I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him and not to me. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

6.  Negotiating

Legolas straightened his back and loosed the arrow.  It flew straight and true far down the field to hit the target dead center.

“Good!” called Penntalion.  “Annael, you are next.”

Legolas went to stand next to Turgon, while Annael took his place on the small training field where Penntalion was working with them today.  “That really was a very good shot,” Turgon told Legolas rather wistfully.

Legolas nodded his thanks.  About two weeks previous, he had suddenly found that the big bow felt more comfortable in his hand, and he had been able to control his shots far more consistently.  He had surged ahead of his two friends and was now by far the best of them with the adult bows.  Even as he watched, for instance, he saw Annael send an arrow wide of the target that Penntalion had moved farther away today and then blow out an exasperated breath.  “Try again,” Penntalion encouraged him and Annael fitted another arrow to his bowstring.

“Can you play this afternoon?” whispered Turgon. They were not really supposed to be talking to one another but rather were to watch the lesson and listen to what Penntalion was saying even when he was not speaking to them, so Turgon kept his voice low.

Legolas shook his head.  “I have to stay in my room for one more day,” he murmured regretfully.  He had found that staying in his room all the time was so boring that, inspired by his father’s recent dealings with Dwarves, he had actually asked his tutor if he could begin learning to write and read Dwarvish runes. He had then amused himself in his room by drawing the angular shapes and forming simple words.

Turgon frowned impatiently.  He had returned to his own room safely after the night hunting and was the only of the three of them not to get in trouble.  Annael now had to leave his bow in his parents’ keeping except when he was at the training fields, and Legolas had heard the scolding Siondel had given him the morning after the hunt.  Legolas knew that Annael found it painful to be out of his parents’ good graces and felt sorry for his friend.

“Can you not ask your adar to let you out one day early?” Turgon demanded.

“Do you have a question for me, Turgon?” Penntalion asked sharply, making them both jump.

“No,” Turgon answered sullenly.

“Then stop talking to Legolas and pay attention,” the archery master admonished.

Legolas waited until Penntalion had turned back to Annael and then shook his head. No, he could not ask his father to end his punishment one day early.  His father was no longer angry, but Legolas did not want to provoke him again and was being very careful around him.  Asking to be let off from a day of his confinement to his room would be sure to lead to a lecture and would almost surely not lead to early release.  Turgon did not seem to understand this at all.  Of course, Turgon’s father never seemed to disapprove of anything he did, Legolas thought with some jealousy.

Legolas had lost track of what Penntalion was saying to Annael but it must have been good advice because Annael hit the target twice in a row.  Legolas and Turgon both cheered for him, and he turned to smile at them with his face a little flushed. Penntalion smiled at them all.  “That is enough for today,” he said. “You are all getting better as your arms get stronger.”  He paused and then added, “I think we will plan on a week more of these separate lessons and then you can all join the older students’ class.”

“Yes!” whooped the three of them simultaneously.  Legolas’s heart lifted and Annael too looked gleeful.  Here was news good enough to make them forget about being in trouble.

Penntalion laughed. “You still have to work hard for the next week,” he reminded them.

“We will,” Legolas assured him happily.  Penntalion picked up his gear and started off toward his next class, and the three friends skipped off the training fields and along the path toward their homes.

“I heard Tynd and Riolith talking,” Turgon began without preamble. “They did not even catch a glimpse of the buck on the nights they hunted.”

“They are hunting in the wrong place,” Legolas reminded him, a little dismayed at the way Turgon was refusing to let go of the idea of hunting the big deer.

Turgon paused for only a second.  “We should look for it again,” he affirmed.

“No,” said Annael, sounding exasperated. “I am sick of looking for it.  And I am not allowed to use my bow off the training fields right now anyway.”

Turgon said no more, but he looked thoughtful.  Legolas bit his lower lip.  A thoughtful Turgon was almost always a prelude to trouble, and Legolas did not need any more trouble right now.

Annael’s cottage was closest to the training fields.  “I will see you after lessons, Turgon,” he called as he started along the side path that would lead him home.  “Good bye, Legolas.” They waved back at him.

It did not take Turgon long to announce what he had been thinking about. “When you can go out again, we should hunt for the buck.”

“Without Annael, you mean?” Legolas asked, frowning.

“Yes. You heard him. He does not want to go.  He cannot use his bow now anyway, and besides, he has already killed a deer but we have not. We do not need to share this with him.”

Legolas thought about it, and a small, unworthy part of him responded to Turgon’s argument.  “I could probably go tomorrow afternoon,” he said slowly, “but I do not want to hurt Annael’s feelings.”

Turgon shook his head impatiently. “No, we need to go at night again. That is the only time we have had any success in scouting it.”

Legolas spun to face him with his mouth hanging open.  “I cannot do that,” he sputtered.  “My adar would -- I do not know what he would do, but it would be bad.  And I do not want to fool Annael’s parents again.”  Legolas had found night in the forest to be beautiful rather than frightening, but during the long hours in his room, he had realized that he was ashamed of having deceived Annael’s parents, who had always been kind to him.

“We would be more careful this time,” Turgon urged. “You would not get caught.  Besides, you promised we would go again.”

“No!” Legolas exclaimed frantically.  He needed to squelch the idea of night hunting now or Turgon would nag him mercilessly.

Turgon made a frustrated noise.  “Legolas, I do not think that I can do this without you,” he confessed. “You know things about hunting that I do not know, and you are much better with a bow than I am.” 

Legolas blinked in surprise at Turgon’s admission.  He rather thought that his friend’s assessment was accurate, but he would not have expected Turgon to be so honest about his own limits.  He could feel himself weakening at the appeal for help, but he also shuddered at the idea of his father’s wrath if he gave in to Turgon’s plea and his father found out.  He and his friends might not have found the woods to be dangerous, but Thranduil was still convinced they were.  “I will go with you tomorrow afternoon,” he finally said.  “We can take the horses and Annael can come too if he wants to.  He does not need his bow to help us scout.”

“Very well,” said Turgon reluctantly.  “But if we do not find it, we need to think about going out at night again.”

Legolas was determined not to give in to Turgon’s urging, but he did not have time to argue. Even now, he was going to have to run in order to reach home at a time that would count as coming straight home after training.  He would deal with Turgon’s further arguments about going out at night when and if the need arose.

***

Ithilden paused in the open doorway of the infirmary room, not wanting to disturb the healer if she was examining her patient, but both the healer and the young warrior in the bed turned to him. “Come in,” the healer invited.  “I am just finishing, and this young fellow needs someone to talk to.”  She patted her patient on the arm and made as if to withdraw.

“How is he?” Ithilden asked.

“He will be fine,” the healer assured him. “He is taking the antidote for the spider poison, and the bite is healing nicely. You can have him back in a day or two.”

She left the room, and Ithilden approached Anandil’s bedside.  As Ithilden insisted that most new warriors do, Anandil was serving in the Home Guard until he had enough experience to make it safe to send him to one of the Border Patrols or even to the more dangerous Southern Patrol, which operated closest to the stronghold of the enemy at Dol Guldur.  It was Anandil’s misfortune to have unexpectedly encountered one of the giant spiders that had been approaching Thranduil’s stronghold in recent days. Ithilden fervently hoped that the efforts of his more experienced warriors had now driven the beasts further away.

Anandil struggled to at least sit up in the presence of his commanding office, but Ithilden placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and sat in the chair beside his bed.

“I am very sorry, my lord,” Anandil apologized, looking shamefaced. “I know I should have been aware of the spider’s presence, but I just did not see it until it attacked me.”

In theory, of course, Anandil was right. He should have detected the spider, but Ithilden was an experienced enough warrior to know that warriors often failed to find what they were not expecting to see.  “You will not be caught unaware next time,” he said, meaning it as both comfort and admonition.

“No, my lord, I will not,” Anandil responded fervently.

Ithilden turned to the real reason for his visit. “Deler tells me that you had a problem with the Dwarven sword.”

Anandil flushed angrily. “It broke,” he said bluntly. “It just shattered when I fell and caught it against the branch.  I thought the thing was brittle from the start, but I had convinced myself I was just overly suspicious because it was of Dwarven make, but that weapon was useless.  I am lucky I did not try using it against an Orc.”  He stopped, and Ithilden could see him suddenly recalling that he was talking to the Elf who had probably supplied him with the “useless” weapon. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said stiffly.

Ithilden sat for a moment, worrying away at the story the warrior was telling him.  It was essentially the same tale that Deler had told him just an hour ago. It had made Ithilden deeply unhappy and apprehensive then, and he felt no better now.  Perhaps one inferior sword had gotten into the second shipment, he thought. The armorer had checked every item in the first shipment, so it could not have been in that one, but they had not been so careful in checking the second one, because the first one had been so satisfyingly good.  He turned his attention back to Anandil, who was watching him closely, probably afraid of having given offense.

“We will get you a better weapon,” he pledged, rising to go.  “And I am sure you will use it to strike fear into the next spider or Orc you run into.”  He smiled at the dismayingly young Elf in the bed and took his leave.

The healer was in the hallway talking to a maiden whose back was to Ithilden.  His eye was caught by the braid of gleaming hair hanging thick as his wrist almost to her waist. They turned when he came through the doorway.  “May I present my daughter, Alfirin, my lord,” the healer introduced them, and the maiden made a quick curtsy and then began to take her leave.

“I will see you at home, Naneth,” she said and then left the infirmary, with Ithilden’s gaze following her.  He felt a sudden longing for the end of worry and the comfort of a simple domestic life.  He sighed and turned to the healer.

“Is there enough of the spider poison antidote that we could distribute more to warriors on patrol?” he asked.  “I am afraid this is not going to be the last bite we see, and most of those bitten will not be as close to home as Anandil was.  Thank the Valar the spiders seldom come this close,” he added.

“The supply is limited at the moment,” she answered, “but we are making more.” She smiled. “Tell your warriors to stay away from spiders for another week or two.”

He smiled weakly back at her. “I wish that were an option.”  He bid her good day and left the building to go to his own office, wondering as he went what he was going to do about the defective sword.  He needed to send word to every warrior who had gotten one of the Dwarven swords, of course, because they had to be warned to test their weapons for the same kind of defect. Ithilden did not believe that there could be many inferior swords among those they had distributed because if there were, the armorer would have noticed them.  But even if Anandil’s sword had been the only badly tempered one in the shipment, its maker had to have known that there was something wrong with it and shipped it to the Elves anyway.  Anger burned within him at the thought.  For the sake of money, someone had been willing to put one or more of his warriors in mortal danger.

And yet, despite his own anger, he wanted to be careful how he told his father about the brittle sword.  If Thranduil became too incensed at the bad faith displayed by at least the Dwarven smith, his father might stop dealing with the Dwarves altogether.  But his warriors needed weapons and Ithilden genuinely believed that the defective one was a fluke.  And he did not want to have to tell his father he had been wrong to argue in favor of dealing with the Dwarves.  Moreover, he did not think he had been.

As he entered his aide’s office, intending to go through to his own, the aide looked up. “My lord,” he said, his face serious, “a dispatch has come from one of the Border Patrols that you should see right away.  I am afraid that one of the Dwarven swords has proved defective.”  Ithilden stared at him in dismay.  The conversation he and his father now needed to have at once had just become much more complicated.

***

“How many of them are defective?” Thranduil demanded, his face flushed with anger.

“I do not know,” Ithilden answered unhappily.  “We are checking now.”

Thranduil jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor of his office in the family’s private quarters.  “I knew we should not have been so trusting,” he fumed.  He turned toward Ithilden, who had risen when he did, and now stood twisting the unwelcome Border Patrol dispatch in his hands.  “How could the defective ones have gotten by our armorer?” he demanded.  “Is he incapable?”

“No, my lord,” Ithilden replied.  He took a deep breath.  “This was undoubtedly my fault. I had him check every item in the first shipment, and it was all wonderfully made.  But I told him only to count the second shipment to be sure it was all there. It never crossed my mind that the workmanship would be so much worse the second time.”  He met his father’s hard glare steadily for a moment, and then Thranduil turned away to lean a hand on the mantle and kick at the grate.  Ithilden stared wretchedly at his back.  Thranduil was apparently too furious even to look at him.

Finally, having evidently gained control of himself, Thranduil turned back.  “As I recall, we have already paid them for the third shipment.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“This will be the end. Check that shipment well, and then we will buy no more from them.  I will send a messenger demanding that they return our payment for the useless weapons once we know how many there are.”  He seated himself behind his desk, his face grim.

Ithilden stood before his father and his king, trying to decide whether he wished to argue.  He had never before challenged one of Thranduil’s decisions once they had been made, and not simply because his father was intimidating, but because he normally agreed with Thanduil.  But Ithilden’s sense of what it meant to command the Realm’s troops had been changing as the Shadow grew in the south and his responsibility deepened.  He believed very strongly that he knew what his warriors needed better than his father did, and, he decided, he was willing to risk his father’s wrath to get it for them.  “Send the messenger by all mean, my lord,” he said in a tone that was as respectful as he knew how to make it, “but I ask you to reconsider your decision to buy no more.”  Thranduil’s expression darkened and Ithilden hurried on before he could speak.  “We should certainly be sure we get what we need and have paid for, but we still need the weapons and armor.”

“They have insulted us, Ithilden,” Thranduil’s voice was sharp.  “They have assumed that they can take advantage of us and that we will be too simple to notice.”

“You do not know that,” Ithilden argued, growing heated himself. “The smith must indeed have known that the weapons were ill-made, but it is possible that no one else did.  Send them word about the brittle weapons.  Have the messenger take the pieces even.  But give them a chance to right the wrong they have done us.  If they refuse, there will be time enough to break off trade.”  He was breathing hard and his heart was pounding almost as it did when he was in battle.

His father stared at him for a long moment of silence, his face impenetrable. What could he be thinking? Ithilden wondered.  And then he wondered, what does he think of me?  He pushed the last thought aside as personal and trivial compared to the matters over which they argued.  Finally, Thranduil let out a sharp breath. “Very well,” he said. He eyed Ithilden, his face still impassive.  “If you think that the Dwarves can be reasoned with, then I will send a messenger.”  Ithilden felt relief and then his father went on, “The messenger I will send is you.”

Ithilden blinked.  “You wish me to go?”  He was cautious.  His father was trusting him, but he was also making Ithilden responsible for something he thought would probably go wrong.

“Yes.  This matter is important to the Realm and the Naugrim are likely to take you seriously when you speak for me.”  Thranduil sounded calm now.  “But I warn you, Ithilden, that I do not intend to let these Dwarves trifle with us.”

“I do not expect you to,” Ithilden responded, glad of his father’s decision but aware that matters between Thranduil and himself were now less easy than they usually were. He drew himself up. “I would be happy to go, my lord, and I thank you for the opportunity.  I will leave as soon as I have heard reports on all the weapons we distributed from the second shipment.  That should not take more than three days, I think.”

Thranduil looked at him for a moment and then he gave a half smile and rose.  “Let us go to the sitting room and have some wine before evening meal,” he said rather stiffly.  Ithilden interpreted the invitation as an attempt to smooth matters between them and was grateful.

“I would like that,” he said, and the two of them went to the other room, where his father was pouring out wine when Legolas came into the room.  Ithilden was happy to see him, for Legolas had been released from his room only the day before, and Ithilden had missed his uncomplicated presence in the evenings.  Moreover, his father would certainly not talk about the defective swords or treacherous Dwarves in front of Legolas.  Thranduil went to great length to avoid disturbing his youngest son’s childhood innocence.

“Hello, little one,” Thranduil said fondly and drew Legolas into an embrace which Ithilden was amused to see that the child bore with patient dignity.  “Did you have a good day?”  He poured a few drops of wine and great deal of water into a cup and offered it to Legolas, who took it with obvious pleasure at being treated like one of the adults.

“Yes,” he said judiciously.  “We went looking for the deer again but we did not find him.” He eyed his father carefully and Ithilden wondered what was on his mind now.  “Adar,” Legolas asked, “would you take me and Turgon hunting for the buck at night?”

“No, I would not,” Thranduil’s response was immediate and sharp.  “I have told you that the woods are dangerous at night, Legolas.”  Ithilden thought briefly of the young Home Guard warrior who had been bitten by a giant spider within three leagues of Thranduil’s stronghold and had to agree with his father that the idea of Legolas being in the woods at night was a bad one. “Moreover,” Thranduil went on, “I cannot say that I am eager to have Turgon as my responsibility. Hunting is something his own adar should do with him.”

“But he does not,” Legolas pleaded, and Ithilden grimaced inwardly at his little brother’s mistake in tactics.  Thranduil was already on edge tonight, although Legolas could not know that, and he was unlikely to respond well to being gainsaid.  “And we would be safe with you, Adar.”

“No!” Thranduil exclaimed. “I have said I will not take you at night and that is the end of it.”  Legolas subsided unhappily, frowning to himself.  Thranduil sighed.  “You and I will go one afternoon again soon,” he promised, “as soon as some other things have been taken care of.”

Legolas nodded, but his mood did not appear to lift.  Ithilden remembered how happy Legolas had been at the idea of hunting with Thranduil only a few weeks ago and wondered at the apparent change.  Ah, well, he thought, Legolas’s moods are short. He will be eager again before long. And he took a drink of the excellent wine.

***

With two of his warriors as escort, Ithilden left for Erebor shortly after midday three days later.  By then he knew that five of the twenty swords in the second shipment had proved defective, and he carried the two swords that were still intact and pieces of the three others in a pack slung over his horse’s back.  They rode as far as they could that day and all of the next, approaching the town of Dale by starlight.  They chose to camp in the open rather than sleep in the town of Men. In the morning, they skirted the town, although Ithilden was sure the Men were watching them, and then rode along the Running River between arms of the mountain that rose on either side of them.  They were within half a mile of the Front Gate of the Dwarven kingdom when sentries emerged from the underbrush on either side of the road.

“Halt,” called one of them in Dwarvish, his axe at the ready. “Who are you and what is your business here?”

Trust a Dwarf not to use the common tongue, Ithilden thought wryly, and then drew on his own reasonably fluent Dwarvish to answer.  “I am an emissary from King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and I have business with Master Glesur regarding trade between our two peoples.” 

The dwarf eyed him hostilely.  “We were not told to expect you.”

Ithilden smiled at him blandly. “But you see me nonetheless.”

The Dwarf scowled and then hesitated. “You may follow me,” he finally said reluctantly.  “Your horse and your escort will wait here.”

Ithilden dismounted, took the two defective swords and the pack carrying the broken ones, and told his warriors to wait. They were obviously unhappy at the idea.  “Keep your sword to hand, my lord,” muttered one, as he slid from his horse, and Ithilden nodded. He believed that the Dwarves were trustworthy, but he had spent too many years as a warrior to relax fully in this unfamiliar place. The Dwarves did not need to know that however, for his experience had also taught him that a certain amount of arrogance could be useful in encouraging others to heed him.  His guards sent all the horses to graze and swung themselves into nearby trees, leaving the Dwarven sentries looking both astonished and disapproving.

“Come,” said the one who was apparently in charge, and he led Ithilden along the edge of the river toward the gate from which it flowed. With the river still running beside them, the Dwarf escorted him through a carved archway and along a paved road into the caverns. They passed occasional Dwarves along the way and Ithilden was amused to see his presence evoking repeated stares and startled looks.  His escort turned aside and Ithilden followed him into a small room with doors that evidently gave onto a greater one.  “Wait,” the Dwarf commanded and then went forward to speak quietly to one of the sentries on duty at the doors and then disappear within.  He returned shortly, looking sour.  “You may go in,” he said and stepped aside.

Ithilden walked into the room with all of the considerable confidence he was capable of radiating.  A Dwarf wearing a heavy gold necklace sat in a carved chair at the other end of the room with attendants on either side of him. Ithilden approached and bowed.  “Master Glesur,” he acknowledged the Dwarven leader, “I am Ithilden Thranduilion, and I come as an emissary from the King of the Woodland Realm.”

Glesur’s eyebrows had risen slightly when Ithilden identified himself.  With characteristic Dwarven bluntness, he came immediately to the point.  “And what troubles Thranduil enough that he sends his son to parley for him?”

Ithilden blinked.  Thranduil would not be pleased if he knew it, but the Dwarven leader’s manner struck Ithilden as being much like his father’s.  And if Glesur was like Thranduil, then Ithilden knew exactly how to approach him.  “These are what trouble my king, Master Dwarf,” he said and laid the two intact defective swords on the floor before the leader’s chair.  Then he emptied the pack on top of them. One of the pieces of sword shattered further when it hit the stone floor.  Glesur and his attendants stared at the useless weapons.

“What are these?” Glesur asked.

“They are five of the swords that your weapons makers sent us,” Ithilden responded.

“That is not possible,” Glesur declared flatly.

One of the attendants stepped forward, picked up a sword, and struck it against the floor, shattering it.  “These are not of our making,” he sniffed and dropped the hilt.

“Nonetheless,” Ithilden persisted, “they were in the second shipment you sent us and, as you see, they are marked with your runes.”

Glesur narrowed his eyes, and he and Ithilden looked steadily at one another for a moment. Then he spoke to the attendant. “Fetch Noisil.”  The attendant left the room and Glesur turned to Ithilden. “Noisil is our chief armorer.  He will, no doubt, know if these objects were made in his forge.”  They waited in silence until a commotion at the door announced the arrival of the armorer.

Ithilden assumed that the large, irritable looking Dwarf who now bowed to Glesur was Noisil.  “What is this I hear about ill-made swords carrying our runes?” he demanded, but he did not wait for an answer before he crouched to examine the rubbish on the floor.  He glared up at Ithilden.

“Where did you get these?” he demanded.

Ithilden repeated his tale.  “They were in the second shipment we received from you.”

“They are forgeries,” Noisil snapped, rising to his feet and stepping toward Ithilden menacingly. “They do not come from our forge.  Anyone who says they do is lying.”

Ithilden stood his ground and looked down his nose at the fuming armorer. “Then we need to identify the liar,” he said, biting off each word.

For a perilous moment, he and Noisil glared at one another.  “Peace,” Glesur intervened.  “The Elf is correct.  We need to identify the liar.”  They all looked at one another.

“What about Rudd and Cadoc?” one of the attendants ventured. There was silence as they all evaluated this possibility.

“Summon them,” Glesur ordered sharply.

Noisil shook his head. “The third shipment has already gone down to the Long Lake. They will have gone with it.”

Glesur turned to Ithilden.  “I suggest that you question these Men when they arrive at Thranduil’s hall.  This is not of our doing.”

Ithilden considered.  Instinct told him that the Dwarves were telling the truth, but he was not sure that he could read Dwarves well and thus he was not sure he could trust his instinct. In addition, his father’s instructions had been explicit.  “We will question the Men,” he responded slowly, “but there is the matter of the weapons we have paid for but not received.”

“I repeat,” said Glesur, sounding heated, “this is not of our doing. We sent sound weapons. We have earned our payment.”

Studying the Dwarf, Ithilden came to the reluctant conclusion that he would get nowhere in demanding that some of his father’s money be returned.  Thranduil was not going to like it, but there seemed to be no help for it. “We will investigate further,” he said coolly, “and inform you of our findings.  With your permission, I will take my leave.”

Glesur made no pretense of inviting him to enjoy Dwarven hospitality.  “Send word to us when you have found the liar,” he said austerely.  “We, too, have business with him.” Ithilden bowed and left to begin the long journey home.

*******

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.  I love hearing from you via email, www.storiesofarda.com, ff.net, or carrier pigeon.

Antje:  I am glad you enjoy the stories.  If you are “delighted,” then believe me, so am I.

Camp6311:  Legolas cannot seem to stay out of the doghouse for long.  But really, he probably does. It’s just that it’s more fun to write about the times he doesn’t.  I liked your idea of having Annael visit Legolas too and am thinking about whether I can squeeze it into this story. There aren’t many more chapters, I’m afraid.

Karen:  I love your sympathy for Legolas. “Poor little guy” indeed.  He seems to be doing all right with his father and brothers, but the loss of his mother has to affect him anyway.  And that is an excellent point about the kids not being able to drag the deer home even if they do shoot it.  It would be a wonderful moment to write when they realized it. PS. Are you going to post?  ;-)

Luin: Legolas is a loyal friend, which gets him into trouble with Turgon, but also makes him an ideal member of the Fellowship, I think.  And I think that Ithilden is a typical oldest child in his desire to please his father. I hope you had a good time on the Southern Patrol. ;-)

Kay:  Legolas’s biggest problem is neither men nor spiders but his own tendency to get suckered into doing what he knows he shouldn’t!  Poor Thranduil.  As a parent, I sympathize.

Lamiel:  I think Legolas is on the verge of adolescence and Thranduil will rue the day. But at the moment, he still slides back into little boyhood when he’s under stress and wants someone to comfort him.  Thank you for the kind words.  I appreciate your taking the time to notice the little stuff.

Caz-baz: Yes, there’s nothing like an irate parent to make the kids band together!

Tapetum Lucidum:  The dinner table scene turned out to be one a lot of people liked. I was uncertain about it because it really didn’t advance the plot, but it was fun to write.  Legolas is really lucky to be included in Annael’s family some times, I think.

White Wolf:  I sympathize with Legolas and his friends for wanting the deer, but I’m not sure I can let them get it!  I can’t imagine writing about it.

Coolio02:  Turgon must give Thranduil nightmares.  And yet, I like him. He makes me sad.

Bluebonnet: I like Annael’s parents.  I liked his mother being such a mommy when Legolas’s mother had recently died and I liked his father deliberately making them sick when they drank too much as “teenagers.”  They are good parents.

Jambaby1963:  I’m glad you like the stories and I very much appreciate your taking the time to tell me.

Erunyauve:  Legolas did not like being in trouble but I’m afraid his memory is short. ;-)

Karri:  Poor Turgon!  He’s like something out of one of those stories in which kids go feral and band together with other kids only.

Alice:  It is true that the three elflings are not exactly going to win any merit badges for citizenship.  Can you imagine chasing around after clever, energetic little elves for years and years on end? No wonder elves had small families.

TigerLily:  The stranger in the woods will soon get what is coming to him.

Frodo3791:  I suspect that the worst part of this for Legolas was having to spend the night knowing that he was going to have to confess to Thranduil in the morning.  Ick.

Legolas4me:  It is funny that kids want to be grown ups, although I have to admit that I find being an adult much better than being a kid.  I have at least some control over my life now whereas kids have none! Of course, Legolas’s only responsibility is to take care of his horse and do his lessons, so I guess it evens out.

Feanen:  The man is up to no good.  He will soon be sorry he ever lived.

JastaElf:  They should have told their parents about the man, but seeing the deer and then getting caught drove the idea of him right out of their heads. Nilmandra pointed out to me that if they were a little older, they’d have been savvy enough to use the tale of the man to distract attention from their misbehavior. But they’re too little.

Jay of Lasgalen:  Annael’s father would indeed have had some explaining to do if he had lost Legolas!  And you are right, the kids feel invulnerable.

Naneth:  Oh yes, Legolas is feeling that Thranduil is making too big a deal over danger in the forest.  After all, what does Thranduil know?  ;-)

Sekhet:  Legolas should be able to resist Turgon, but his own soft heart works against him. It must drive Thranduil crazy.

Rorrah:  What a formula!  And it’s so accurate.

Dot:  Legolas seems to thwart his family’s best efforts to keep him safe.  And the undertunic thing grew out of a joke my husband constantly tells about how the laundry basket is “magic” because it transforms dirty clothes into clean ones. At least, I think it’s a joke. And I’m glad I surprised you when Annael’s father caught the three kids.  He must have scared the daylights out of them, but turnabout is fair play.

Mirkwoodmaiden:  I’m glad you like these characters.  I can’t seem to shake them. ;-)

BrendaG:  OK. This made me drool: “He is like a fiery, well-bred stallion, restrained for the moment by bridle and rein, crown and throne, but beneath that smoldering surface, trembling for release.”  Ahem. I think I need a shower.

Nilmandra:  I’m afraid you’re right. Legolas did not like being in trouble, but he still thinks that Thranduil is exaggerating the danger.  What’s a few thousand years of experience and wisdom compared to the logic of a kid?

StrangeBlaze:  See you were right! Turgon did not get in trouble. Sometimes there is no justice.

JustMe:  I will send Little Legolas to your house for milk and cookies but he has some trouble to get into first.

LKK:  I don’t want the deer to die either!  But the kids are so hot for it.  And Turgon really can convince Legolas to do things against his better judgment.  Smarten up, Legolas!

LOTRFaith:  Turgon does need a firm hand and he’s not going to get one, poor thing. He’s actually not a bad kid, just completely undisciplined.  I wait for your next chapter.  ;-)