down, Ornendil gestured towards the kitchens. “I believe he was going to beg some food from Lomelas and head for the stables…not to ride, I think, but to locate his old friend, Arod, and spend some time with him this afternoon.”

The King nodded. “Thank you, Ornendil. I will begin my search there.”

He waved to his old companions and headed for the kitchen, murmurs of farewell following in his wake.

~~~~~*~~~~~

He found his wayward son in one of the large open meadows reserved for the colony’s horses behind the stables. Legolas and Arod both lay in the soft lush grass beneath the shady branches of a stately beech, the elf’s head pillowed on his horse’s neck. Legolas was sound asleep, Thranduil noted as he silently approached the pair. Sinking to the ground beside them, he placed a gentle hand on the horse’s head.

Peace, Arod, my friend. Do not trouble yourself to rise. We have met before, you and I, but I have never taken the time to thank you for your care of my son.

The big silver-grey gelding snorted softly, his dark, intelligent gaze studying the strong, imposing figure of his friend’s father. I am his. We are together, at least, for now.

The King smiled, stroking the broad forehead. As you should be. The two were quiet for a time, listening to the wind in the trees and the sound of distant waters rushing over unforgiving stone. A small grey squirrel scurried down the trunk of the tree and paused, chittering nervously at the intruders. Thranduil closed his eyes, savoring the peace of the moment, gladdened beyond measure that Legolas had also found peace in this place.

“Adar?”

Thranduil returned to awareness at the whisper word. He looked down to find Legolas staring up at him, a bemused smile lifting his lips and lighting his eyes.

“Hello, lazybones,” he smiled, the old nickname eliciting an embarrassed laugh from his son.

“I had a difficult day, Ada,” Legolas complained. “Do not begrudge me a few moments of rest before I must return…”

He stopped as Thranduil began chuckling, shaking his head. “Nay, Legolas, do not even attempt to engage my sympathy. I have already spoken with Berenthil and your advisors…”

Legolas winced.

Thranduil laughed knowingly. “Yes, my son…and they described to me, at length, those long and arduous and draining meetings today.”

He eyed the guilty face before him. “My observation stands,” he stated. “Lazybones!”

Legolas snickered and sat up, stretching mightily. “Yes, well…short does not necessarily make them any less difficult, Ada.”

Thranduil grimaced in understanding and stood, offering a hand up. They moved aside as Arod lunged to his feet, tossing his mane and shaking bits of grass from his sleek coat. Both elves grinned and stepped to the horse’s side, brushing away the remaining debris.

Legolas stroked the warm neck affectionately. Go, Arod nin. Stretch your legs and work off some of that energy before Caladir calls you in. He sent the big animal on his way with a firm swat to the rump, laughing as Arod shook his head and bucked in an excess of high spirits.

“He has recovered?” Thranduil asked, watching the big horse’s gait closely.

“Aye, though I will not ride him any distance ever again,” Legolas replied sadly.

Thranduil placed a consoling arm across his son’s shoulder and turned him towards the path that led to the main grounds. “But he is still with you and that, I think, will prove the greater comfort in the long run.”

Legolas nodded as his father continued. “And you have the new mare to train and ride. She is a beauty! From Eomer King, you said?”

Legolas allowed the diversion, grateful to his father for the concern and the loving arm that held him close. As they walked on, he gazed across the grounds of the compound, marveling at how much had been accomplished in such a short time. There was still much to be done, however, and not just in the restoration of the forest.

According to the scouting reports, men were beginning to make their presence known in northern Ithilien. Legolas had not been surprised to hear it; he had been expecting it for some time. The war was over. Sauron was defeated and the lands free once more.

The problem arose from the fact that Aragorn had ceded land that traditionally belonged to Gondor to an elven leader. On top of that, the people of Gondor were not familiar with the Firstborn. Indeed, in the past elves had always been characters in stories told to children. Now they were faced with the real thing and because they did not know or understand, they were suspicious and fearful.

Legolas knew firsthand the product of suspicion and fear – a gap between the two peoples that would continue to deepen until it became an unbridgeable chasm. What he needed was a liaison between the elves and any settlers who might make their homes in the forest…someone both parties could trust and talk to. He planned to address that just as soon as the winter months had passed. Hopefully, his father would help him acquire the man he had in mind to bridge that gap. He sighed heavily. How he wished things could remain as calm and peaceful as they were right now!

“Change is inevitable, Legolas,” his father murmured. Legolas glanced sharply at the King, surprised to see the comprehension and understanding in the steel gray eyes. “In the end, it is not how we face the change, but in how we deal with it, that truly matters.”

They stopped and faced each other, two tall regal figures limned in gold by the setting rays of the sun. Thranduil placed a hand on Legolas’ shoulder and examined the tense face lovingly. “You have been given the weapons to face any change that comes, my son. I placed some of them in your hands myself as you grew to be the strong adult you are today. The Valar gave you the rest over the years…in the friends they led to you and the song they placed in your heart. It remains only for you to use these weapons wisely.”

“But will I be sufficient…and wise, Adar?” Legolas asked, his throat tight with the mixed emotions of love and fear.

Thranduil smiled reassuringly. “The Valar choose their champions well, Legolas. You will not fail them…or yourself. Now come. The day is ending and your people await you.” They turned as one and followed the path through the trees to the great house beyond.