Of  a Father and Son

                                              For Xander

                                           The autumn air was crisp as the group of riders journeyed over the Misty Mountains. King Thranduil was making an extremely rare visit to Imladris for a council with Lord Elrond, under the guise of attending a Fall festival that was being held at the half-elven Lord’s home. Accompanying the King was his only son and heir, Prince Legolas, and a company of Mirkwood’s finest warriors. Neither the king nor the prince were dressed in such a way to distinguish them from the other members of the group, Legolas as much because he preferred dressing simply as to conceal anything , and Thraduil to conceal his identity from possible enemies. The elves were wary, even during the daytime while passing through the mountains, as orcs and other foul things were known to inhabit such areas. The sun was still fairly high in the sky as the company emerged from the pass on the Imladris side of the mountains, and they did not tarry, but hastened to put as much distance between the pass and themselves as they could before sunset. Far too many travelers had made the mistake of camping too close to the mountains and had lived only long enough to regret it.

                                      Thranduil’s eyes swept the company and the surrounding forest as restlessly as any of his guardsmen. Wood-elves by their very nature were alert and suspicious of their surroundings, especially if they wished to survive long in Mirkwood, and their king was a survivor indeed. His eyes finally came to rest on his son, and he could not have hidden the gleam of pride that shone in them had he wished to. Legolas was the light of his father’s life, even when he seemed bent on prematurely aging the elder elf with the scrapes he frequently got himself into, either alone or with Elrond’s twin sons Elladan and Elrohir, and Elrond’s human foster-son Estel. Legolas had been home for almost a year, and Thraduil could see his restlessness, and loneliness for his friends. Although his demeanor seemed calm and unruffled, to one who knew him as well as his father did, Legolas was fairly buzzing with excitement and anticipation. Thranduil allowed himself a small smile as he addressed his heir.

                                      “Legolas, we will be in Imladris in less than two days! Honestly , one would think you were mortal with the lack of patience you have!” Wide silver-blue eyes met amused grey ones with a start, and Legolas blushed profusely at his Adar’s amused observation. He grinned sheepishly at his father, then schooled his features into an impassive mask, stilling the fingers that had been plucking at the hem of his tunic with nervous energy.

                                      “ My apologies, Ada.”  Thranduil merely chuckled in response, earning a half-hearted glare from his still blushing offspring. Both father and son returned to scanning the forest for possible threats.

The sun was just slipping below the horizon when the company stopped to allow their horses a chance to rest and graze. Water flasks and lembas were passed and shared, but no fire was kindled as they were still too close to the mountains for such comforts. Scouts were dispatched to assess the best path for the next leg of the journey. As darkness fell, the elves became even more vigilant, knowing that the night was the preferred hunting time of the fouler creatures inhabiting their world. Before long, the scouts returned bearing news of a human settlement in the vicinity, but thankfully no sign of wargs or orcs in the lands ahead of the company. Plans were made to skirt a safe distance around the settlement, and fresh scouts were sent on the group’s back trail to ensure that no attack would catch them unaware from behind.

                                    Only moments had passed when the scouts returned in haste, “ Orcs, my King, a large force! At least four for every warrior here!” The scout reported breathlessly.  

                                    Thranduil scowled, his fair countence registering anger and annoyance, “ Have they discovered our presence, or are they merely looking for something to destroy?” 

                                     “My King, I believe they are ignorant of us for the moment,” replied the scout, “ but that will not last. They will certainly find evidence of our mounts’ passing.” 

                                     Thranduil swore under his breath before making his decision, “ To the trees, then. Our best chance lies in surprising them.” The horses were loosed, and driven ahead as the company took to the trees readying their arrows.

                                       As the elven warriors readied their weapons, the approach of the orcs became audible to their sensitive ears. Long before they could be seen, the orcs’ raucus voices and loudly rattling gear announced their presence. The warriors busied themselves checking and rechecking bowstrings, arrows, and lines of fire. Legolas and Thranduil were perched within arm’s reach of each other, near the back. Legolas had argued to be in the front rank, as he was easily the most skilled archer of all present, but had been convinced that his skills were better served in direct defense of his father and king. He did not press the issue due to the fact that his duty was, after all,  to do that very thing.  If all went badly, it would be his task to break his father out and cover his escape. As the enemy drew nearer, Thranduil took a moment to study his son. The warrior beside him bore very little resemblance to the quiet, usually reserved elfling his son had once been. Legolas was totally focused on the foliage ahead of them, his sharp eyes tirelessly scanning for the first visual signs of a target for his near perfect aim.  Rustling bushes at the far end of the clearing below the waiting elves snapped Thranduil’s attention back to the task at hand.

                                       The first couple of loose ranks of orc soldiers had entered the clearing before the elves loosed the first volley of arrows. The archers of Mirkwood were considered to be among the finest in Middle Earth and the company lived up to that reputation. Orc after orc fell to their arrows, only to be replaced by more of their kind. Soon, the orcs began swarming the trees, firing arrows of their own, not nearly as accurately as their opponents’, but by sheer volume they managed to do considerable damage to the elven company. Thranduil had to dodge quickly to avoid an arrow directed toward his midsection, and to his left he heard Legolas grunt in pain as an orc’s missile lodged itself in the flesh of his thigh. 

                                       “Legolas! How badly are you injured?” He swung around the back side of the tree to his son’s side.

                                       “A flesh wound, Ada. It is not serious.” Legolas continued his barrage of the orcs, barely pausing to look at his injury. Against his paternal instincts, Thranduil took his son at his word and swung back to his own side of the tree to continue firing arrows. As he loosed his last, he came to the sickening realization that a second group of orcs had joined the first.  It was time to retreat and hopefully survive long enough to outrun the orcs until sunrise forced them to return to the hole in the earth from which they had emerged. The word was passed, and the elves quickly made their way through the branches trying to distance themselves from their foul pursuers.

                                          Although wounded, Legolas managed to keep up with what was left of the company. Of the original twenty warriors, twelve were left alive and only Thranduil and three others were unmarked. All remaining arrows were given to three who volunteered to cover the rest while they attempted to escape. The remaining nine hastened to put as much distance between the orcs and  themselves as possible. When they could no longer hear the orcs, the dropped to the ground looking for any sign of their horses. Thranduil shot concerned glances at his son every few minutes, looking for signs of poisoning from the arrow he’d taken, but saw none. Legolas was visibly favoring the leg, but was not glassy-eyed or disoriented as he would have had there been poison on the arrow.  No sign of the horses was found, but to their horror more signs of orcs were everywhere. A shout to their right heralded yet another pack of orcs, this time accompanied by snarling, slavering wargs. The remaining seven warriors quickly formed a protective ring around their king and prince, preparing to defend them to the death. Legolas drew his long knives and took position back to back with his father as Thranduil drew his sword.                                                                           

                                         Almost at once the small group of elves was rushed from all sides by orcs and wargs. The elves accounted for themselves quite well, but they were woefully outnumbered and were grimly aware of that fact. Thranduil and Legolas fought back to back against any attacker that slipped past the ring formed by their defenders. Legolas was a blur of flashing metal as he wielded his twin knives with a deadly skill borne of much practice. Thranduil’s sword separated orc heads from orc bodies in a fatally beautiful dance. Around them their defenders were falling one by one, overwhelmed by the sheer number of foes. With a shock, Legolas saw an arrow fly from the trees beyond them headed for his father’s unprotected side. Without a second thought, he threw himself in the arrow’s path taking the bolt that was meant for Thranduil’s torso in his left shoulder. The impact sent him reeling backwards into his father. Somehow, he managed to regain his balance and continue fighting.

                                         “ It is a scratch, Ada, nothing to worry about, “ he called out, before Thranduil got too distracted and gave the vile creatures he was battling an opening to wound him. The lie came easily,  for once. Legolas knew that it was unlikely that they would survive this attack, and he for one preferred to die in battle rather than in an orc’s dank tunnel. The use of his arm was hampered by the fresh wound, as was his agility by the wound he had taken earlier. He was moving more and more slowly, and knew he would not last much longer. He also knew by the dizziness that was beginning to fog the edges of his vision that the arrow in his shoulder had been poisoned.

                                         Thranduil barely managed to parry an orc sword when Legolas fell against him. He was about to turn when Legolas’ report reached his ears. He knew it for the lie it was, but was as aware of the hopelessness of their situation as his son and he chose to respect Legolas’ wishes. Grim determination filled his normally impassive face as he prepared to meet his death in battle. He had taken only small hurts thus far, slashes and bruises but nothing more serious. It was at this point that he felt Legolas lurch against his back as yet another arrow found it’s mark in the younger elf’s body. This time Legolas fell to the ground and did not rise. Shifting his position so that he stood over his fallen son he continued to defend both of them. He could not take his attention off the creatures surrounding him long enough to spare a look to see if his son still breathed. With a shock, he realized that he was the only elf left fighting. Growling and jeering, the orcs closed in.

                                           Loud voices drew the attention away from Thranduil. Startled, he realized he was hearing human voices. A well armed, mounted group of human warriors broke the treeline to his left and rode toward his attackers, lances and spears to the fore. The orcs broke and ran, fleeing into the trees with the humans in pursuit. Thranduil dropped his sword and knelt by his son’s side dreading what he might find.