Summary:  The King receives a letter. 

Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the major characters and settings of Middle-earth.  They belong to JRR Tolkien.  I just like to play with them from time to time.

A/N:  Sorry again, RL will just not let go long enough for me to be consistent, and to top it all off, my computer had the gall to crash on me…*sigh*…but I’ll keep trying and offer my apologies now.  Thanks so much to NiRi for her suggestions/encouragements/corrections.    

*Italics are a wonderful thing!  Not only will character thoughts appear in italics, but also any flashbacks, letters, and quotes from the Professor.

Chapter 3:  In the Halls of the Elvenking

                             “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be

                                     stupid with them.”

                                                                         - Ralph Waldo Emerson

In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived at this time their greatest king.  Before his huge doors of stone a river ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marshes at the feet of the high wooded lands.  This great cave, from which countless smaller ones opened out on every side, wound far underground and had many passages and wide halls; but it was lighter and more wholesome than any goblin-dwelling and neither so deep nor so dangerous.  In fact the subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches.  The beeches were their favorite trees.  The king’s cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies. 

                                                                               -JRR Tolkien, THE HOBBIT

Baranthor, chief counselor to the king, and one of his oldest friends, paused in his afternoon meandering through the wide halls of the palace to study the two elves standing toe to toe outside a closed door, arguing.  Well, one of them was arguing while the other stood listening in stoic silence.  Curious.  Why would the king’s head butler and seneschal be arguing with one of the king’s elite guards?  He changed direction and approached the pair, who snapped to attention as soon as they noticed him. 

“Malvagor, Galion,” he greeted them, amusement evident in his gray eyes.  The two elves nodded in return.  “My lord,” murmured Galion.

“What seems to be the problem, Malvagor?” he asked the tall guard, one of the warriors dedicated to the king’s safety and privacy. 

Malvagor, face impassive and eyes straight ahead, replied, “The King has given strict orders he is not to be disturbed, my lord.”

Galion sputtered, waving a letter in front of Baranthor’s nose.  “He would not object to being disturbed for THIS!”  Shoving the dispatch into the counselor’s hand, he stepped back and stood straight and stiff, the very picture of elven indignation.  “As you are now here, my lord, perhaps you can talk some sense into this one’s thick head!  I will leave you to resolve this…this…impasse.”  With one last glare at the guard, he gave a disdainful sniff and stalked off down the hall.

Baranthor sighed, turning the letter over in his hands.  For such a staid, proper elf, Galion certainly made an impressive exit!  Trouble was, in this instance he was right – Thranduil would not object to an interruption for this.  He raised amused eyes to study the guard before him. 

“Well done, Malgavor,” he congratulated.  “I do believe he was almost frothing at the mouth.  It takes a certain talent to achieve that reaction from him.”  Holding the letter level with the guard’s eyes, he let the elf study the missive and its distinctive seal, knowing he would recognize both. 

Sure enough, Malgavor’s eyes widened and his face paled.  “Ah, yes…hmmm.  Ah…well.  Perhaps you should take it to him, my lord.”  He stepped aside with the alacrity of one attempting to avoid a particularly nasty collision, bowing as a grinning Baranthor opened the door and slipped into the room.

The chief councilor found himself in a familiar, well-appointed study, the stone floor carpeted against the underground chill with thick, hand woven rugs and furnished with handsome oak shelves full of hand-bound books and stacks of carefully preserved parchments.  Several elaborate tapestries depicting events from the history of Eryn Galen adorned the walls, adding splashes of color to the masculine room.  A grouping of comfortable chairs stood before an immense fireplace.  The Elvenking sat behind his large, ornate desk, eyes fastened on the document spread out before him. 

Baranthor was quick to note the forbidding expression and clenched jaw as the King growled, “What is it, Malvagor?” 

Hmmm.  The reports he had heard from about the palace by those in residence seemed quite accurate.  The old wolf was indeed fractious today, snarling and snapping at any provocation.  He stopped just in front of the door and waited for Thranduil to notice him and give his permission to advance.  The imposing elf’s foul mood was apparent, from the dark frown on his face to the tight fist grasping the quill.  When Thranduil glanced up and saw that it was not his guard intruding, he leaned back in his chair, glaring his displeasure as he tossed the quill down. 

“Baranthor, what do you want?” he asked rudely, gathering the scattered parchments and shoving them aside to one corner of the desk.  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he snapped at Baranthor’s hesitation, gesturing his friend forward.  “Come in, come in, if you must.”

Baranthor successfully smothered a smile as he strode forward.  One of intelligence did NOT poke at this angry wolf, at least not yet.  Since he considered his intellect well above average, he planned to at least gain a chair before testing his friend’s patience any further.  Now what could have spurred Thranduil’s anger so?  Either his morning meeting with Meneldur about the state of the realm’s treasury had not gone well, or the parchments just thrown aside concerned the proposed agreement with Erebor.  Baranthor would place his gold on the dwarves being the source of aggravation.

Drawing up a chair beside the desk, he sank down, sighing gratefully as he rearranged and smoothed his robes. The King watched the councilor’s delaying tactics for long moments, steel gray eyes turning glacial as his temper flared even higher.

“You try my patience, my friend,” he ground out.

Baranthor nodded.  “Yes, I know.”  Time for a poke or two.

One strong hand slapped the desk hard, the impact echoing through the chamber with the sound of a heavy mallet striking metal.  “I gave orders I was not to be disturbed…by ANYONE!”  For all its emphatic tone, the King’s pleasant baritone had softened, becoming silky and threatening.  Not a good sign. 

Baranthor clucked his tongue.  “Now, Thranduil,” he chided.  “When I saw this…” He waved the letter.  “…I knew you would want to see it immediately.  Why just the thought of Malvagor withholding it from you because of…”

“Baranthor!” Thranduil roared.  “Cease this drivel and give me that letter!  And trust me, it had better be impor…”

“It is from Legolas,” Baranthor inserted the Prince’s name quickly, handing him the communication and watching with delight as the temper and vitriol oozed from Thranduil like water from a punctured bladder skin.  Mission accomplished. 

He waited, his patience rewarded when his friend exhaled noisily and grumped, “Well, why did you not say so straight away?”  Thranduil glared at his visitor.  “Were you so certain I would not skewer you first and ask questions later?” 

At Baranthor’s impudent grin, he grunted and slouched in his chair, frowning as he ran gentle fingers over the surface of the parchment.  Baranthor again smothered a fond smile and set himself to soothe the troubled elf.  “You have been working too hard for too many days, my friend,” he said.  “I take it the proposed trade agreement sent from Erebor is completely untenable and we will be declaring war on the Naugrim within the week?” 

Thranduil huffed, “I wish.”  He stared at the letter for a long moment, then split the seal and unfolded the parchment, looking up in surprise as Baranthor rose to leave.  “You are not staying?”

Baranthor shook his head.  “Nay, my lord.  I will give you some privacy to read your son’s letter.  I am certain if his news concerns the realm, you will advise us at the council meeting tomorrow morning.” 

He was halfway to the door when he turned back for a final word.  “Read your son’s report, Thranduil.  Put that infernal proposal from the dwarves aside for a day or so until your temper cools.  Then perhaps we can examine it together before presenting it to the council next week.  Eat a substantial dinner and get a good night’s rest.”  He held up a hand to silence a protest.  “Do not argue with me.  You have been fretting and worrying over the forest’s song and simmering about that agreement with the dwarves for several weeks.  Now, do what I have said and you will find everything more palatable in the morning.” 

Thranduil’s eyebrow shot up in disbelief.  “Palatable?” he scoffed.  “Do not make me gag!” 

Baranthor laughed.  “Oh, all right.  Poor choice of words.”  His fair face grew serious once again.  “I meant what I said, my King.  You cannot make wise, informed decisions in your present state of mind.”

The old friends stared at each other, Baranthor shocked when Thranduil lowered his gaze first.  “Oh, all right.  As you wish, Naneth,” he muttered, frowning as his friend’s smile widened.  “Have I really been that bad?” 

At Baranthor’s happy nod, he let slip an unwilling grin.  “At least it keeps everyone on their toes.” 

His chief advisor snorted.  “Everyone would prefer to keep their feet FLAT on the ground, Thranduil.  Walking around you on tiptoe becomes most tiresome after a time.” 

Thranduil shrugged.  “I will appear most affable and contrite from now on.”

Baranthor almost choked.  “No one would ever believe it!  They would think the Elvenking kidnapped and an imposter put in his place!”

“I am NOT that bad!” Thranduil shot an affronted look at Baranthor, who could only shake his head.    “Oh, off with you, you impossible wretch!  I must see what my son has managed to get up to since last I heard from him.” 

Baranthor bowed and turned toward the door. 

“And inform Eloriel I will take my meal here in my study in two hours.” 

“I will let her know.”  One step. 

“And send in Malvagor as you leave.  I need some air and a hard, fast ride sounds just the thing before I eat.” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“And Baranthor?”  He turned back to look at the King, whose hard gaze now glimmered with affection.  “Thank you.  I will take your words under advisement.”

“Good.  Good.” Baranthor sighed in relief.  He hated seeing his boyhood friend so angry and upset; as he had pointed out, a temperamental Thranduil played havoc with everyone in the palace.  “I will pass your orders along.  Good night.” 

“Good night,” the King replied absently, waving a hand in dismissal, his eyes and attention already fixed on the letter. 

Baranthor paused outside to give the King’s orders to Malvagor.  “Surprised to see me alive, hmmm?” he teased the bemused elf.  “Give him a few moments to digest Legolas’ news; then go on in.”  Malvagor nodded his assent and resumed his stance at the door. 

Baranthor snorted softly to himself.  Malvagor was an elf of few words now, but he could remember not too long ago a black-haired, gray-eyed, chattering elfling pestering everyone in the palace with his questions.  Honestly, the youngsters these days took themselves much too seriously.  Come to think of it, Thranduil, who was old enough to know better, was almost as bad as the children.  It was time for a feast - a celebration of some sort - to lighten the atmosphere, which had become weighted with the ever-increasingly grim news from the south.  He walked on, lost in thought, composing several good excuses for a party to present to the council the next day.

                                                                    XXX

Thranduil rubbed a hand over his weary eyes after Baranthor left the room.  What an irritant Baranthor is…but he knows me well and his words have merit.  Ai!  I am so tired…and almost afraid to hear what Legolas has to report.  He smoothed the parchment, took a deep breath, and began to read.

To My Lord Father, Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Galen

From Legolas Thranduilion, Captain of the Eastern Border Patrol

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well and in fine spirits, terrorizing your council and Baranthor, as usual.  I am somewhat at a loss as to the formality required for this missive, since I write as captain to make a formal report, but also as your son.  Business first; then I hope to dispense with the formality altogether.   Thranduil grinned, some tightly wound place deep within easing as he read the familiar handwriting.  Since Legolas had taken on his first command as the captain of the Eastern Patrol, he had struggled with these reports.  Usually, they were stilted and cold, guaranteed to bring a smile to his father’s face at their earnest attempts to appear official and competent.   This one, however, sounded different.  Curiosity aroused, he continued reading.

You were right about the change in the tone of the forest.  The trees’ song had grown anxious, and the farther south our patrol traveled, the more oppressive the air and the song became.  I sent a messenger with word of the problem to Ohtar and the Southern Patrol some weeks ago.  He agreed the situation warranted investigating, and we set a rendezvous point in order to combine our forces for a sweep of the area.  Do not fear, Father – he did not bring his entire patrol, of course.  You know Ohtar – he would not leave the south unguarded.  He only brought a small contingent north and left Arlas in command.  However, our plan to locate the problem was unnecessary.  A most unexpected ally discovered the threat and showed us where to look.  A farmer, (yes, Father, a man!) whose land lies in the corner between the forest and the Celduin, sensed a danger lurking near his home and set out to find it.  What he found was a colony of the great spiders.  Individual nests which would normally house five or six of the foul creatures held over ten of the beasts, and one contained an almost mature egg sac!  We were able to destroy all of the nests, burying sixty-three of the adults and burning the egg sac, just to be sure nothing would hatch later.  Oh, and you will be pleased with the amount of silk, both for weaving and medicinal purposes, that was harvested.  I will be sending it north to the palace in a few days, along with a report for Aravir.   

Our forces sustained only one serious injury, as well as the usual scrapes and scratches.  Gwindor broke his arm and suffered a concussion in a fall, but is recovering nicely.  A sweep of the area showed no further incursions at this time.  Ohtar has since returned to the south with his warriors and will send you and Aravir an additional dispatch soon.  We are concerned that more warriors, or perhaps a whole new patrol, might be necessary to reinforce our presence in this area.  We have composed our report about this incident together to advise Aravir of the needs here and feel confident that, after discussing the problem with you, the matter will be addressed as soon as possible.  Why the villages in that area were not attacked, I do not know. 

What I do know is that this man saved many lives by giving us the information about the spiders.  His name is Darius, son of Olwain.  Remember Olwain, Father?  He is the head of the guilds of Esgaroth.  In addition to giving us vital information, Darius also saved an elfling from the nearest village who had wandered off.  He killed a spider that was chasing the child and was taking him to safety when Ohtar’s warriors found them.  Bravery such as that should not go unnoticed, Father.  And do not use the excuse he should not have been in our forest to begin with.  That does not negate the good he has done.  He has much good will towards the Wood-elves and their King, and while he holds a healthy respect for us, he is not afraid.  Only very, very curious.  I found him most refreshing, and worthy of our respect in return.  I will leave it to you to think of some way to reward him.  Thranduil paused, grimacing.  Reward him?  He stared off into space, one long finger tapping his lips thoughtfully.  So the mortal had saved an elfling AND killed one of the great spiders.  A brave man, indeed.  He knew from long experience that Legolas would never let this matter rest.  He was the most compliant of sons – until he got it in his head that someone was not being treated fairly.  Better to meet this man and see for himself if his child had been hood-winked by a self-serving, opportunistic phony.  As he returned to his reading, he decided to discuss the matter with Aravir later that evening.    

As you can see from the rough map I have sketched for you, the colony was not too far from a village.  The leader is named Dorlas.  He and ten families (twenty-two adults, six elflings of varying ages) have well-established homes and take good care of the forest around them.  In speaking with Dorlas, I learned that these people, beyond the intermittent visitations of passing patrols, have had little contact with anyone in authority (that is us, Father) since the capital was moved north into the caverns.  They seem very isolated and alone.  They are still loyal to you as their King, but it seems wrong that we have forgotten them.  Dorlas assured me they knew it might happen because of the distances involved and that there is no anger or acrimony felt by the villagers, not in his village or in any of the others scattered throughout the region.  (We found five in all, counting Dorlas’.)  I just thought you should know of their situation.  Thranduil snorted.  Sly, sneaky son of mine!  He knows me well.  Another thing to discuss – this time with the council in the morning.       

My patrol will continue to search for other spiders, and Ohtar has promised to watch for any migrations from the south.  In speaking with Darius and the village foresters, it is very possible the dry weather has driven the spiders north in search of food and water.  I am certain Aravir will contact the other patrol captains and alert them to the threat.  I would also suggest it might be prudent to send additional warriors south to bolster Ohtar’s forces. 

It would seem we have relaxed our guard somewhat of late.  We must be careful to maintain constant vigilance from now on.  Give my greetings to everyone.  I miss you and remain, as always

                                                                                                         Your loving son,

                                                                                                               Legolas

Thranduil read the letter one more time, making a note of the man’s name and location, as well as his son’s suggestion of reinforcements in the south.  He had just finished putting the letter in an inner pocket of his robe when the door opened and Malvagor looked in. 

“Lord Baranthor said you had new orders for me, my lord?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes, come in here, Malvagor,” Thranduil barked.  “And for Eru’s sake, stop lurking in the doorway!” 

The tall guard stepped into the room, standing at attention and awaiting his King’s pleasure.  Thranduil sighed.  Baranthor is right.  I really need to get hold of my temper.  Even Malvagor looks cowed.

He pasted a stiff smile on his face and made an attempt to soften his voice, saying, “Please excuse my foul temper, Malvagor.  I need you to send word to the stablemaster that I will be riding out just as soon as I can change.  Have him prepare Aglarion for me.  Make certain Eloriel knows I will not be eating in the dining room tonight and to send a tray here.  Then inform Commander Aravir I would like to meet with him after dinner.” 

A quick bow of acquiescence and Malvagor was on his way.  Thranduil stretched his tall frame, twisting his head from side to side to work the tension from the muscles in his neck.  Clearing his desk and storing the offensive parchments from Erebor in a top drawer, he waved a hand to lower the rushlights on the walls and left the darkened room behind.

                                                                    XXX

Aravir, the commander of the forces of Eryn Galen and captain of the King’s elite guard, strode through the familiar corridors of the stronghold to meet with the Elvenking to discuss a dispatch from the King’s son.  By Malvagor’s account, it must be important; the King had seemed “galvanized” by whatever he had read.  Legolas was, at present, enjoying his first command, having served in the patrols for years before his father had brought him home to learn the ways of a diplomat.  He had finally returned to the patrols after serving as his father’s ambassador to numerous Mannish settlements, from Esgaroth to Dale and beyond, for over a yeni, and been promoted to captain of the Eastern Patrol several years ago. 

Aravir allowed a small smile to escape as he walked.  He had watched the young Prince grow up, from inquisitive elfling to a young novice possessing an uncanny skill with a bow.  Since he was often elsewhere in the great forest on one assignment or another; they had had little contact until Legolas’ promotion.  He had been delighted to discover not only a competent warrior, but also one who possessed a growing power through his connection to the forest.  Because the son so resembled the father, he feared the newly received missive contained news he was not going to like.

He paused before the great wooden door, nodding to Malvagor’s replacement, Arundur.  “Good evening, Commander,” the guard saluted.  “He is waiting for you.”  Aravir returned the salute, allowing Arundur to announce him. 

                                                                    XXX

Thranduil sat behind his imposing desk watching his commander approach, and for a moment he saw not the tall, broad-shouldered elf before him, but the traumatized, shivering elfling clinging to his older cousin, weeping for the family that had been wiped out by orcs.  Weeping for an entire village; all lost with the exception of five youngsters trembling before the throne of the Elvenking and his queen.  On that day, four hundred twenty-seven years ago, the return of evil to the south had become reality and the King and Queen had gained a family.    

Eruwen had taken one look at the children and immediately adopted them.  Thranduil had thought it a fine idea.  It had taken the young ones some time to overcome their grief and settle in to life in the palace, but they had done well under the loving watch of the King and his Queen.  Their fosterlings were all grown now, settled with professions of their choosing and successful.  Thranduil remembered having worried about Aravir most of all.  The child had been quiet and withdrawn for a long time, to the point Eruwen had feared he might waste away from grief.  Thankfully, an engaging bundle of black curls and shy smiles in the form of his sister, Tasarien, had dragged him out of his well of sadness and set him on the path to living again. 

It was a different path, though.  The child who would have been a forester like his father became a warrior, dedicated to the defeat of the evil that had destroyed everyone in his family except his sister and one cousin and threatened his home.  Eryn Galen’s gain – but at times Thranduil mourned Aravir’s loss of his first love, and now that Aravir was no longer absent for years at a time, Thranduil could see the changes.  Before him stood a fell warrior, silent and strong, caught up in duty and schedules and patrol movements.  So stiff…and serious.  Only Tasarien and his cousin, Ariann, were able to elicit a smile from time to time. 

Thranduil knew Baranthor had made it his mission to “make that elfling laugh again, Thranduil – he is much too staid.  There is no joy in him anymore”.  Thoughtful gray eyes studied the stern features of the elf standing so stiffly before him.  Perhaps his counselor could use a little help.  He would have to be careful, however.  No sense in driving the child away. 

“Sit down, Commander,” he invited, gesturing to the chair nearby.  Aravir settled in, his usually impassive expression faintly questioning. 

“I have had word from Legolas on a rather disturbing development in the southeastern quadrant of the forest,” the King began.  If possible, Aravir straightened even further.  Thranduil raised a hand.  “It has been dealt with…for now, Aravir, and you should be receiving your own report from Legolas and Ohtar by tomorrow, I would think.  He said they had composed it together once their sweep of the area was completed and posted it a short time after this letter.  Their concerns were for a rather large colony of the great spiders that had been established just this side of the mountains…” 

Aravir cursed under his breath at the news as Thranduil continued to outline the events leading up to the posting of the Prince’s missive.  The two elves spent the better part of an hour huddled over Legolas’ map, discussing further troop movement and the feasibility of creating another patrol to aid in the protection of the more distant villages. 

“The border patrols are just that, my lord,” Aravir stated, sitting back in his chair and staring at the tapestry on the wall behind the King.  “They patrol the borders of the realm and have not the numbers to provide protection for the interior.  We have depended on the villagers to set their own guards.” 

“And they have done well,” Thranduil mused.  “But if Shadow has begun pushing northward, these villages farthest from us will require more aid…help must be more accessible than the border patrols.” 

Aravir nodded in agreement – perhaps even two extra patrols would not go amiss in this case.  He applied his considerable intellect, coupled with a fine strategic knowledge of the realm’s defenses, to the problem, considering the new crop of novices waiting to be assigned and the seasoned warriors who would be needed to lead these new patrols.  Watching Aravir work through a tough puzzle had always fascinated Thranduil and he knew the instant the younger elf reached a possible solution.  Placing a quill in the commander’s hand with ink nearby and parchment before him, he smiled as Aravir began jotting names down, muttering under his breath from time to time as he arranged and rearranged the troops that would protect the villages and their people. 

“I believe we have the numbers needed for two patrols, sire,” he said, finishing his list and turning it toward the King for his perusal. 

Thranduil scanned the list, frowning once or twice.  He sighed, sitting back and closing his eyes.  “Some of those you listed are newly-minted warriors, Aravir, young and untried,” he noted.  He looked at his commander.  “I do not relish sending them into a potentially volatile situation.” 

Aravir shook his head.  “I know, my lord, and I made certain that only the most proficient of that class are listed in the new patrols.  You will note that the rest of the novices will be split between the Northern and Western patrols as usual.”  He paused.  “And I will make certain all are placed with experienced captains, along with a good ratio of seasoned warriors.  It will require some rearranging of personnel, but it can be done, sire.” 

Thranduil smiled, encouraged by the steadfast demeanor of the warrior before him.  Aravir knew his people well, their strengths and their weaknesses.  He would weigh all possibilities before sending them in harm’s way.  “I know, child.  If anyone can make the necessary assignments while keeping their safety in mind, you can.  The only other one I would trust to this would be Ohtar.” 

Aravir flashed one of his rare grins.  “Oh, I will most definitely be enlisting his opinion, sire, as more warriors will be sent south to strengthen his patrol.  He will not hesitate to tell me if my plan is complete rubbish.” 

Thranduil laughed, rising from his chair along with Aravir.  Ohtar, that irascible old warrior, had relinquished his role as commander to Aravir in order to captain the more active southern forces; however, his absence from the position had not lessened his input whenever he deemed a decision questionable.  He always made his displeasure known, loud and clear.  Thranduil clapped the younger elf on the shoulder, “Of that I do not doubt!” 

The two walked across the room, pausing at the door.  “About the man, my lord…” Aravir started.  

Thranduil halted his words with a look.  “I, too, have my doubts about him - which is why I want to meet him.  You have his location?”  Aravir nodded.  “Good.  As I said, after the council meeting tomorrow, I want you to make plans to fetch him to the palace.  We will see if he is as deserving of a reward as Legolas believes.”  The King’s gray eyes hardened.  “Let us hope he is.” 

“As you wish, my lord,” Aravir murmured, bowing as he left the room.  Thranduil huffed impatiently.  A man in his stronghold!  The only worse scenario he could imagine involved dwarves.  And he needed to find a way to reassure those small, distant villages of his continued concern and good will.  Perhaps Baranthor would have an idea or two…

                                                                   XXX

The old man eyed his rapt audience.  “Thus it was three days later that the King’s commander was dispatched to bring the man, Darius, to the palace.  Thranduil would trust no other to bring him, wanting Aravir to spend some time with this Darius and make his own assessment of his character.  Alongside him rode two other messengers, who carried greetings and invitations to Dorlas and several other of the village leaders mentioned in the Prince’s report.”  The children turned to each other, eyes bright with speculation.  Grandfather laughed at their expressions.

“How did you find out about Ada’s conversations with the King, Grandfather?” Lindorie asked, her fond, honorary title of ‘grandfather’ bringing a smile to the old man’s face.  “Did he tell you?” 

“No, child,” he answered.  “He eventually told Darius, and Darius…” 

“…passed the story on because he is related to you!” Mira exclaimed.  “Isn’t he, Grandfather?” 

“Of course he is, Mira!” scoffed her brother, Cian.  “You know we’ve heard about him from Father before.” 

Mira glared at the know-it-all in the chair behind her, who stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes at her in return, reducing Andurion beside him to helpless giggles.  “Now, now, enough of that, Cian…Andurion,” their grandfather chided.  “Yes, I’m sure your father has probably mentioned your great-great-great-great grandfather before this story.  And yes, Mira, once he found out, he was able to make it a part of the bigger story.” 

He slapped the arms of the rocking chair and pushed himself to his feet, stifling a groan as his knees and muscles protested violently and listening as the children complained, knowing the story was at an end…for the time being. 

The grandfather lifted a hand, silencing the din of noise.  “As I warned you before, it is time for your supper, children,” he said, nodding to the door where his son’s wife stood, smiling.  “Lilianne, I turn this raucous bunch over to your tender mercies.” 

The children groaned as Lilianne snickered.  “Mercy for this horde, Father?” she sniffed, hands on her hips as she surveyed the group.  “I think not!  Now, wash up, you lot!  And make a good job of it or there will be no trifle for any of you!” 

The children trooped off to do her bidding, their young voices echoing through the hallway.  Lilianne walked over and linked her arm with her father-in-law’s.  “Thank you for entertaining them,” she whispered.  “And from the look of the weather, I hope it is a long story!”

 He grinned as she led him towards the dining area.  “Trust me, my dear.  We have only begun.”