Summary:  Darius finds some help.

Disclaimer:  The setting and major characters belong to JRR Tolkien.  I don’t own them – I only call them out to play from time to time. 

A/N:  I have been informed by a reliable source these men would not be using names of elvish origin at this point in the story, so I am changing the names of some of the men to reflect that fact.  The changes are listed below. (Thank you, NiRi, beta extraordinaire.) 

Darthon will be known as Darius

His father will be known as Olwain

Darthon’s brother Rirdon is now Rendan

Rendan’s son Galen is now Garlon

Firion, the horse is now Fire’s Flame – aptly nicknamed Cinder because of his placid nature

Also, I must apologize for the delay in posting…RL has a habit of interrupting at the most inopportune times.  And did I mention I hate computers?  I will try to stick to the weekly posting schedule once again…*sigh*.

*character thoughts will be in italics

Chapter 2:  One Little Corner of the Forest

                   “You can’t stay in your corner of the forest, waiting for others to come to you;

                    you have to go to them sometimes.”

                                                                                             -Winnie the Pooh on friendship

A shocked silence fell over the room, broken only by the intermittent crackle of the fire and the rhythmic thud of rain on the roof.  Eight pairs of accusing eyes stared at the old man smiling at them from his rocking chair.  Within the space of a breath, eight young voices rose in protest.

“Grandfather!  You cannot stop now!”

“What?  What happened?”

“Wait a minute.  Did they SHOOT him?”

“No!  Of course not!  They would not do such a thing…would they?”

“Grandfatherrrrrrr…”

When the outrage turned to whining, the old man raised his hand and the voices faded away.  “I will continue for a time longer,” he promised.  “Then we will stop so that everyone might eat…”  He grinned at the eager nods of agreement.  “…and help with the cleanup afterwards, of course.”  He laughed out loud at the groans of protest.

“Now, where was I?  Oh, yes…”

                                                                    XXX

Darius heard a voice shout, “Daro!” but had no idea what it might mean.  For all he knew, it was the command to release all arrows, so he bent over the child seated before him as far as possible, enfolding and surrounding the little body with as much of his as he could.  If they were going to shoot first, he was determined Gilfileg would take no injury.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited…

Cinder snorted at the strange creatures surrounding them, pawing the ground.  His shivering eased as the sense of threat diminished, although the silence stretched over the pathway, encasing it in a thin, tense bubble of expectation.  Gilfileg squirmed his way around on Darius’ lap until he had his thin arms wrapped around the man’s neck in a stranglehold.  Darius could feel the little one’s tears soaking his collar and a rising anger with these elves for scaring one of their own babies began to burn away his fear.  So focused was he on protecting Gilfileg from attack that the arrival of another horse escaped his notice until he heard again that same commanding voice speaking directly in front of him.

                                                                    XXX

Ohtar Meneldarion had stood beside the first king of the great forest, Oropher, and his family throughout the discovery and settlement of Eryn Galen.  He had trained and commanded the forces of the Greenwood during those horrific years on the battlefield of the Dagorlad, and throughout the agonizingly slow retreat north, forced by the darkness which had taken up residence on Amon Lanc in the south.  At the death of his friend, Ohtar had pledged his fealty to the son, Thranduil, and had continued to lead the fight to protect the forest and its people.  He thought that in all his long years he had seen everything.

Until now.

He sat his horse in the middle of a narrow path, watching a man offer himself as the target for his warriors’ arrows, all in an effort to shield a child, who, if he wasn’t mistaken, also happened to be an elfling!

Amazing.

Ohtar glared at the six warriors he had sent ahead through the trees to surround only – not attack – the man.

“Would you impale the youngling also?” he growled, gratified to see the tense stances relax somewhat, the bows lower fractionally.

“Just what is a man doing in our forest with an elfling anyway, Captain?”

Ohtar turned his hard gaze on the speaker.  Tathor.  Tathor, of the ungoverned mouth.  He dismounted and stalked over to confront this newest member of the Southern Patrol.

“Tathor,” he snapped.  “If you would hone your powers of observation as proficiently as you do your skill with a bow, we would all be very blessed indeed.”

The younger elf flushed and clamped his lips shut against an ill-thought retort.

Ohtar nodded.  “Very good.  I see you are not unteachable, you just want me to think you are.”  He gestured towards the pair on the horse, his voice taking on the tone of a lecturing teacher.  “Now, look at them.  Note the man’s posture, Tathor.  The human is not cowering in guilt or fear – he is hunched over in an effort to protect the child.  Even more telling, look at the child.  Do you see?  He is not trying to escape a captor – he is clutching the man’s neck as if his life depends on it.”

Ohtar threw up his hands in disgust and addressed the whole group, his voice dripping disapproval.  “And why should he not?  His very life DOES depend on the good will and strength of a frail mortal!”

He snorted.  “Of course, you will note the elfling’s reaction also implies a large measure of trust, not fear.  I realize most of you have had very little contact with the Secondborn and are reacting to the stories you have heard about them.  However, not all men pose a threat.  Remember that.”  He glared pointedly at the bows still drawn.  “You may be new to the Southern Patrol, but you are not novices.  I expect you to act and react like the seasoned, responsible warriors you are.”

“Now,” he snapped out, one hand slashing through the air in an imperious gesture of command as his exasperation finally overrode his patience, “lower your weapons before you hurt someone.”

The patrol members, chagrin clearly expressed in the looks exchanged between them, quickly complied with their commander’s order.  Ohtar harrumphed, staring at them one interminable moment longer before turning away to study the man.

The elf approached the bay horse with care, stopping a short distance away, admiring the strength evident in the big, rawboned frame.  No delicate, graceful creature here.  This one had been bred for hard work and stamina – and had learned the lesson of loyalty from the man on his back.  Recognizing the warning stamp of hooves, the nervous tossing of the animal’s head and laid back ears, he began singing in a calm, quiet voice.  The lilting sound of the song eventually registered with both man and beast.  The horse’s ears perked forward and his restless shifting about ceased.  Ohtar stepped forward, smiling as the horse shoved his nose into his chest in an unashamed bid for petting, while his rider finally lifted his head to look at the elf standing before him.

Ohtar found himself staring into eyes a deep indigo blue…eyes shining with resolution.  As the two stared at each other, Ohtar knew the instant the man’s resolution turned into defiance.  The elf almost smiled.  One had to admire this one’s foolish courage.  He would not back down, despite the fact he was outnumbered and unarmed.  Ohtar spotted the blade at the man’s waist.  Well, at least he had not drawn his weapon as of yet.  They were such an unpredictable race – capable of much loyalty and bravery – as well as unimaginable cruelty and treachery.  This man, however, appeared to be one of the good ones.

“I can think of at least three pressing questions I could ask…” he began in flawless, lightly accented Westron.

The man gasped upon hearing words he at last understood.  “Please!” he cried, his voice hoarse and pleading.  “Ye must summon more of yer warriors!”  Ohtar lifted one disbelieving eyebrow at this obvious lack of manners, preparing to rip a strip off the presumptuous mortal’s hide when the man choked out, “Spiders!  Huge, black ones!  Back down the trail!  Please, ye must believe me…”

His words sputtered to a halt when the elfling, who had stopped crying and began listening when he heard the sound of his own language, turned towards Ohtar and released a frantic flood of Sindarin.

“Whatever he was telling you is true, Captain!  I was playing near our village and followed a bird through the woods to find its nest…”  The child sniffed, fighting tears.  “I went further than I knew and one of those black spiders snuck up behind me and knocked me out of the tree.”  He gulped back a sob.  “It followed me to the ground, hissing ‘here was a fine and tender meal’.  I ran and ran and it went back into the trees and followed me…teasing…”  The child finally lost his composure and collapsed, sobbing into Darius’ soft shirt.

“Spiders?” Ohtar muttered.  “This far north?  It cannot be…”  After watching the man try to comfort the frantic child, the elf made a quick decision.  Turning to the waiting warriors, who had listened to the child’s account with growing alarm, he began firing off orders.  “Tathor, how far are we from the rendezvous point with the Eastern Patrol?”

Tathor’s reply came immediately.  “Less than two leagues, Captain.”

“Take the man and the child NOW to our meeting place.  Nilmar…Arhael…you will accompany them.”  He paused.  “Tathor, go on and ride Maethor.  I will join the others on the ground or in the trees, if necessary.”  Nodding their assent, the warriors moved to do his bidding. 

Tathor went to the bay horse, singing softly as he took the reins and led the animal over to Ohtar’s imposing gray stallion, Maethor.  After a brief moment communing with the captain’s horse, he leapt onto the strong back, keeping the reins firmly in hand and bringing the bay up beside them.  The two horses examined each other; Maethor giving a suspicious snort while the bay horse maintained his calm, yet watchful, demeanor.  Tathor, grinning at the insulted toss of the sculpted head, murmured to the big grey, “He does not seem too impressed, my friend.”

Darius, meanwhile, watched all the change with growing alarm until Tathor noted his unease and leaned over, saying in halting Westron, “Do not fear.  We are taking you to a safe place.”  Nilmar and Arhael took up their places on either side of the horses; they would serve as the party’s escort.

Once Ohtar saw the little procession on its way, he turned to what was left of his patrol, ordering, “You three – with me.”  The remaining warriors fell into step behind him as he led them further down the path towards the spiders’ lair.

                                                                    XXX

Darius felt some of the tension ooze from his muscles as the elf led Cinder down the trail away from the spiders.  According to their guide, they were being taken somewhere safe while the commander and the remaining patrol went to check out his story.  He hoped they were careful.  He hated to think of those fair elven warriors trussed up in spider silk and served as the main course of the evening meal.  Shuddering at the gruesome thought, he hugged Gilfileg, smiling slightly as the child sighed and burrowed deeper into his arms.  At least the little one was safe and would see his family soon.

May that wish hold true for us all.  Darius thought wistfully of Cara and home with all its mundane chores as they turned off the main trail onto a very faint track that led to who knew where.

                                                                    XXX

“Captain?” Gwaelas whispered.  “Now what?”

Ohtar stared at the dead spider, idly noting the placement of the mortal wound and sighed.  “It would seem Shadow has somehow managed to breech our lines and thinks to establish a foothold here.”  He stood abruptly, hands on hips as his keen gray eyes studied the forest, noting signs of both the man’s and the elfling’s passage.

“Gwaelas, you and I will locate the nest.  According to the man, it is not too far from here.”  Gwaelas nodded, his face set and pale.

“Artamir, you and Galthor make your way towards the west – make it a wide circle in order to avoid this path.  Find the elfling’s village.  I have not been in this area in years.  There were once several villages in this area.  Perhaps they still exist.  If so, the child is probably from the nearest one.”  He gazed intently at the two.  “Stay together.  And stay out of the trees.”  The two warriors exchanged uneasy glances at that command as their captain continued.  “Once you find the village, stay there.  Warn the people and make certain that everyone is accounted for.  Set a perimeter guard, even if all they have in the way of arms is hunting bows.  We will join you as soon as possible with reinforcements.”

He paused.  “I know this goes against everything in you to do nothing.  I, too, can hear the despair and pain in the trees’ song.  But I need you to stay in the village and keep them calm.  Once you locate the elfling’s parents, tell them he is safe and we will bring him home sometime tomorrow.  I hesitate to split our forces any further, but there is no help for it if we are to do all that needs doing.  Once we have joined the Eastern Patrol, we will make short work of the nest and its occupants.

Ohtar held up a hand to forestall the protest he saw building.  “You will both get a chance to participate, believe me.  We will need to track any spiders that might be away at the time we dispose of the nest.  That will require a sweep of a large area.”

He smirked at the feral smiles now gracing his warriors’ faces.  “Yes, yes, children.  Then we will chase them all the way back to Dol Guldur!”  Once the laughter had subsided, he asked, “Everyone satisfied now?  Good.  On your way, then.”

Ohtar and Gwaelas watched their companions disappear into the forest.  Ohtar frowned at the lengthening shadows.  They would need to hurry if they were to find the infestation and still make the rendezvous before dark.  He motioned to Gwaelas.  “Let us go find that nest.”

                                                                    XXX

Darius knew they must be nearing their destination when the elf leading Cinder sent one member of their escort ahead.  The elf returned within minutes and after a hushed conversation with Tathor, they continued on their way.

Shortly after, the track they were following broke free of the dense forest into a small meadow, which was currently hosting yet another patrol.  Darius counted at least nine elves involved setting up a camp in the clearing.

“Tathor!”  A tall, golden-haired figure turned from speaking with several other elves and crossed the camp with long strides to greet them. 

The two clasped shoulders in what was obviously a warrior’s greeting, smiling and exchanging news and in Tathor’s case, explanations, in their musical language.

Once Tathor and the guards left to clean up and eat, Darius found himself under the intense scrutiny of the tall warrior, who, judging by the deferential attitude of the others, was the captain of this group.  He swung a leg over Cinder and slid off the big horse, carefully holding Gilfileg who had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and stepping forward to meet his host.

“I am Legolas Thranduilion,” the elf introduced himself in fluent Westron, bowing slightly.  The man stifled a gasp of recognition as the elf laid a hand lightly on the bundle in Darius’ arms that was Gilfileg.  “And who is this?”

“His name is Gilfileg, my lord,” Darius replied, nodding his head in respect.  “My name is Darius.”  That gentle hand ghosted over the elfling’s dark hair and Darius was stunned by the warm beauty of the elf’s – no, the Prince’s – smile.

“Come, Darius,” he invited.  “Sit by the fire and be welcome.  After you eat, you can tell us about yourself and the spiders you found.”  Darius followed the son of the Elvenking, still cradling the sleeping child.

“You may lay him here, Darius.”  A dark-haired elf appeared at his side, placing a pallet of blankets on the ground a short distance from the fire and speaking as he worked.  “Then you will be able to eat freely.”  Between the two of them, they managed to settle the youngster, who paid them no mind other that to turn over with a grumble and pull a light blanket almost over his head.  Man and elf shared a grin and left the elfling to rest.

Darius sank down on the other side of Gilfileg and let out a long relieved breath.  The dark-haired elf, apparently an aide of some sort, handed him a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of bread before bowing and leaving them to talk.

Prince Legolas asked a few thoughtful questions, and Darius was surprised at how easily the two of them conversed.  For over an hour, they ate while he spoke of his life on his farm, of Cara and the child to come, his concerns about the lack of rain, of the sense that something was wrong in the woods and finally, of the spiders and Gilfileg.  At the end, Legolas sat back and thoughtfully considered the man sitting across from him.

“You risked much, Darius,” he remarked.  “I cannot decide if you are impossibly brave or incredibly foolish.”

Darius laughed.  “Ye and my Cara must meet, my lord.  Ye sound just like her.”

At that moment, the same dark-haired elf approached, bending over to whisper something in his commander’s ear.  Legolas nodded.  “Thank you, Anárion.”  He stood and looked down at his guest.

“Rest now, my friend,” he instructed.  “and know that you have our unending gratitude for not only your information about the spiders, but also for the life of young Gilfileg.  We will return you to your home as soon as possible.”

“But the spiders…”

Prince Legolas clasped Darius’ shoulder and gently squeezed.  “Worry not,” he said, his gray eyes steely with resolve.  “We will deal with that evil presently.”

With those words, Legolas walked away, calling for several others to attend him.  Anárion returned and handed Darius more bedding.

“Sleep, Darius,” he repeated his Captain’s words.  “We will keep watch.”

Darius sighed; it seemed pointless to argue with these suddenly deaf elves.  He rolled up in a blanket and by the time Ohtar arrived, he was fast asleep.

                                                                    XXX

Night had settled over the forest when the outer guards sounded the alert signaling new arrivals.

“Ohtar!”  Legolas saluted the past commander of all the forces of Eryn Galen, grinning when the older elf waved his very proper salute aside and took him into his arms for a brief, but fierce embrace.

“It is good to see you again, youngling.”  Ohtar stepped back, studying the King’s son with shrewd eyes.  “I see the responsibility of a patrol has added a worry line or two, Legolas.”

Legolas brushed aside Ohtar’s observation with a scowl and a grimace.  “Did you find the nest?”

“I did.” A short, succinct reply, guaranteed to drive the younger elf mad with curiosity.

“And…” 

“Gather your warriors, Captain,” Ohtar ordered, amused.  “I believe we have an engagement with some spiders to plan.”

“What of the man and the child?” he asked, once Legolas returned to his side, his warriors congregating behind him, their voices muted, their eagerness almost palpable.

“He and Gilfileg are asleep,” Legolas replied.  “According to Darius, it has been a long, fraught-filled day for the both of them.  Darius has eaten and Anárion will feed the little one if he awakens.  They are bedded down near the fire.  In fact, we should do our talking on the other side of the camp so as not to disturb them.”

The Prince led the assembled group to one of the several perimeter fires, and they gathered around a crouching Ohtar as he drew a rough map in the dirt, outlining the layout of the spider’s lair.  “This is a relatively small colony,” he sketched the cluster of beech and oak with its small clearing, “with four nests and anywhere from six to eight spiders attending each nest.  At least we hope there are only that many.  However, we should be prepared for more, just in case.”

The stick marked the location of each nest.  “This nest,” he circled one near the center of the colony, “has an egg sac.”  Ohtar looked up, his expression stern.  “The spiders will swarm to that one once they realize what is happening.”

He nodded to Legolas, who took over the briefing.  “We will concentrate our initial attack on that nest and spread out from that point.  Since the spiders are inactive at night, we will wait here, resting and readying our weapons.  Two hours before dawn, we will move out and take our places surrounding the nests.  At dawn, we will attack.”

He paused to allow the approving murmurs to subside.  “I would prefer to burn those foul carcasses, but in this weather and with the forest this dry, we will have to bury them.”  He tapped his chin thoughtfully.  “A small fire, however, to burn the egg sac, would be prudent.  We do not need any surprise hatchlings later.”  Several of his warriors grinned at the Prince’s dry tone of voice. 

Ohtar leaned towards Legolas and whispered, “Silk?” 

Legolas grimaced.  Sticky, nasty, unfortunately useful, stuff.  “As I have been reminded,” he bowed towards Ohtar, who nodded his dark head regally in return, “we should also harvest the useful silk.  You are all aware of the thicker strands prized by the palace weavers.  The newer, more delicate strands should be handled carefully and preserved for the healers.  Bury the rest.  Once our chores…” more grins from his fellow warriors “…are completed, we will make a thorough sweep of the area from here south to the mountains.”

“There are villages scattered throughout this area that will need to be warned, Captain,” Anárion told them.  “We should probably start with Gilfileg’s home.”

Legolas thought for a moment.  “You are from this area, are you not, Anárion?”  At his aide’s nod, he said, “I know it has been some time since you visited, but get out the maps and mark the approximate locations of the villages you are aware of.” 

“Yes, Captain,” the elf replied and went to fetch the maps each patrol carried. 

Legolas looked over his remaining warriors.  “Celebgil and Falas will stay behind on guard duty.  At dawn, they will break camp and bring Darius and Gilfileg, along with the horses, to us.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ohtar caught a sudden movement from Tathor and lifted an eyebrow in surprise as the young elf raised his hand to catch Legolas’ attention.  “They will need a guide, my lord.  I will stay behind and lead them to where we first met, if that is acceptable.”  He glanced at Ohtar, who agreed. 

“That should be close enough.  We will watch for you.”  The usually dour Captain allowed a small, approving smile to grace his features.  “Well thought, Tathor.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Tathor murmured.

Legolas gestured to a silent elf standing off to one side of the group, watching the proceedings with keen-eyed interest.  “Tarmadîn?”  The elf straightened to attention.  “You will watch for Celebgil and Falas.  Of all of us, you hear the forest most clearly.  The trees will let you know when they come?” 

“Yes, my lord,” the elf’s voice was soft.  “I will see that I am informed when they arrive.”

Legolas nodded in satisfaction.  Tarmadîn was one of the oldest elves of the Greenwood and his most accomplished scout.  He could easily watch for the others and kill his share of spiders, too.

The Prince rose, a signal to all that the meeting was at an end.  “You have about six hours before we must leave.  Use your time wisely.”  The elves drifted off to attend to various tasks.  Ohtar and Legolas settled by the fire and spoke of the coming confrontation, discussing strategy and the placement of their respective warriors.

“You seemed surprised Tathor offered to stay, Ohtar,” Legolas commented, eyeing the old soldier sitting across from him, examining each arrow in his quiver for flaws or damage.  He had his own bow in his lap, replacing the string.

“He is a friend of yours?” Ohtar asked, sighting down the length of one arrow, looking for any cracks in the wood. 

“We were novices together,” Legolas replied, tensing.  A much younger Tathor had gained a reputation based on a few…well, maybe more than a few…reckless exploits.  Now that he was older, he was finding it hard to overcome that label, despite the fact he had become a proficient warrior.  Legolas often found himself defending him.  “He is a good warrior, Ohtar.  He…”

Ohtar raised one hand, ending the impending diatribe before it could begin.  “No need to defend him, my Prince.  Although he is an impetuous one, I see much promise in him.”  Ohtar returned his arrows to the quiver.  His sharp, intelligent eyes pinned the prince.  “He has not had the guidance and strong discipline you have received, but I have seen him take correction and apply it.  Along with Belegdor’s recommendation, I am encouraged.”

Legolas chuffed.  “At least he has been sent to your patrol.  It seems I am doomed to stay close to home.  Any idea when I will be allowed to come south, Captain?”

“When your lord father deems it time.”  Ohtar studied the strong young elf fondly.

“I am ready now, Ohtar,” Legolas complained softly.

“I know.  But HE is not ready.”  Ohtar rose and held out his hand to lift the young Prince to his feet.  “Patience, Legolas.  Your time will come…and the south with all its dark troubles is not going anywhere.  Now, attend me, youngling.  I am hungry and I noticed Gwindor is in charge of the cooking tonight.  I will need you to test the stew before I try it.”  He smirked at Legolas’ squawk of protest as they ambled over to join the others.

                                                                    XXX

Two hours before dawn, twenty-two elven warriors took to the trees, moving cautiously through the branches until they reached their destination.  Legolas and Ohtar directed pairs of elves into position until the nests were surrounded.  Then they waited for sunrise, the despairing song of the afflicted trees igniting a cold rage in the elves as they listened.

The sky had just begun to brighten when a clacking sound issued from the nests, shattering the stillness of the forest.  The first black body emerged from one of the nests, followed by another and then another.  The captains signaled their warriors, the loud twang of bowstrings being released echoed, and with a shout, the battle was joined.  The great spiders swarmed from their nests, making their way through the trees towards the egg sac like a vile, rippling wave of darkness.  Each elf worked with a partner, efficiently maneuvering limb to limb, methodically eliminating the creatures with one well-placed arrow after another.  Bodies of spiders began piling up on the forest floor like dead leaves.  And still they came.

Legolas loosed an arrow into one particularly grotesque spider, watching it drop to the ground in a writhing heap before glancing at the next tree just in time to finish off a spider sneaking up on a preoccupied Narmacil.  A distressed murmur from the tree behind him alerted him to further danger and, pivoting gracefully, he buried another bolt in a spider preparing to drop onto Taurdil.

“Legolas, above you!” shouted Anárion.

The Prince looked up as one of the arachnids dropped swiftly toward his head.  Swiftly balancing with the obliging tree’s help, he leaned back, changing the trajectory of his arrow to an upward flight into the abdomen of the spider, ducking his head in an effort to avoid the stinking black blood that rained down on him.  Leaping to the next branch, he continued his attack when a sudden cracking sound jerked his attention to one of the trees nearest the clearing.  He watched in horror as the limb gave way and two bodies plummeted to the ground, several of the spiders immediately following them down, suspended on long ropes of silk.

“Narmacil!  Gwindor!”  Releasing two arrows in rapid succession, he impaled one of the descending spiders with such force it was knocked clear of its silk rope and flung twenty feet away from the fallen elves. 

Narmacil rose, shaking his head to clear it, standing over the alarmingly still body of his partner, and firing at the threat overhead.  Legolas and Anárion scrambled through the branches in an effort to reach his side, keeping up a continuous barrage to deflect any attack on the helpless pair.  Legolas had skewered another monster when he realized his quiver was empty. 

Slipping his bow into its place on his back and drawing one of the long knives in a fluid, practiced motion, the Prince struck a blow to an oncoming spider that almost cleaved it in two.  All around ink-black blotches of blood pooled around the bodies of the dead and dying arachnids, their stench rising into the air like a poisonous cloud.  Dispatching another troublesome, hissing opponent, he heard Ohtar send some of his warriors in pursuit of several fleeing creatures. He paused, surprised, breathing heavily, his sword drawn back for another blow.  A swift scan of the clearing and the trees overhead told its own story; the attacking spiders were no more.  The battle was over. 

“Taurdil!” he called for his second in command.  “I will need an accounting now!”

“Yes, Captain.”  Taurdil, who had been expecting just such an order, turned and yelled, “Ascarion, to me!”

Ascarion appeared at his side and delivered his report in a low voice.  Taurdil listened closely, the hard expression on his face easing at the news. 

As Legolas heard members of his patrol responding, he relaxed somewhat, flexing his blood-slick fingers on the sword’s hilt.  The call, “All accounted for!” came some moments later and the Prince drew his first deep breath since the battle began.

“Start disposing of this mess,” he gestured towards the webs and carcasses on the ground.  “Be certain to get that egg sac.” 

Ascarion motioned to several nearby warriors and they set to work digging the deep hole that would eventually serve as the dead spiders’ grave.  Taurdil saluted and gathered the remaining elves to help pick up the deadfall for the small fire and collect the egg sac to be burned. 

Legolas joined Anárion and Narmacil, who were crouched beside the fallen Gwindor.  Narmacil was supporting Gwindor in a sitting position, but Legolas could see the elf was still dazed, one side of his face covered with blood.  Both of his friends were checking him over closely, looking for spider bites.

Finally, Narmacil looked up at his captain and said, “No bites, my lord.  Most of the blood is from that cut on his head.  He is most certainly concussed, and I think his arm is broken.  I will have Tarmadîn look at it when he gets back.  He is a much more accomplished healer than I am.”  Anárion took a length of cloth and dampened it with water from his waterskin, gently wiping off the blood coating the side of Gwindor’s face.

He, too, looked up at Legolas with a faint smile.  “A stitch or two to close this up and a week or so to let that arm heal…he will recover to delight us with his cooking once more, my lord.”  He gazed past Legolas.  “And it looks as though Tarmadîn has arrived with Tathor and the others.”

Legolas turned just as the horses paused at the edge of the clearing.  “Stay there,” he called, running over to grab the headstall of the nervous, fidgety Cinder.  “The horses will not appreciate the scent of blood and spider.” 

“It looks as if hunting was good, my lord,” a grinning Tathor called. 

“Hunting was excellent, Tathor!” Legolas returned the grin before turning to Tarmadîn.  “Your healing skills are needed, my friend.  Gwindor managed to slay many spiders, but he broke himself in the process!” 

“I will see to him immediately, Captain,” Tarmadîn saluted and after a quick word with his horse, hurried off to tend to the injured Gwindor.

Legolas looked up at an ashen-faced Darius.  “All right, my friend?” he asked in Westron.

Darius nodded and observed, “Ye are covered with that foulness, my lord.”

Legolas sighed.  “I did not duck fast enough.”  He laughed at the man’s disgusted expression.  “Wait here with Tathor.  We will go to Gilfileg’s village as soon as I can find Ohtar.”

Tathor leaned forward, controlling his commanding officer’s horse with his knees.  “There is the Captain now, my lord.  And Artamir is with him.  They will know the way.”

                                                                    XXX

Several hours later, a weary group of elves entered a village made up of several small houses and twice as many flets.  Two upset elves rushed from one of the small houses as Gilfileg leapt from Cinder’s back and fell into their arms, crying and apologizing.  The other villagers gathered around the three, cheering and laughing in relief while the warriors watched the reunion, feeling a little relieved themselves.

A lean, black-haired elf left the happy gathering and walked over to the warriors.  “Welcome!  I am Dorlas!  You are most welcome indeed!  Galthor and Artamir have told us of the danger in our forest.  Have those foul creatures been destroyed?”

Legolas and Ohtar stepped forward and bowed to the village leader.  “Well met, Dorlas,” Legolas greeted him.  “I am Legolas, captain of the Eastern Patrol and this is the captain of the Southern Patrol, Ohtar.  Yes, the spiders are no more, at least, for now.”

Dorlas shook his head sadly.  “We have been busy this summer, what with the heat driving the animals far from their normal homes in search of water.  Our own water source is spring-fed, so we do not suffer as much as some.  I will take some of my people gifted in forestry to minister to the affected trees tomorrow, if you deem it safe.”

Legolas looked thoughtful.  “I believe I will leave two warriors here with you, Dorlas, if you are agreeable.  They will keep watch for a fortnight to be certain the threat does not return.”

Dorlas looked thrilled at the notion.  “We would be most grateful, Captain.  In truth, there are times when the villages of the interior forest feel forgotten…”  He paused at Legolas’ start of surprise, rushing to reassure the warrior.  “We are well aware that the patrols are border patrols, Captain.  And we know help would come if we should need it…as it has now.” 

Ohtar and Legolas exchanged troubled looks.  How many other small villages such as this one were scattered about, becoming more and more isolated over the years from the main settlements of the north because of the distances involved? 

Legolas drew a deep breath.  “Dorlas, I would speak with you about this matter later, if you would.  At length.”  Dorlas agreed warily. 

“Something must be done to lessen the isolation of villages such as this one,” the Prince explained.  “Perhaps my father…” 

A horrified look of recognition dawned on Dorlas’ face.  “Legolas…the Prince?” he gasped, offering a belated, heartfelt bow.  “My lord, I did not realize…you were just a child the last time…” 

Legolas placed a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder to halt his stumbling words.  “Nay, Dorlas.  Do not apologize.  I am very glad this happened.  None of our people should ever feel ‘forgotten’!  It is just that we are spread so thin…and the forest is vast…”  He shook his head.  “But enough excuses.  We will talk, you and Ohtar and I, update our maps and make some changes in our patrol routes.  It may even be possible to create a new patrol, dedicated to the farthest reaches of the interior forest.” 

Dorlas looked stunned.  “Such would be welcome by all.  There are times…” his voice trailed away, his eyes shadowed. 

Ohtar laid a consoling hand on the elf’s other shoulder.  “I can only imagine, my friend.  We will provide a temporary remedy for that until the King can put something more permanent in place.” 

Dorlas smiled.  “Please understand.  We do not blame the King for this.  Oh, there is some anger now and then when things become difficult, but the leaders of our settlements meet often and we have helped each other out whenever necessary.  We knew when King Thranduil moved the capital north that it would be almost impossible to stay in touch with those who refused to move with him.  He did warn us.” 

Legolas shook his head again, his voice adamant as he spoke, “You are a part of us, Dorlas.  We have been negligent.  It shall be remedied.” 

Dorlas and Ohtar studied the sudden transformation of a simple woodland captain to the son of the Elvenking and exchanged smiles.  This one was indeed a worthy scion of the noble house of Oropher and it boded well for all the small settlements in this part of the wood, now that their plight had come to his attention. 

“Well good, good!” Dorlas exclaimed.  “But where are my manners?  You must be hungry and tired.  We will show you where to camp and I believe a meal has been prepared for you.  There will be time for discussion and plans later after you have rested.”  He looked past Legolas at the man still mounted on Cinder, looking decidedly uncomfortable.  “Is that the man that saved Gilfileg?”   

“Yes,” Legolas replied.  “His name is Darius.”

“Amazing,” murmured Dorlas.  “Will you translate for me, my lord?”

Legolas grinned.  “I would be delighted.”

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of mixed business and pleasure.  The two patrols enjoyed a delicious lunch with the villagers, consisting of roasted venison, fresh vegetables, warm, crusty loaves of bread, and a luscious berry pie which sent Tathor into a rapturous swoon and the villagers into gales of laughter.  They were able to bathe…”full immersion!” moaned an ecstatic Taurdil…in a quiet, spring-fed pool and set up a joint camp in the midst of some lovely, welcoming trees just outside the village.  Legolas walked among the towering beech and old oak, pleased to find this part of the wood murmured a contented song, the trees rustling a welcome to him as he passed.  No filthy webs or encroaching darkness had touched this place.  Even the heat of the summer failed to penetrate the heavy canopy, although the air felt dry and tasted of dust at times. 

Legolas spent several hours that afternoon with Dorlas, discussing the needs and concerns of these most distant of Thranduil’s subjects.  The Prince watched the open, trusting face of Dorlas as he spoke and vowed that they would never feel so alone again…and knowing his father as he did, he imagined a visit from the King would not be long in coming.

After supper, the two captains set up rotating guard duty around the village for the night and made assignments for the next few days.  Looking at maps of the area which Dorlas and his foresters had updated, they planned patrol routes and devised a means of communication with each other and the villages from that point on.    

Then Legolas and Ohtar spent the rest of the evening with Darius, describing the battle in graphic detail to the man and laughing at his nauseated expressions.  “If you are going to make a habit of helping the elves, Darius, you are going to have to toughen up,” Legolas told him, dodging the man’s good-natured, playful swipe at his head.  When Gilfileg came to drag Darius off to see his home and meet again with his grateful parents, Legolas tagged along, a welcome addition to the impromptu party.

Leading the bemused man later back to the camp, Legolas asked, “Well, Darius, are the elves everything you thought they might be, or have we disappointed you?”

“Disappointed?  How could I possibly be disappointed, my lord?  Except for that first misunderstanding, I have been treated with nothing but courtesy and kindness.”  The man fell silent for awhile and Legolas could sense he was troubled by his thoughts.

“What is it, my friend?” he asked.

Darius looked at the elf walking beside him, glowing faintly in the dark, a gleaming accompaniment to the soft silver light of the stars above.  “I wish other men could know ye as I have come to…could see ye as I have.  Maybe then they wouldn’t be so afraid.”  He glanced again at his companion.  “Maybe our two peoples could learn to be friends rather than just passing acquaintances that don’t trust each other.”

Legolas sighed and gazed at the stars overhead.  “I would wish it so, Darius.”  He stopped and faced the man, clasping his shoulder.  “It is a worthy goal.  Let it begin with us then.”

Darius clasped the elf’s shoulder in return and replied simply, “Yes.”

The next morning after a hearty breakfast, Legolas chose three warriors to accompany him and Darius to the man’s farm.

As they prepared to leave, Gilfileg came pelting across the open green, gasping, “Please let me ride with you, my lord.  I would see where he lives and thank his wife for letting him come.”  He paused.  “My parents said I might if you give permission,” he added belatedly, turning big, pleading eyes on the Prince.

Legolas grinned at the child – he had told him all about Darius’ farm and his wife, Cara.  He had also mentioned to the elfling the fact that Darius’ delayed return almost guaranteed his wife’s wrath. 

“Would you mind sharing Cinder with Gilfileg again, my friend?” he asked Darius, who had watched the elfling’s performance and now struggled not to laugh.  “He wishes to thank your good wife for allowing you to make your trip into the forest.”

Darius flashed the elfling a bright smile.  “Of course, he is more than welcome to ride with me.”  Legolas smothered his laughter when he heard the man mutter to himself, “Maybe he can save me from Cara.”

                                                                    XXX

The youngest son of Rendan, one Jaren by name, was in the midst of concocting a plot.  He loved plotting and he was good at it, too.  As the youngest (hah! eight wasn’t so young!) of three brothers, one either learned to plot and to execute said plots, or one faced annihilation at the hands of the others.  It was a simple case of survival; the fact Jaren enjoyed the process was a side benefit.

At the moment, he was deep into planning a way to convince Mama and Papa that he belonged on the farm here with his Uncle Darius.  The boy was mentally listing his arguments as he forked hay into the feed trough for the cattle, muttering to himself, “Besides, Mama, I LOVE the farm and the animals.  I don’t like livin’ in town and I hate the smell of fish all the time…”

The sound of hoofbeats interrupted his impassioned, imaginary plea, drawing his eyes across the field nearest the treeline.  Seconds passed, his mind unable to reconcile what his eyes were seeing.  Five riders had emerged from the trees and were making their way towards the house.  He recognized the big rangy bay, Cinder, with his uncle astride.  And riding alongside was…

The boy shaded his eyes with one hand, staring for one long moment before dropping the pitchfork and breaking for the house at a dead run.

“Mama!  Papa!  Aunt Cara!” he hollered at the top of his voice.

His big brothers, Brand and Garlon, stepped out of the barn.  “What’s the matter with ye?  Are ye daft?  Yer screamin’ like a girl, Jaren!” yelled the eldest, Brand.

All Jaren could do was point in the general direction of the riders and keep running.  His father stepped out of the house about the time he reached the yard and came down the steps to meet his son.

“Papa…” Jaren gasped.

“Hush,” his papa hissed, jerking his head back towards the front door as his pale blue eyes took in the scene unfolding before him.  “I see them.  Into the house with yer mama, now.”  Knowing better than to argue, Jaren slipped past the door and into his mother’s arms.  Both women were white-faced and silent.  They could also see well enough who accompanied Darius.

“Darius,” moaned Cara to herself.  “What have ye gotten yerself into?”

Outside, Brand and Garlon raced to stand beside their father.  At the ages of fourteen and sixteen, the boys felt old enough to offer their support and did not hesitate to do so.  “Not a word, boys,” their father greeted them in an almost inaudible voice.  His sons nodded quickly.  All was silent but for the rhythmic pounding of the approaching horses’ hooves.

Who is that riding behind Uncle Darius?  Brand strained to see the figure more clearly.  What the…is that…?  He exchanged amazed glances with his brother and father, the beginnings of relieved smiles blooming on their faces.

“Cara!  Nola!  Jaren!” Rendan called.  “Ye can come out – it’s alright.  Ye have GOT to see this!”

The door burst open as Jaren flew out to join the men, the women following at a more sedate pace.  Cara looked at Nola, who gave a half-hearted shrug and said, “Well, love, he’s always wanted to meet some of the Fair Folk.”

Cara growled softly, “After I kiss him senseless, I am going to KILL him fer scarin’ me this way!”

Nola grinned at her sister-in-law.  “Well, he’ll be dyin’ a happy man then!”

Cara scowled at Nola before the absurdity of the statement reduced her to giggles.  “Aye, but he’ll still be a dead man!” she promised.

The horses trotted towards the waiting group, three of the riders pulling up a distance away to allow Darius and an elf with hair the color of sunlight to approach alone.  Darius dismounted only to find his arms filled immediately with a tearful wife.  He held her close, murmuring soft words of comfort – only to have her rear back after a few moments and poke him in the chest.  The questions came fast and furious then, and he was hard pressed to get a word in edgewise.  Jaren, recognizing a lengthy tirade when he heard one, edged away from his mother as they moved forward to welcome his uncle back and slipped over to stand by Cinder, looking up at the young elf perched on the broad back.  The blonde warrior mounted on a magnificent gray stallion smiled as the two youngsters stared at each other with unabashed curiosity.

“I’ll tell ye everything later,” Darius protested over the deluge of questions thrown at him.  “Only let me introduce ye now.”

Everyone turned to the two elves as Darius said, “My lord, this is my wife Cara, my brother, Rendan and his wife Nola, and their three sons, Brand, Garlon, and Jaren.”  Each bowed or curtseyed as Darius called their names.

“This is Gilfileg.”  Darius gestured to the young elf on Cinder’s back who grinned at them shyly.  “And Prince Legolas, the son of the Elvenking.”  The golden-haired elf bowed, the warm smile on his face quickly easing the trepidation the mortals had felt upon hearing his name.

“I am pleased to meet you,” the Prince responded.  “As is Gilfileg, although he cannot greet you appropriately.”  Hearing his name, the elfling asked the Prince something, who answered in the same fluid, musical language.

“Gilfileg wishes to greet you also,” the Prince said, “and to say, Mistress Cara, that he is VERY glad you allowed your husband to make his trip into the forest.”

“Of course, my lord,” Cara replied graciously, looking curiously at her husband.  Nola swallowed a laugh when Darius shook his head at Cara’s silent, questioning gaze and mouthed, “Later,” and exchanged amused smiles with Rendan.  Even the Prince watched the exchange with laughing eyes. 

Cara stepped around her clueless husband and addressed the grinning elf.  “Prince Legolas, won’t ye and yer men stay fer a meal?”

The Prince shook his head, his regret clear in the expressive gray eyes and the rueful smile.  “Nay, mistress.  Gilfileg must return to his family before nightfall and I am expected by my patrol.  There is much to do in the Greenwood.  Perhaps another day?”

“Of course, my lord.  Ye are welcome at any time – the invitation stands.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Legolas replied with a courtly bow, as Darius walked over to his side and looked up.

“Ye have my gratitude, my lord,” he said quietly.  “Go safely.”

The elven Prince saluted the tall man, one hand over his heart, replying, “It is we who owe you a debt we cannot repay, Darius.  Go well, my friend, and may the stars shine on your pathway.  Gilfileg…”  He held out a hand as the youngster stood up on Cinder’s back and leapt gracefully into the elf’s waiting arms.  “Oh, and Darius…” Legolas grinned at the man.  “It would not be wise to turn your back on your wife any time soon.”

Darius blushed and sighed mournfully.  “Yes, I did notice, my lord.” 

“Gilfileg…” Darius turned to the elfling, who had watched the two say goodbye with tear-filled eyes.  “Ah, don’t, child…” Darius sighed, patting the little one’s leg.  “We will meet again, somehow,” he promised, knowing that the Prince would translate for him later. 

The child leaned down and patted the man on the cheek, sniffing just a little.  “Navaer, Darius,” he whispered.

“It has been an honor,” Prince Legolas said to the other humans, controlling his prancing stallion easily.  “Until we meet again.”  Lifting his hand in farewell, he nudged the horse away from the house and into a brisk trot, gathering his guards as he passed.

Darius watched until the group disappeared into the trees.  Turning to his family, he was confronted by six accusing faces and a thump on the arm.  A very hard thump.

“Ow,” he muttered, wincing.  Jaren grinned.  He was well acquainted with acts of retribution.

“Talk,” Cara ordered.  “Now.”