The next morning dawned clear and crystalline, the sort of day that brings joy to one's heart as the last gasp of summer comes unexpected in the midst of autumn. The sun shone through trees still well-laden with the brightly coloured leaves of the season; the air was crisp and clean, almost as intoxicating as a cask of very old and gently kept Dorwinion wine, and the sky above Imladris was a blue to rival the eyes of Legolas. Having stayed up rather late basking in the glory of the Evenstar's company, stunned and amused to discover that the Twins had been nowhere in evidence the entire time either, Aragorn decided to sleep in. This was a rare and singular experience for one accustomed to rising well before Dawn traced her rosy fingers across the horizon. So, as he lazed in bed watching the early morning path of Anor across the floor in between catnaps, Aragorn was rather enjoying life.

"You really must stop this letting down of your guard, Dúnadan," a soft voice purred very close to his ear, stirring the hair. Aragorn froze, recognizing the voice all too well, and wondering where the knife would fall this time.

"Not very sporting of you," he growled, glancing as far as his eyes would permit in each direction without actually moving his head, just in case. There came a delighted laugh.

"Sporting! I like that!" was the cheery reply. "Estel, I have sat here since two hours before sunrise watching you sleep, and you never once even so much as realized! You have awakened, stretched, made all manner of rude noise with your body; stared about the chamber, scratched, yawned, and gone back to sleep. When you rolled over an hour ago I was certain you would notice me! And yet nothing. Flat nothing! And you want sporting?"

"You know," the Ranger grumbled disobligingly, "Elladan is right. You are more likeable when you're quiet."

Legolas Thranduilion only laughed again, a pleasant enough sound, and stepped down from his perch atop the headboard of Aragorn's bed. "Get over yourself, Rugged Manly Ranger," he suggested with a grin. "I made enough noise to wake the blessed dead, and you simply did not hear it."

"Huh. I'm home in the nearest thing that passes for my own bed," Aragorn pointed out, trying to rescue his reputation. "Am I supposed to be on my guard?"

"Always," Legolas said seriously, rifling through the clothespress. "What if I had been an Orc?"

"You would be easily the fairest Orc ever to sneak successfully past the guards of Imladris," the Ranger announced with pardonable over-dramatism, striking a pose as he sat up and untangled himself from the coverlets. He laughed when a soft silken robe struck him full in the face. "In fact, you would be the only Orc ever to sneak successfully past the guards of Imladris."

"There is always a first time, pen-neth."

Privately Aragorn agreed with him, but opted to say nothing on that score. "So, why exactly were you watching me sleep and--other things for the last several hours, pray tell?"

"I have my reasons." Legolas piled up several articles of clothing on a handy chair: clean undergarments, black leggings, a pristine silver-grey shirt of Elven styling, and a simple but elegantly tailored tunic of deep Imladris blue, fashioned out of a cut velvet that was probably older than Aragorn by several decades. "Come with me--we have much to do."

The Ranger shrugged into his robe and worked completely free of the covers, to sit rather blearily on the edge of the bed. "I'm not really in the mood to do much of anything beyond have a late breakfast and find some comfortable place from which to sightsee," he murmured around a yawn. "Please, I beg of you, spare me any Elven adventures! Every time I go anywhere with you or my brothers there is always hell to pay."

Legolas gave a cursory glance about the chamber. "No brothers here."

"How may I be certain?" Aragorn asked with fond snappishness. "For all I know, they're hiding behind the curtains or somesuch."

"They probably will wish they were," Legolas said, trying not to sound too Elvish before his friend had fully awakened. Aragorn eyed him in bemusement, but the son of Thranduil simply smiled. He possessed a very nice smile, when he chose to make use of it; Legolas had been gifted by good genetics with a singularly lovely mouth, bow-shaped as any good archer should have, with a full lower lip and nice dimples. He did his best to use them all to their utmost effect now. "Never you mind. I know you cannot think before noon when you sleep past the rising of the sun. Come--the bathing pool should be about full by now."

"Please stop using Elven wiles on me," Aragorn commanded, his tone perilously close to a whine, save that he spoiled it completely by yawning hugely in the middle of the sentence. "I am not awake."

"Perfect. Just as it should be," Legolas announced with a wicked upcurve of his lips and a devastating display of dimples. "Just trust me!"

"Spiders in Mirkwood say that, don't they. Just before they eat you."

Legolas just laughed and hauled Aragorn off the bed by main force, manhandling him into the next chamber. The bathing pool, which had slowly been filling over the last hour or so with the most musical of trickles, was indeed at just about the perfect depth--and the water gave off an inviting steaminess, heated as it was in the cool of a mid-autumnal morning.

"Here, get in," Legolas ordered, stripping the robe peremptorily off his friend and pushing Aragorn into the water without so much as a by-your-leave. Fortunately the drains on the floor took care of the overflow.

"Hey!"

"Oh hush, it isn't as if there is depth enough to drown." Legolas knelt alongside and dunked Aragorn beneath the surface with embarrassing ease. The Ranger came up spitting water and invective, the sum total of which essentially came down to a brief but pithy insistence that Legolas's immediate ancestors might not have been legitimately married. The Elven prince raised one questioning eyebrow.

"My my, it is a good thing my father is not here to debate that with you," he chuckled. "Never mind, all will be well in the end." With unerring aim Legolas lobbed a handful of rich, fragrant soap at the Ranger, hitting him dead centre in the chest just at the base of his throat. "Scrub up now, we haven't all day."

"Hurting you is going to be fun," Aragorn grumbled, but did as he was told. He had seen this kind of cheery focus on Legolas before; realizing he was wet, naked, and at the mercy of an Elven lunatic, he opted to save his life by being obedient.

For the moment, at least.

**********

Elladan sighed for perhaps the eighteenth time in the last twenty minutes or so, as the all-too-Human part of his blood (well-diluted though it was with Elven factors, at this point!) waited impatiently for his twin to stop re-checking the meagre clue they had just discovered. They had been at the task of attempting to track Legolas for the entire night, bypassing many other far more amusing things they could have done, and the Twins were beginning to get testy.

"You do not know where he has gone."

Elrohir ignored him, making quite a show out of gently running his fingertips over the grass. He was absolutely certain he had seen the infinitesimal press of an Elven footprint here. He just knew he had. And if his brother would simply shut up, he was certain he could find it. Therefore he decided to say so.

"If you would simply shut up, I am certain I can find it," he announced with a noticeable level of pique to his tone. Elladan gave an inelegant snort of laughter and spread his arms to either side in entreaty to the Powers that Be, tipping his head back to stare at the sky.

"Find what, pray tell?" he demanded. "You have been staring at this patch of ground for the last far too many minutes, and we are still entirely in the dark as to where one single flipping Wood-Elf can have gone!"

Elrohir responded with a suggestion that his brother attempt to fold himself into a position Elladan was certain could not actually be accomplished, and place his head in an orifice where it was not, so far as Elladan could figure, supposed to be placed. He made this suggestion rather loudly to boot, and Elladan turned bright crimson with embarrassment when he heard someone clear his throat not very far away.

"I beg your pardon, my lords--but--do you need any--err--assistance?"

The Twins turned as mirror-images of each other and stared. Standing there on the pathway that led from the river back through Elrond's extensive gardens toward the House were no less than seven Dwarves, all dressed in their Dwarvish best, hair neatly and intricately braided. He who had spoken was no one less than the redoubtable Glóin himself; he looked about as imposing and regal as a Dwarf can possibly look, with his wonderfully lined faced framed by all that impressive white, bushy hair. The expression of fascinated, bemused interest on his aged face would have done credit to Elrond himself, had Elrond ever been that short and stout, and--well--Dwarvish. He was clearly waiting for an answer, as were the other six who stood with him: his son Gimli, and five of the several retainers who had accompanied them from the environs of the mountains, or joined them from elsewhere.

None of them looked particularly sympathetic concerning the embarrassment of the sons of Elrond. In fact, they all--Gimli especially--looked rather unnecessarily amused by the entire scene.

"Assistance?" Elladan managed to say, in a rather undignified squeak. He cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon."

"You have it, of course," Glóin informed him in a majestically rumbled bass, to the snickered amusement of the others. He quelled them with a look that would have stopped a cave troll in full heated charge, and turned his white head back toward the blushing Twins. "As far as I have ever been able to tell, the position to which you refer is not a physical possibility. At least--for a Dwarf." Glóin tilted his head sidewise in a nerve-wrackingly Elvish kind of way, and smiled very faintly. "Though, I have heard that Elves are more--how do you say--supple."

"We would be very happy to assist you in attaining such a position," Gimli added with great politesse and gravity. "If, that is, you actually wish to attain it."

Decorous sniggers of amusement punctuated this announcement, but father and son remained impeturbable. Elrohir sighed, marvelling at how difficult it is to read expression in such dark eyes as Dwarves seemed to possess.

"It was merely a suggestion, Master Glóin," he managed at last to say without too much hemming or hawing. "You know--of the sort that brothers will occasionally make to their siblings. From--time to time."

"I see," Glóin rumbled, in a way that left no doubt at all that he did, indeed, see far more than either of the Twins would have him do. "Is it my understanding also that you have mislaid a Wood-Elf?"

More snickers; Gimli glanced back over his shoulder and harrumphed, which brought instantaneous silence. The Twins glanced significantly at one another, not needing verbal discussion to realize they were both wishing they could be very young again for just the merest short amount of time: say, the amount needed to wreak terrible Elfling vengeance on a smart-mouthed Naugrim. Such things being way out of range of dignified adult Elves, however, they knew they would have to be content with just their memories.

Until we find the son of Thranduil, of course, Elladan thought, and was mightily cheered by the concept.

"We do seem to have mis-located the Prince of Mirkwood, yes," the elder Twin admitted, taking Elrohir firmly by the bicep and hauling him to his feet. "We were tracking him, you see--"

"Yes, it's--a sort of game," Elrohir supplied helpfully. "We do it all the time."

"All the time," Glóin repeated, one bushy white eyebrow climbing over those undefinedly deep brown eyes. The Twins nodded in unison; Elrohir flushed deeper, wondering if they would ever get out of the habit of such tandem motions.

"Absolutely," Elladan said.

"Whenever he visits," Elrohir finished.

"And the son of Thranduil has managed to elude you."

"Uh--errm--yes."

"To the point where you are suggesting your brother perform impossible physical feats and delve his head into interesting locations."

"A brother's jest, good Master Dwarf."

"A brother's jest," Glóin repeated. Elladan wondered if the aged Naugrim was going to repeat everything they said. And in such an annoyingly arrogant tone, to boot!

"Yes. A brother's jest."

"Probably some Elvish custom of which we know naught," Gimli suggested, his dark gaze skirting back toward their aides and assistants in such a way as to cause another rumble of amusement from the onlookers. In that second the Twins cordially hated him, which seemed to please Gimli all the more.

"Doubtless," Glóin replied grandly, and waved one hand at the sons of Elrond. "Do carry on then with your--tracking. And your jesting. We will not detain you."

As they headed off, Gimli Glóinsson had one last parting salvo: "Should we find your princelet, shall we tell him where he might find you? And in what condition?"

"Do feel free, Master Gimli," Elladan called cheerfully, his eyes snapping with anger. "If you should happen to find him."

A chorus of Dwarven amusement greeted this declaration, and the stout, redoubtable party disappeared around a corner in the path. Elladan sighed.

"Well, that was more fun that a barrel of Wargs," he grumbled, bringing up a hand to swat his brother on the shoulder. "We would have found Legolas long since, had you bothered to do as I suggested earlier!"

"What? Looking words up in Adar's dictionaries is going to help us find Legolas? What twaddle!" Elrohir's eyes were glittering with amusement, a fact Elladan wholly neglected to catch; internecine strife might have become the rule of the day had not Elrohir suddenly uttered a cry of triumph. "Ai! Look! I've found it!"

"What?" Elladan grumbled. "The dictionary?"

"No! Look!" And he pointed. His brother stared, then narrowed his eyes; a smirk crept across his mouth.

"Oh, dear Legolas, this is what you get for being so picky about how your hair looks," the elder Twin crowed, picking up the item his brother had found. It was a small hair-catch, fashioned of mithril into the cunning shape of a squirrel. If one looked very closely it would be seen that there were two tiny blue crystals for its eyes, and the creature was clutching a bow in its forepaws. Elrohir leaned his dark head on his brother's shoulder and eyed the elegant thing.

"He'll be very upset to have lost it," the younger Twin murmured, his grin belying the sympathy in his tone. Elladan gave another of his signature snorts.

"He hasn't lost it," he retorted. "We have it safe, right here." He dropped the catch into a pocket and patted it. "Come on. There's bound to be a footprint somewhere in the dew. What would he have been doing here?"

"Singing," Elrohir growled. "I know. I heard him just before dawn. Lovely thing to wake up to--if one is in the mood to awaken."

"Which I take it you were not?"

"Not at that hour."

"Heh." Several more moments tripped by to the tune of Elven heartbeats, then: "Ah-hah! There!"

Elladan pointed to where the tinest slip of a line could be seen in the moss on a log--as if someone had used said log as a take-off point for a leap up into the trees. The two brothers Peredhil looked upward for a long moment in silence.

"I don't suppose you're very good at talking to trees," Elrohir murmured after a moment. Elladan blew out an annoyed breath.

"No. I'll never admit this where Grandsire can hear me, but I've always considered tree-talking to be just the veriest little wee bit odd."

Elrohir snickered. "Alas, me too."

"Besides, they'd never tell us a thing," Elladan sighed, and patted the trunk of the venerable beech beside which they found themselves. "You know there isn't a tree in Imladris that Legolas hasn't made love to over the centuries--they think he is the be-all and the end-all."

Elrohir stared hard at the beech in silence, trying his level best to banish the peculiar image that went through his mind at the words "Legolas" and "made love to" in the context of trees. He was not very successful until Elladan, surmising what those thoughts might be, smacked him in the back of the head.

"Stop that this instant!" he said in his best Elrond imitation. Being an obedient son, Elrohir of course did as he was told. Elrond's voice of command worked no matter who was actually uttering the words, so long as they sounded even remotely like the Lord of Imladris. Elladan was rather nerve-wrackingly good at it, and had been so for years; there were still tales told in the guard houses of the son passing himself verbally off as the father to amusing results.

While his brother was wrestling with trees, love, and obedience, Elladan continued looking for some sort of hint as to where Legolas might have gone. Throughout the night their mood had gone from one of smug confidence to complete and utter annoyance; the very thought that a princelet less than half their age could have somehow managed to elude them for the entire time was galling, to say the least. That he had had a look in his eye, when last they saw him, that bespoke trial and tribulation for their younger brother--well, that added a certain piquant sense of urgency to the concept of finding him.

"It is not as if there are all that many places he could have gone," Elladan grumbled aloud. "I mean, blessed Varda! He's just one Wood-Elf!"

"Actually, if you wish to be technical, he's very little of that at all," Elrohir said, raising a finger. "Thranduil is half Vanyar and half Doriathrin, while Legolas's mother was Sindarin and--"

"And Doriathrin is what?" Elladan asked, in a self-righteously irritated tone that would have curled the bark on an oak tree at a hundred paces. Elrohir looked bemused.

"Well, I suppose it is somewhat Wood-Elvish--"

"You suppose." Elladan made a rude noise, his eyes continuing all the while to scan the trees, the grass, even the rocks, looking for some hint as to where they should go next. "And do you suppose that, should you ever be discussing the finer points of Elven genealogy with Grandsire--a Prince of Doriath, need I remind you!--he will convince himself to refrain from cutting off your sidelock braids and stuffing them down your throat?"

"He would never!" Elrohir exclaimed in horror, unable to even conceive of Celeborn, Lord of Lórien, doing such a thing. Elladan laughed shortly.

"That you know," he finished dramatically. "He has not always been the nice old Elf he is now."

Suddenly he straightened. "Hah!"

One hand shot out into the verge; when he pulled it back, there was a scrap of thread held tightly between two fingers. "Thranduilion," he announced at the top of his lungs, "gerin le si!"

He pointed off toward the south-east--the general direction of the bridge and waterfall--and the Twins disappeared into the morning, cheered at having once again regained the trail.

**********

Lord Elrond looked up from the manuscript over which he and Gandalf were musing.

"What in the name of Arda was that?" he asked. Glorfindel glanced sidelong from his place on the balcony, on the second level of the library. He was grinning, having easily heard that to which Elrond referred; all of Imladris could well have heard it too, as the acoustics were rather excellent throughout the valley.

"I do believe it was Elladan," the Lord of Gondolin drawled cheerfully. "Further, I believe he said--and I quote--'Thranduilion, gerin le si!' Or--words to that effect."

Gandalf took his pipe from between his teeth--a pipe that was not lit, out of deference to Elven sensibilities--and raised an eyebrow at the master of the house. "Should we be worried, do you think?"

"Likely not," Elrond said with a firm shake of his head. "I have heard that particular pronouncement too many times over the years to have even the littlest doubt as to the outcome."

"Last time," Glorfindel said with an agreeable nod, "we found both the Twins side by side in a net."

"A net, you say?" murmured Gandalf, in tones of amused surprise. Glorfindel chuckled.

"Oh yes. In a dear old oak tree, way out in the forest. Isn't that right, my lord?"

"Rather high up in a dear old oak tree, if memory serves," Elrond commented dryly. Gandalf allowed a bark of laughter to escape his lips.

"I see! And where, may one ask, was young Thranduilion?"

"Slightly higher up the same dear old oak tree," Glorfindel announced, spluttering with laughter at the recollection. "Sitting back in the branches, laughing like a loon and singing a delightfully rude song about a Dwarf, a Ranger, and three maidens from Bree."

"All the while utterly ignoring my sons--which was no mean feat in itself, considering how loudly profane they were being," Elrond added, making a note in the manuscript's margin in his elegant Tengwar. Gandalf laughed, delighted.

"And here I thought this was going to be a boring Council session!" he chortled. Elrond and Glorfindel gave him much the same look, a fond, bemused, knowing sort of look usually leveled upon messily misbehaving, mud-bedecked Elflings who show up precipitously in the doorways of feast halls during formal dinners. Which, come to think of it, had happened an inordinate number of times in this very place, over the centuries....

"A Council session it most assuredly will be," Elrond said sagely, cocking one dark eyebrow over sardonic grey eyes. "Boring, however, has long since gone on holiday and left the region. Really, Mithrandir! Aragorn is home for the first time in a quarter century and more; both the Twins are home, Arwen is in residence for a change, Thranduil sends to the session Ennor's most adorable hooligan since Maglor, and the One Ring has surfaced in the hands of the Hobbits--and you expected boring?"

"Wherever did my mind go," Gandalf murmured flatly, eyes twinkling.

"Doubtless to the same place wheresoever Boring went on holiday," Glorfindel supplied helpfully, and settled back down at his spot for a most excellent seat from which to observe the mayhem he fully expected to commence any moment now.

**********

"What in the name of Arda was that?" asked Lord Silinde of Mirkwood, one of the Sindarin nobles who had accompanied the son of their king to Imladris for Council. His compatriot, Lord Galdor, had been seated in a corner going back over the scroll of instructions their King had given them upon departure from Mirkwood; however, he too had looked up in startlement at the loud cry coming from the gardens.

"It--sounded rather--unsettling, whatever it was," he murmured, trying to be diplomatic. Silinde was in no such frame of mind though; private instruction had been given him by the Elven-king, dire words indeed, including phrases such as "We place Our son's life and safety in your hands" and "We would be most wroth were aught to befall Our child", and other regal comments made to freeze one's blood in one's veins. Not that Silinde, a warrior and diplomat of great age and experience, was not generally up to the task of protecting a single young Elf--far from it! But when that single Elf was Legolas, who not only had a penchant for finding trouble, but also possessed a rather cheerful delight in calling it out rather than tiptoeing away like a sensible person, the task became somewhat wildly problematic. To have heard what he feared he had heard was not the way to keep his ample breakfast happily settled in his system.

"I did not ask how it sounded," Silinde announced tersely now, swivelling in his chair to fix a baleful eye upon Galdor. "I asked what it was. In short, what did you hear?"

Galdor's face remained impassive--of what other use were centuries of training, if he could not accomplish that much?--but inwardly he wished he could blow raspberries at his friend. Silinde's hearing was just as good as Galdor's own, and they both knew all too well what they had just heard. Sighing just this side of audible, Galdor said:

"I believe the phrase was 'Thranduilion, gerin le si!' Though--perhaps I was mistaken."

"No," Silinde said tensely. "I heard the same thing. Come--we must find out what is going on down there."

Galdor hung back, far less than enthusiastic. He too had partaken of an ample breakfast, and chasing King Thranduil's sweet-faced, dangerous offspring through the unfamiliar territories of Imladris was simply not on his morning agenda. "It is likely nothing!" he demurred, making little ineffectual gestures of calming. "You know how the pen-neth is. He is probably up to some devilry with Lord Elrond's sons."

"All the more reason to check things out," Silinde intoned, striking a pose in the doorway. "Consider this, Galdor. Prince Legolas. The Lords Elladan and Elrohir. The three of them together. Alone." He gave a decorous shudder. "Unsupervised!"

"You make them sound like the merest little Elflings!" Galdor complained, sighing gustily as he reached for his over-robe. By the Valar, if Silinde was going to make him traipse all over Imladris supervising the Prince, at least one of them was going to do it properly dressed!

"Would that they were," Silinde grumbled darkly as they departed. "Then at least I would still be able to take a belt to their backsides!"

As if you were ever able before, even when they were Elflings! Galdor thought glumly, and followed Silinde out into the morning.

**********

"What in the name of Arda was that?"

Arwen had just come sailing into Aragorn's bedchamber with a breakfast tray when her brother's over-loud declaration made itself known to all and sundry. She found Legolas putting the finishing touches on Aragorn's preparations for the day, as he mopped shaving soap from the throat and cheeks of the Ranger. The fair-haired Prince smiled cheerfully at her.

"Nothing important, I daresay," he told her, and came to take the tray. Leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek, he added: "Sounded like a bunch of squirrels fighting over acorns."

"It did not," Aragorn retorted. "Even my hearing could pick out the difference there. It was Elrohir, blathering 'Thranduilion, gerin le si!' like a rank amateur idiot."

"It was Elladan," the Evenstar pointed out, coming to give him a good-morning kiss that warmed the entire corner of the chamber like a campfire. "But never mind. Just details."

"Life is in the details," Aragorn complained, blushing faintly at the mistake. She kissed him again, just because she could.

"I will have you remind me of that at some later time," she purred. "When there aren't young eyes around to be sullied."

Legolas almost tripped over his own feet and rolled on the floor, so hard did he laugh at this declaration. "Young eyes!" he hooted. "I like that!"

"So do I," Arwen announced, smirking at him. "And though my soul has been awaiting Estel's appearance for centuries, I must say the wait has been eased by the lovely view from Mirkwood these past five hundred years!"

Legolas bowed gallantly over her hand, then gave each of them a steaming mug of tea perfectly prepared.

"She's being kind," Aragorn said, making a face at the Prince. "We all know you haven't hit five hundred yet."

"Nuts to you too, O seventy-year-old Dúnadan," Legolas said, elegantly sticking out his tongue before settling cross-legged on the floor. They drank their tea and ate scones in companionable silence for several moments, Aragorn and Arwen sweetening theirs with kisses while Legolas simply chuckled at them and used honey like any sensible Elf. Then, some minutes into the pleasant quiet, he set down his mug and rolled on one side, laughing uproariously.

"What?" Arwen asked, amused but puzzled. Legolas rolled further and got gracefully to his feet, striking a menacing pose in imitation of what he supposed a certain someone might have done down in the garden.

"Thranduilion, gerin le si!" he intoned softly.

This time all three of them laughed, the sound of it wafting cheerfully over the balcony and into the beauty of the morning.

**********

"What in the name of Arda was that?" Elrohir asked, glancing back toward the House as Elladan finished knotting a rope around an unamused willow tree above the Bruinen, preparatory to the two of them using it to descend. Elladan made a scoffing sound.

"Getting deaf in our old age?" he asked scornfully. "It was simply people laughing. People do that, you know!"

"But it sounded like Legolas," his brother complained. Elladan paused in his work and stared at Elrohir.

"Legolas. One Elf, singular. That laughter was clearly people, plural, finding something amusing. Really, brother, please do use your head! Think before you speak!"

"And the concept of Legolas laughing with others about something does not concern you?" Elrohir demanded, hands on hips. "When we have spent the whole night looking for him without success?"

Elladan put down his end of the rope and turned fully to stare at his brother. He waited, listening, and sure enough, the laughter sounded again; Elladan gave a crow of triumph.

"That was not Legolas," he announced. "I've heard that laugh before. It was Glorfindel. And Arwen. And maybe Estel, though it could also have been Mithrandir, they have similar laughter. Legolas is not back at the House, brother! I would stake my reputation as a tracker upon that much."

"You may have to," Elrohir commented dryly. "You do realize that!"

"Hah," Elladan grunted with complete conviction, and picked up the rope. "Come now. I want to know exactly where Legolas went last night, and what he did--the why can come later."

"It will," Elrohir predicted darkly, fetching a heavy sigh as he made to follow. "One way or another, I am certain it will!"

**********

TBC....

Heh heh heh.... Sorry it took so long, folks. Hope it was worth the wait! Things are rapidly drawing to a close here! Next time: All interested parties meet at the Council of Elrond, and explanations of a sort are made.

Translations:

pen-neth = young one
Naugrim = Sindarin for Dwarf
Thranduilion, gerin le si! = Son of Thranduil, I have you now!