Disclaimer:  I do not own any part of the Professor’s world – I just stop by from time to time to play in it. 

Summary:  Darius receives an invitation – the King prepares for a special guest…or two…or three…

A/N:  No excuses.  *sigh*  (Unless you count the fact that I tried to post this 5 days ago and LOST the entire chapter.  I’ve been retyping this ever since…GAH!!!)  But...I ended up splitting this chapter, it was so long, so the next chapter is ready to go in the next few days!  Thank you, NiRi, for suggestions, corrections, and instruction!  You so rock! 

Chapter 4:  An Unexpected Invitation

                               “Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.”

                                                                           --Unknown

The old man retired to the sitting room after dinner, relaxing in his rocker as he waited for the children to complete their chores.  He hoped to finish the first part of his story knowing the darker, more difficult tales of later years would require more explanation, as he was certain the youngsters would have many questions.  He hoped to enlist the aid of their parents…they had participated in many of the events to come, after all. 

He closed his eyes, rocking slowly and enjoying the heat from the fire as, one by one, the children drifted into the room, resuming their places on the floor at his feet or in the chairs nearby.

“Now, where was I?” he asked, when all had gathered.

“The Elvenking had gotten a letter from the Prince,” offered Cian, exchanging a grin with Andurion.

“And he had decided to send his Commander to fetch Darius to the palace,” Mira added.  “Ooooh, Cara is not going to like that!”

The old one smiled.  “No, my dearest, Cara would not like that at all…”

                                                                    XXX

Aravir halted his horse at the edge of the forest, stroking the silken neck and whispering words of thanks to the sleek animal as he examined the barren expanse of fields before him, the dry, dusty landscape broken only by the various greens of a stand of sturdy oak trees and the garden planted at the back of a small dwelling.  Drawing a deep breath, he detected a hint of the distant Celduin and his quick eyes caught a glitter of sunlight on water from one of the small creeks leaving the forest to bisect the farmland and empty into the river beyond.  He nodded to himself.  There, then, was the farmer’s water source, unless he had found a way to tap into the larger river.

Malvagor pulled up beside him, his grey eyes keeping a constant watch on the forest around them.  “What now, Commander?” he asked, when the silence had stretched between them for several minutes.

His commander’s keen eyes had spotted the small figures of two men leading several animals to a trough beside a large wooden structure built behind the house close to the creek.

“We do not wish to alarm them unnecessarily, Malvagor,” he replied.  “Prince Legolas mentioned in his report he and some of his patrol had visited here.  Hopefully they will not be too frightened by our sudden appearance.”

Malvagor grimaced.  “I would not be too certain about that, sir.  They have made their home in a rather isolated locale.  Look how far they are from any other farm.  I know I would be somewhat ‘upset’ at the sight of riders emerging from the forest and approaching my home, especially if I did not recognize them.”

Aravir shot a wry look at his companion.  “Obviously, Malvagor.  But we can hope that this Darius will recognize we are elves and not others bent on mischief.”

Malvagor grinned.  “We can HOPE he does not think we are elves bent on mischief, sir.”

Aravir looked so scandalized at the thought that Malvagor almost choked.  “The Belain forbid!” the Commander breathed, and Malvagor nodded his agreement as they urged their horses forward, leaving behind the concealing cover of the forest as they made their way across the field towards the house.

                                                                    XXX

Darius hefted the heavy bucket of water and emptied it into the trough, muttering under his breath as Cinder bumped him aside in his exuberant rush to reach the cool liquid.

“Watch out, ya overgrown oaf!” he growled, slapping the big horse’s shoulder in a fit of pique, only to chuckle when the cheeky animal turned to give him a wet, slobbery buss on the side of his head.

He laughed as he pushed the horse’s head aside.  “Oh, go on then, ya impossible beast!  And keep that wet muzzle o’ yers out o’ my hair!”  Cinder gave his man one last good-natured shove before returning to take a long drink from the trough.

Garlon watched his uncle at play with the big bay, grinning at the exchange as he released his own small black mare, Joy, and Garth, the huge, lumbering plough horse, to get their own water.  At least they were finished for the afternoon…the cattle had already been returned to their pasture with a fresh mound of hay to supplement the meager ground cover of grass.  The horses would join them shortly.  They would let the animals graze in the back pasture for the remainder of the day and bring them in for one last drink when the sun set.  Before that, there was the garden to weed, water, and harvest.

Although it was back-breaking work, Garlon had to admit the animals looked good, despite the sun’s harsh punishment they endured every day.  Uncle Darius insisted all animals be watered morning, noon, and evening as long as the blistering hot days lasted.  It was hard, sweaty work and they still had to refill the reservoir for the house, which Garlon considered an amazing work of ingenuity, its construction driven by his uncle’s need when several of the smaller creeks in the back pastures had dried up before winter had even spent itself.

The youth paused to swipe one dirty hand across a sweaty brow and lift his sodden shirt away from his body in an effort to create a cool breath of air.  When his family had prepared to return to Lake Town last week, he had volunteered to stay behind and help his uncle with the daily chores around the farm.  He knew his Aunt Cara usually helped out, but with the birth of the babe drawing near, Uncle was allowing her to do less and less of the outside work.  And Garlon agreed – she looked wrung out and frail by the end of each day…and that was even when she only did the inside chores.

He smirked, remembering Jaren’s squawk of protest when his brother had asked to remain behind.  The sprout had begged to stay and help, but in the end his father had shut him up with a stern glare and a promise to let him return in a few weeks, if he behaved himself.  In truth, Garlon did not mind working on the farm; it had provided a relief from the miserable, muggy stench of town life.  Garlon’s father, Rendan, was a skillful fisherman, in charge of a fleet of several boats that supplied fish for the biggest markets in town.  Garlon and his older brother, Brand, had been helping on the boats since they turned twelve and he usually enjoyed it.  This summer, however, had seen the level of the lake fall at an alarming rate, and the fish had all disappeared, hiding in the depths of the waters in an effort to escape the heat.

Several weeks ago, his father had taken a few days off to help Aunt Cara on the farm when Uncle Darius had disappeared on an errand into the great forest, only to return in the company of wood elves!  Garlon still shook his head in awe when he remembered the events of that day.  He had to admit he had jumped at the chance to stay and help, mainly because he hoped the elves might return.  So far, no such luck.

He glared at the bright, cloudless sky.  And could it possibly get any hotter?  He jumped as his uncle clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on, lad,” Uncle Darius grinned.  “Glarin’ at the sky will only get ye a headache.  Grab yer mare and let’s get ‘em back to the pasture.”

“Yes, sir,” Garlon mumbled, grabbing Joy’s halter and his bucket and following his uncle.  He had only taken a few steps when Joy threw her head in the air, dragging him around as she balked, ears swiveling forward as she stared across one of the fields.  One hoof pawed at the ground as she shifted about, snorting nervously.

“What…?” Garlon sputtered, struggling to keep hold of his prancing horse.  Glancing across the wide expanse of empty field in an effort to see what had startled her, he froze at the sight of two riders approaching the house.  There was no mistaking their identity.  I think I would know those horses anywhere; they are so different from most of the animals of men.  And the way they ride – so straight and still, as if they are part of their mount, with no tack to block that connection between them and the horses.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up into his uncle’s sparkling blue eyes.  “I’ve sent Cinder on, Garlon.  Take Joy and old Garth to the pasture.  I’ll go and greet our visitors.”

“Is it the Prince, Uncle?” Garlon asked.

Darius shook his head.  “No, remember the Prince had gold hair…these two are dark.  But see the way they are dressed…and the great bows strapped to their backs?”  Garlon nodded.  “Warriors, if I’m not mistaken.”

Darius smiled at his bedazzled nephew and gave him a gentle shove.  “Off with ye, lad.  Show some speed, boy, and ye can meet ‘em with me.”  Garlon flashed the tall man a brilliant smile and hurried off with the two horses trailing behind him.  Darius took a deep breath and walked over to greet the two strangers.

                                                                    XXX

Aravir’s first impression of the man was one of height combined with courtly manners and a forthright gaze.  How intriguing.  He dismounted and left Malvagor with the horses as he strode forward to meet the man.

“My lord, welcome to my home,” the man said, bowing.

Aravir bowed in return, replying in Westron.  “Thank you, although I am no lord.  You are Darius, son of Olwain?” he asked.

“Yes, I am Darius,” the man answered, the deep blue eyes brimming with curiosity.

“I am Aravir, commander of the Woodland forces, Darius,” the elf explained.  “I bring you greetings and a message from the Elvenking.”

Darius’ face paled, but his voice remained steady and polite.  “Would ye care to come inside, ye and yer companion, and refresh yerselves from the long ride?”

Aravir smiled and nodded.  “That would be most welcome.  Thank you.”  Turning, he motioned to Malvagor, who dismounted and after a quick word with both horses, joined his commander.  “This is one of my lieutenants, Malvagor.  Malvagor, this is Darius, son of Olwain.” 

Malvagor bowed slightly, “Mae govannen, Darius.”

The three exchanged pleasantries, Aravir translating the conversation for Malvagor from Westron into Sindarin, much to the delight of Darius and had just turned to start for the house when a young man came racing around the corner, only to come to a sliding halt, gasping for breath and red-faced with embarrassment.

The elves smiled as Darius gestured for the youth to approach.  “My nephew, Garlon,” he introduced the blushing boy.  “Garlon, this is Commander Aravir and his lieutenant, Malvagor.”

“Well met, Garlon,” Aravir replied, smiling at the youngster, who bowed and murmured, “Pleased to meet ye, Commander.  Lieutenant.” 

At that moment, the door to the house slammed open and a petite, auburn-haired woman well gone with child stalked out and descended the steps, her lovely face set in angry, fearful lines.  She marched over to the group and grabbed her husband by the arm, stating in an agitated voice, “NO!  Ye cannot have him!  He is NOT goin’ anywhere!”  The furious words had no sooner left her mouth when she burst into tears and buried her face in the soft blue cloth of Darius’ shirt.

Darius held Cara close, whispering in her ear for a moment before looking up at his visitors.  “My wife, Cara.  She did not approve of my earlier exploits into the forest,” he explained, before returning his attention to the sobbing woman in his arms.  “Come inside, love.  It is too hot out here.  We’ll all sit down with a cool drink and some of yer delicious shortbread and listen to what the Commander has to say.”  As he spoke, he turned his wife and, keeping her close in the circle of his arms, led the group into the house.

Aravir and Malvagor followed, exchanging concerned looks.  Garlon walked beside them, his embarrassment forgotten.  “It’s the babe,” he confided in a low voice.  “She’s been right unreasonable fer weeks now.  Uncle gave her quite a scare when he was late comin’ back from the forest.  And then hearin’ the stories about the great spiders and all…well, she’s been upset ever since.”

“When is the little one expected, Garlon?” Aravir asked.  A visit to the stronghold might be impossible for Darius at this time.

“Not for three more weeks, accordin’ to the midwife.”  The boy paused.  “Don’t know that she’ll last that long, though.”

Darius led the silent group into a small sitting room, settling his wife in a comfortable chair, before leaving to gather the refreshments.  Aravir and Malvagor sat on a wide, well-padded settee, noticing the carefully crafted furniture, the colorful braided rug on the floor and hand-made curtain in the windows.  Everything was meticulously clean, the smell of some sort of homemade oil leaving a fresh tang in the air and a glossy polish on the wood.

Garlon sat on the floor at his aunt’s feet, speaking to her in a soft voice.  She finally lifted her head and stared at the two elves for a long moment before saying, “Ye must think I’m a rude one, and crazy as well.  I apologize fer my poor welcome.”  She sniffed and dabbed at her wet eyes with a handkerchief Darius had slipped into her hand earlier.  “I am Cara, Darius’ wife.  Please excuse my manners and be welcome in our home.”

Aravir shook his head.  “You need make no apology to us, Mistress Cara.  We are sorry that our appearance has caused you any strain.  Please worry no further.”

Darius came back into the room, carrying a heavy tray with cups, a large pitcher of water, and a plate of Cara’s golden-brown shortbread.  Garlon got up to help his uncle pass out the water and cookies to their guests.

Malvagor had devoured three of the sweet, flaky cookies before he leaned over to Aravir and whispered, “This is the best shortbread I have ever eaten.  What do you think our chances are of getting some to take home?”

Aravir raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant, shaking his head.  “At this point?  Slim, Malvagor, slim.”

“What seems to be the problem, Commander?” Darius asked, curious about the exchange between the two elves, which had been in elvish, and the disappointed look on the lieutenant’s face.

Aravir replied, a faint grin gracing his serious face as he addressed his mortal audience.  “Malvagor does not speak Westron, so you must forgive him for excluding you.  However, Mistress, he has decided your shortbread is the best he has ever eaten…I find I must agree.  He was also wondering what our chances were of getting some for the return home.”

Cara listened to the melodious voice, finding the compliment and fleeting smile from this most reserved person almost as disarming as the wishful look on the younger elf’s face, and he must be younger, his expression reminded her too much of her nephews’ when they were angling for a treat.

She sighed and glared at Aravir.  “Ah, Commander, not fair.  How can I dislike ye if ye act like that?”  The commander shrugged, his amusement evident in his striking green eyes.

To Darius’ great relief, the exchange seemed to melt his wife’s icy reserve.  They spent almost an hour speaking of inconsequential things, all knowing that the real reason for the elves’ visit remained unspoken for the time being.  Cara then drafted Garlon to help her with supper, deciding to serve the meal outside under the trees after sundown, while Aravir and Malvagor helped Darius refill the house reservoir, marveling at the simple, yet effective sluice which diverted water from the creek into several huge, conjoined wooden barrels outside the back door.  Once they were full, the sluice was shut off and the barrels tapped for use in the house.

After that chore was completed, the elves helped Darius bring in the livestock, proving to the man that the elvish way with all good beasts was not a myth.  Malvagor was especially taken with Garlon’s dainty black mare, declaring Joy a perfect name for the sweet-tempered horse.

A dinner comprised of thin slices of venison between thick slices of fresh bread, fresh corn and squash from the garden and a hearty vegetable soup was served beneath the oak trees in back, everyone sitting at the trestle table on benches Darius had built just for such gatherings.

When all had eaten their fill, Cara gave Aravir a hard look and said, “Now, enough stallin’.  I must insist ye tell us why ye have come, Commander.”

Aravir nodded.  “Of course.  King Thranduil received a letter from his son, Captain Legolas, informing him of Darius’ bravery in saving Gilfileg and his aid in ridding the forest of the threat from the invading spiders.  The King would like to honor you, Darius.  He has issued an invitation asking you to visit the palace so he might meet and speak with you personally.”

Darius listened, his astonishment plain.  “But…”

Knowing her husband as well as she did, Cara laid a hand on his arm, halting his words.  “Nay, Darius.  Do not deny ye had a hand in sendin’ those foul creatures to a well-deserved death and savin’ that precious child, too.”  She took a deep breath.  “Ye should go.”

“Cara!  I cannot leave ye so close to the birth of the babe…”

She lifted a hand, interrupting his words again.  “How long would he be gone, Commander?”

“I would think a week, at least, Mistress,” Aravir replied.

“Cara…”

“Plenty of time for him to visit with the King and get home in time for the babe’s birth.  Tell him what an honor it is to receive this invitation, Commander,” Cara instructed.

“Cara…”

“Tell him it is not a common thing.”  She cupped Darius’ cheek, leaning forward to kiss his protests silent once more.

Aravir agreed.  “She speaks truly, Darius.  The Elvenking is not one to INVITE men for a visit.  Trade delegations…exchanges with the leaders of Esgaroth and Dale…these are interactions initiated by men first.  Your invitation is a singular honor.”

Darius grimaced, muttering, “I didn’t do that much…”

“I am certain, however, that you did,” Aravir countered.  “And I would challenge you to repeat those words to Gilfileg’s parents or the leaders of the villages that were spared ravishment by those monsters.”

Darius had no reply to that.

“Rendan could send Brand, Jaren, and Nola to stay again and help with the chores,” Cara added, brushing the dark hair back that had fallen across her husband’s forehead.

Aravir exchanged a long, speaking look with Malvagor, who inclined his head in assent.  “Malvagor will also stay to lend a hand with the farm, Darius.”

Darius looked at the other elf in surprise.  “How would they communicate with him?  He speaks little or no Westron.”

Cara laughed.  “Ye know very well I can point out what needs doing, Darius.  I have never had trouble getting’ things done before.  I doubt I’ll start now.  Besides, ye may give him the details of what will be needed each day, with the Commander translatin’ fer ye, before ye leave.  AND I would wager he’ll be more than pleased to have a steady supply of my shortbread while he’s here.”

Aravir translated Cara’s words and everyone laughed at Malvagor’s quick nod of acceptance.  The next hour was spent in discussion and plans for the week Darius would be gone.  Garlon went to bed early, in anticipation of a dawn departure for Lake Town to fetch his brothers and his mother.  At last, all plans had been finalized and the elves wished their host and hostess a good night.

“Are ye sure ye’ll be all right sleeping outside?” Cara asked, her concern evident.  Darius hugged her, laughing at the surprised expression on Aravir’s face and remembering his own reaction to the sight of the elves bedding down in the trees near Dorlas’ village.

“Dearling, they are WOOD elves…there is a reason they live in the forest and I would think they’ll be more than comfortable in the trees.”

“He is right, Mistress Cara.  We would much rather sleep outside, listening to the trees’ song.”

Cara hesitated, entranced at his words.  “Do they really sing?”

The Commander allowed a gentle smile at her fascination.  “They do.  And the song of the oak is most pleasing.  Be at ease…the trees will welcome us; we will be quite comfortable.”

Cara shot Aravir a still-skeptical look as Darius took her arm to escort her inside.  “They’re elves, sweeting.  Not for us to understand,” he whispered.  “Come along.  It’s to bed with ye…I’ll clean up.  Good night, Commander.”

“Sleep well, Darius…Mistress Cara.”

At dawn the next morning, Garlon rode out with a message for his father.  Leaning forward, he spoke to Joy, encouraging the mare to maintain her easy, ground-eating canter.  At this pace, he would be home by early afternoon.  The return trip would be made the next day, with Darius and Commander Aravir prepared to leave that afternoon.

                                                                    XXX

Baranthor met the King as he crossed the bridge leading into the stronghold, pleased to see an agreeable, relaxed expression on his friend’s handsome face.  “Any news from Aravir?” he asked, falling into step beside Thranduil.

The King shook his head.  “I do not expect to hear anything yet.  We discussed how long it might take for him to convince the man to come, as well as the return trip.  I would think they will not even start back for another day or so.”

Baranthor looked thoughtful.  “What of the other messengers?  Any news from our other guests?”

Thranduil grinned.  “A little bird told me this morning that they are on their way.”

His advisor rubbed his hands together.  “Good.  Good.  How go the plans for the revels?”  All my scrambling for an excuse to have a party, and Thranduil has already decided on the necessity of welcoming the leaders of the most distant villages.  An excellent reason for fun and frivolity.  I ought to have known better…the sneaky elf is usually one step ahead of me.  Hmmmm…could be why he is King and I am not.  

The ruler of the woodland realm threw an arm over his best friend’s shoulder and ducked his head to whisper in his ear.  “Galion has things well in hand.  You know he is in his element when he is planning a large celebration.  As for Eloriel, she has been given the responsibility of seeing to the menu.”  He chuckled.  “I believe the cooks are in an uproar, scurrying to and fro raiding the gardens and orchards, while organizing expeditions into the forest to seek out the last of the summer nuts, herbs, and vegetables.”

Thranduil eyed his friend playfully.  “I, of course, have my own answer for dealing with all this madness.”

Baranthor grinned.  He always admired Thranduil’s ‘answers’.  “Yes?” he prompted when the irritating elf remained silent.  “And just what is this ‘answer’?”

Thranduil eyed Baranthor, suppressing a smile at his rising impatience.  Really, he was SO easy sometimes!  “Why, my friend,” he purred.  “I have done what any self-respecting elf would do when faced with the planning and preparation for an inundation of numerous guests, all expecting a feast to remember.”  He walked on, while Baranthor stopped, hands on hips, a jaundiced look on his fair face as he frowned in disapproval at Thranduil.  The King turned and laughed at Baranthor’s sour face.

Baranthor was not amused.  “Just tell me, you exasperating…annoying…” he sputtered, the incoherent sounds serving only to broaden Thranduil’s smile. 

“…maddening…troublesome…exasperating…”

“You are repeating yourself, Baranthor.”  The councilor continued to glare at him.  “All right…all right…cease the name-calling, my friend,” he chuckled.  Strolling back, he leaned close to Baranthor’s ear again.  “I have done the only intelligent thing possible.  I have called…A HUNT.”

Baranthor tried to smother the yelp of excitement that threatened to escape.  The palace kitchens were kept supplied with fresh meat and fish by the Master Huntsman and his “troop of merry hunters”.  Sometimes the foresters would pitch in and help and, of course, individual families provided their own game.  But Thranduil had not called for the King’s Hunt in many, many years, not since…well, he could hardly bear to remember that dark time.  This was an auspicious occasion, one well worth marking with tasteful, restrained enthusiasm.

He grasped Thranduil’s forearms, shaking the grinning elf and firing questions at an alarming rate.  “Well?  When?  Who have you invited?  Where do we plan to hunt?”

Thranduil laughed – a full-bodied, hearty guffaw that caused a sting of tears to prick Baranthor’s eyes and a lump to form in his throat; it had been so long since he had heard that laugh. 

Thranduil ticked off the answers on his fingers as he replied, “Tomorrow morning early.  All of the huntsmen, the members of the council I have managed to speak to, the usual guards, me.  The foresters are planning the route we will take as we speak.  I trust you plan on joining us?”

“Just try and stop me.”

“I would not dream of it.”  Baranthor shoved his King, who shoved him right back.  A brief, but amiable scuffle later, the two ambled on, tugging their rumpled robes back to order as they continued to discuss the coming day.