Chapter Four: The Hunter and the Hunted

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir—Thranduil’s firstborn, was killed at Dagorlad.

Gwiwileth—second child and only daughter

Girithron—third child, the crown prince of Mirkwood, and chief military commander

Hananuir—fourth child

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Calethor—warrior, Legolas’s friend

Aewenor—warrior

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A/N: I have taken some dialogue verbatim from Tolkien (again!) This time, I have pulled from Chapter IX, “Barrels out of Bond,” pages 155 and 157 of Houghton Mifflin’s paperback edition of The Hobbit.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! Have a great Christmas!

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Legolas picked his way cautiously among the old and gnarly branches of the trees of Mirkwood. At least, a small part of his mind was engaged in the task of tracking. His eyes, long accustomed to the eternal twilit darkness of the woods, pierced the gloom like a ray of sunshine piercing clouds, and moved on. His ears took in many sounds: the scurrying of squirrels in the underbrush, the scuttling of spiders in the darkest shadows, the soft whisper of leaves as they fell to the ground, and the occasional creak of a tree limb as other elves moved among the branches. Ever present in the elf’s consciousness was the tree-song, not as distinct words or musical notes, but rather a presence of existence from which the elf drew support and because of which he could sometimes discern a premonition of danger. Yet there was no discord this morning, and Legolas knew the turmoil in his soul came entirely from his own thought.

For the majority of the prince’s mind dwelt on the early morning meeting between the king and all his military commanders who were not on active patrol. The discussion had been grave and the elves were destined to prepare for war. Legolas knew of the White Council, and a small part of him rejoiced that the elves would finally have the strength of arms to challenge the evil that dwelt in the southern extreme of the forest. He had been born and raised in this shadow, and the possibility of changing this reality had never entered the prince’s mind. He was not fatalistic, but after centuries of hiding and retreating in the darkness, Legolas had accepted that total victory was perhaps a fantasy for the stubbornly idealistic. As an immortal being, Legolas could not cast his mind toward the future and anticipate change. Rather, as the gradual falling of leaves in the autumn, the elf experienced the differences wrought day by day, month by month, and year by year. To imagine a time without Dol Guldur…without fighting as a daily occupation…this was too drastic, too sudden, too unsettling. He knew it could come to pass eventually, and he prayed he would live to see this day, but he could not let his mind plan for distant possibility. As was his way, Legolas focused on understanding the present, which to him was comprised of the here and now and what had already been.

Although his body flitted between branches and never disturbed a single leaf, his mind remained preoccupied with the morning’s discussion. For Thranduil had revealed that the Shadow in Dol Guldur, the Necromancer, was none other than Sauron himself. Legolas had been completely shocked at this discovery, and he had not sought to hide his gasp. However, more disturbing to the youngest prince remained the fact that he had been in the minority in his surprise. All too obvious in his brothers’ expressions was a grimness resulting from long and bitter familiarity with this truth. Legolas could not read all elves as easily as his own kin, but he suspected that Ivanneth and most of the senior commanders had also been apprised of the Necromancer’s identity long before that morning’s meeting. Thranduil had spoken of the last session of the White Council, nearly a century past, in which Mithrandir had unmasked Sauron’s disguise, and Curunír had urged caution and second-thinking. And now, the elven-king was to depart on the morrow for Isengard, at Curunír’s request, to attend another Council, one in which the Wood-elves prayed the Wise would determine a course of attack upon the Hill of Dark Magic.

There was a part of Legolas’s heart that experienced hurt at his father’s revelation. He had once again been excluded, relegated to the ignorance of children, and mistrusted as a capable warrior and captain of the realm. Yet this part of him was small and was quickly diminishing. Rather, Legolas felt gratitude that he had not had to live with this knowledge weighing on his mind for decades. A nameless Shadow was a vague concept against which to fight. A mysterious figure deemed “The Necromancer” was a small improvement and yet the evil remained undefined. But to know that this Shadow, this Necromancer, this evil, was Sauron, servant of Morgoth, Dark Lord, and ancient enemy to the Free Peoples of Arda…this was too overwhelming for the youngest prince.

Sauron was the Dark Lord of legend, of great battles and tragic losses. Of Gil-galad and Elendil, of the once great kings of Númenor, of Celebrimbor and powerful Rings, of treachery, deceit, and death. Sauron, who dwelt in the land of Mordor, far to the east, not in Mirkwood. Not in his home.

Ever since he had first learned of a Shadow in Dol Guldur, Legolas had accepted his tutor’s declaration that its source was one of the Nazgûl, one of Sauron’s slaves, but not the Dark Lord himself. He learned that before his birth, his grandfather Oropher along with all the Woodland-elves had been driven from their home upon Amon Lac to the Emyn Duir, and finally to the present cave-system which constituted both their city and their refuge under attack. But surely this had not been accomplished by Sauron.

And yet, so it had been. Sauron had probably been living in Dol Guldur for all the centuries of Legolas’s life and the prince had only learnt of it this morning.

Suppressing a shiver, Legolas paused to register that he was drifting too far from the other elves in his group. The warriors of Mirkwood had long ago refined the techniques of searching in the forest, and a complex system of birdcalls, whistles, and mathematically calculated distances and spacing had been established. Sending a soft trill into the gloom, Legolas waited for the answer, and adjusted his coordinates so as to fit perfectly into the web of warriors now silently tracking the forest for twelve dwarves.

Brushing overhanging lichen from his line of sight, the prince was of two minds whether he wanted the dwarves to be captured or not. True to his earlier statement, Legolas did not believe that the dwarves were spies of Sauron. Yet their purpose in the forest remained uncomfortably mysterious, and now that the Master of Dol Guldur was revealed to be Sauron himself, this mystery was rapidly becoming dangerously threatening. Legolas was used to uncertainty and an absence of facts usually did not grate upon his nerves. Yet the coincidence of Sauron’s unmasking, the meeting of the White Council, and the appearance of thirteen dwarves in the forest suggested a dark relationship the prince had no desire to unravel. He recalled his father’s initial hesitation toward capturing the dwarves at all, and Legolas sympathized with what he could now term a hard decision.

The sun was directly overhead when Legolas heard Malaithlon’s low whistle for the elves to gather. The prince had readily turned over command of this particular mission to the Captain of the Guard. While Legolas was considered a good leader, he did not relish authority and was more than happy to yield the responsibility, whenever the rare opportunity to do so presented itself.

Once all the elves were gathered around Malaithlon, the Captain scanned their faces as he spoke. “We have not found any sign of the dwarves in our course due south. I suggest we veer west, and then north. In this way we can weave a tighter circle around our prey.”

Malaithlon glanced briefly at Legolas for support, and the prince nodded. The youngest prince had been scouting the forest of Mirkwood for centuries with an unparalleled level of dedication compared with that of his kinsmen, and he had amassed an impressive amount of knowledge of its depths. This hunting technique was one Legolas had used many times before, usually on wargs, but it should nevertheless prove effective on dwarves.

In accord, the elves once more took to the trees and continued their weary search as the day lengthened.

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The day was reaching its close and the shadows of night were fast approaching, but still, the elves sought their quarry.

Malaithlon had decided one last circle within the remaining unsearched section of the forest would be the group’s final endeavor before seeking out the king’s halls. The Captain of the Guard was keenly aware that the day’s activity was only taking place as a result of yesterday’s mistakes. Whether by nature or by long formation in his duties, Malaithlon was a perfectionist. Furthermore, his pride was affronted that the dwarves were proving so skillful at evasion.

A birdcall to his right identified Legolas, and the prince was proposing an idea. Hoping that the younger elf had discovered something, Malaithlon gave the signal to gather.

Once on the ground, Legolas sought the Captain’s gaze. “Speak, Prince Legolas,” Malaithlon asked formally.

The prince raised an eyebrow at the unnecessary use of his title within the small group. Indeed, Legolas was notorious for requesting to be on informal terms with all among his patrol. But whatever his prince chose to do, Malaithlon would not ignore the rules of protocol. As Legolas began speaking, he looked intently at the Captain of the Guard. “I have a proposal for capturing the dwarves, which rests on the assumption that they are yet living. I believe this to be the case, else we would have found their bodies ere now. They seem to be alive and one step ahead of us.”

Acknowledging the plausibility of this assessment, Malaithlon nodded for the prince to continue.

“My idea is based on the dwarves’ behavior yester night when they sought out the fires of the youths making merry. I propose we light torches to draw them toward us.” Legolas delivered this last statement without hesitation.

“That is not our way,” Aewenor interjected before Malaithlon could compose a reply. “We need no light amidst this twilight and torches will only serve to draw unfriendly and unwelcome eyes.”

The prince did not betray annoyance and spoke politely. “Indeed, we should not adopt this method for long, merely until first dark. If the dwarves have not been retrieved by that time, I, for one, doubt their chances of surviving a second night in the woods,” he concluded with a shrug.

“I agree with the prince,” Calethor added his unsurprising support for his friend. “The dwarves have demonstrated a propensity for seeking out the light, and if we remain in close formation, we can deflect other dangers.”

All eyes turned to Malaithlon for his decision. The Captain eyed Aewenor, gauging the extent of the veteran’s disagreement. However, judging from the elder elf’s expression, Aewenor did not seem wholly opposed to the idea, merely objectively voicing its flaws. Satisfied that he would face no contention, Malaithlon made his command, “Gather torches then. We will close formation. I want two warriors to every tree and if we do not recover the dwarves by dark, we shall desist.”

Now, a silent mass of lights moved among the branches of the old trees of Mirkwood. Malaithlon eyed the twinkling lights about him and grimaced inwardly that the group’s position should be made so obvious. Yet, he trusted Legolas’s experience in the forest, and he would not discredit the prince’s suggestion until it had been tested.

Suddenly, the sound of stomping and shuffling assailed Malaithlon’s ears, and the elf smiled. The signs of dwarves crashing through the underbrush were unmistakable. Exchanging a knowing wink with Aewenor, who shared his tree, Malaithlon hooted softly. There was no chance the other elves could ignore the evidence of their prey, and quietly, twenty warriors closed in upon them.

The dwarves walked in a single file, pounding their heavy feet among dry leaves, and clinking the metal about their persons with every move. Malaithlon almost winced as the creatures trod upon tender shoots with cruelty and seemed to take no heed of the fragility of the forest. The elves surrounded the unsuspecting dwarves and Malaithlon signaled for half of the torches to be extinguished so the archers could draw their arrows. The other half of the group readied their spears, and less than half a second after first sighting their quarry, Malaithlon’s whistle sounded the attack.

“Halt!” he commanded in a ringing voice as elven spears and arrows were pressed in a menacing circle around the astonished dwarves. However, the dwarves did not let their bewilderment hinder their actions for long. The bearded creatures simply stopped dead in their tracks and slumped wearily upon the ground, without posing the smallest pretext of a challenge or defense.

Raising an eyebrow, Malaithlon surmised that the elven display of strength had been slightly exaggerated given the dwarven reaction. He exchanged a glance with Aewenor, who was eying their prisoners with a mixture of pity and disgust. Biting back a laugh, the Captain of the Guard turned to Legolas, who was frowning down the line of dwarves.

“Captain Legolas?” he asked quietly. “Is aught amiss?”

Legolas was jerking his head imperceptibly as he eyed each dwarf in turn, and Malaithlon realized that the prince was counting. Legolas was also muttering under his breath, which was uncharacteristic of the soft-spoken elf. Straightening suddenly, Legolas apparently perceived the quizzical expression of his captain. “My apologies, Captain Malaithlon, but I thought I had counted…thirteen.”

Frowning in his turn, Malaithlon surveyed the rather pathetic spectacle of twelve dwarves, now with bound hands and blindfolds, sitting huddled in the gathering darkness. The Captain of the Guard counted twice, each time arriving at twelve. Returning a concerned gaze to his prince, Malaithlon shrugged. “There are naught but twelve,” he asserted.

Legolas nodded reluctantly, but his sharp eyes examined the surrounding trees and piles of leaves with frightening intensity.

Deciding that the prince had simply miscounted and was perhaps becoming slightly paranoid in his obsession over the thirteenth prisoner, Malaithlon called for attention. Instructing the elves in the Common Tongue, for the benefit of the dwarves, Malaithlon commanded the group to proceed on the ground to the halls of the elven-king.

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“It appears the hunting party was successful,” Ivanneth observed wryly to Thranduil, as the duo straightened over a map which they had been examining.

The elven-king raised an eyebrow as the soft, but steady, sounds of elven song penetrated the throne room. “Their choice of tune seems misguided,” he remarked.

Indulging in a rare smile, Ivanneth commented, “I think not. ‘The hunter has caught his prey, oh happy day,” seems appropriate for the occasion, does it not?”

“If rather inane.” Thranduil lifted his other eyebrow, but could not entirely maintain a strict façade. A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “I deem it fortunate the dwarves are unfamiliar with our Silvan tongue lest they take offense at being equated with dead spiders.”

“I am rather impressed they yet live,” Ivanneth said dryly as the thudding of many feet in the passageway outside became deafening. Gathering up the maps in his careful hands, he glanced toward the amused elven-king. “It appears they approach, sire.” The ancient advisor paused before leaving through a side-door.

Acknowledging the hint with a nod, Thranduil bit down the laugh still threatening to escape, and proceeded to his throne. His autumnal crown of berries and red leaves lay on the seat, and he donned it, as he grasped the oaken staff that rested against the chair. The king usually reserved his royal insignia for formal occasions, such as banquets, audiences, or, in this case, to impress upon the trespassing dwarves that he was not an elf to be lightly dismissed. He was well aware that dwarves placed an absurd value on such displays of authority, and he was not about to let them assume him to be lord of a quaint and rustic folk with no inklings of nobility. Nay, for he was Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Eryn Galen.

There was a low knock on the door.

“Enter,” Thranduil commanded gravely.

Malaithlon saluted formally as he walked in first at the head of a unique procession. Twelve dwarves walked in single file, blindfolded, with hands bound, and were flanked alternatingly on one side by an elven warrior. The Captain of the Guard indicated for the elves to line up their charges before the king, and then retreat a pace behind them. All eyes came to rest on the elven-king as Thranduil contemplated the proceeding.

The king frowned slightly as he realized that more than one of the dwarves swayed on its feet, teetering dangerously close to collapsing on the floor. Further, their tunics were torn and cobwebs still clung grimly to their garb. “Unbind them,” he ordered abruptly. “Besides they need no ropes in here,” Thranduil continued warningly, as the first of the dwarves had their blindfolds removed and began to blink blearily about the chamber. “There is no escape from my magic doors for those who are once brought inside.”

The king paused and waited until each dwarf was free. There was much rubbing of wrists and grumbling, which despite the best efforts of the dwarves to maintain under their breaths, was entirely audible to every elf in the room. Malaithlon looked on the brink of checking the dwarves’ impertinence, but Thranduil denied him with a shake of his head.

“Now,” the elven-king instilled silence with a ringing voice. “Dwarves: if you expect to leave my halls freely, you will satisfy my questions.” Several glares in his direction reinforced Thranduil’s opinion of the pride of dwarves. “Who are you?” he began.

Obstinate silence met his words. The king was not deterred, however, as he had not truly been expecting the creatures to answer. “From whither do you hail?”

He eyed their garb, searching for any clues of origin. But there was nothing significant about their tattered clothes. “Whom do you serve?” he pressed.

Half-hoping the dwarves would blunder and confess their master to be Sauron, Thranduil decided this line of questioning was fruitless. He could boast of many interesting experiences in his long centuries of kingship, but unfortunately interrogating dwarves numbered not among his memories. “How did you escape the spiders?” he asked, switching tactics.

If the dwarves experienced surprise at the king’s knowledge of their activities, they did not evince any signs.

“Did you have aid?” Thranduil narrowed his eyes as memories rose unbidden in his mind of the violent cruelty of dwarves in ancient days. “Are you perhaps in league with black and evil creatures?” he challenged, as he clamped his mind shut to the call of the past.

“We killed them,” a white-hooded dwarf answered quickly.

“And how could you have managed thus as you were held captive?” The elven-king riveted his piercing gaze to the speaker.

“Some among us escaped and freed the others, and we all killed the spiders,” the same dwarf spoke archly.

Narrowing his eyes, Thranduil wondered what kind of a fool this creature took him to be. “It is not so light a task to escape spider-webs when one has become their prey, dwarf.”

“Perhaps not for elves, but we are sturdy folk.” Brown dwarven eyes met gray elven eyes in fierce battle.

Thranduil clenched his fists as a sudden rage made his blood boil. If, by sturdy folk, this brazen creature meant murderously deceitful and treacherous folk, then the elven-king could not agree more. Deciding that the white-hooded dwarf, at least, would later pay for his insolence, Thranduil steeled his voice and addressed the group in general. “What were you doing in the forest?” he began anew, lacing his voice with warning anger.

The dwarves were silent, though the king noted that several apparently younger ones had begun exchanging looks among themselves. An enormously fat dwarf shuffled his feet. Thranduil fitted one of the blue-hooded dwarves with a keen elven stare. The elven-king’s face was as chiseled marble, his eyes hard as gems, and glittering with the intensity of fire. There was no malice in his gaze or compassion in the lines around his eyes.

Suddenly, a rough voice spoke from the rear of the group. Thranduil swiveled his head in the direction of the speaker.

“We sought food,” a yellow-hooded dwarf growled.

Resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, Thranduil leveled his gaze on the speaker. “Why did you seek food within the forest?”

“Because we were starving!” the fattest dwarf all but wailed.

The nearest dwarf jabbed the fat one in the side, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow at their antics. He ignored a titter from the elves at the back of the chamber. “And why were you starving? Came you to the forest empty-handed, seeking to brave its dangers wholly unprepared?”

One of the dwarves growled at this question. “We had food,” the creature huffed.

“But we ran out!” the fat dwarf interjected.

Lacing his fingers together for a momentary distraction from the absurdity of his task, Thranduil studied the largest of the dwarves. He appeared to be the best provider of answers in the group, and the king felt his patience growing thin. “Why did you attack my people?” he asked icily.

“We did not attack them!”

“We sought food!”

The elven-king eyed these two last speakers, who were practically identical from the top of their blue hoods to their yellow beards and silver belts. “So you sought food in the forest because you were starving.” The blue-hooded creatures nodded. “I see.” Thranduil paused. “Yet why came you to the forest in the first place?”

The blue-hooded dwarves cast their eyes down, and Thranduil noted that the others avoided meeting his gaze.

“We were merely passing through, O king.” The second dwarf to have spoken spat out these words with no subtle mockery in his tone.

“Passing through to where, dwarf?” Thranduil frowned at the bright-eyed dwarf.

The creature met his look without flinching, and the elven-king did not bother to check his increasing annoyance. He had met many a stubborn elf in his time, indeed, several of his sons flitted briefly to mind, but not even they displayed such insolent pride.

“Let me caution you, dwarves.” Thranduil spoke softly, yet the effect was chilling. “You tread dangerous ground, and I bid you reflect ere speaking again.” He surveyed the ragged line of dwarves. “I repeat, where is your destination?”

 Again, there was silence. Yet, the king noted that the dwarves seemed to be all glancing toward the same dwarf within the group. The center of their attention was obviously the oldest dwarf of them all, with a long white beard and a heavily wrinkled face. This creature did not acknowledge the open looks in his direction, and he continued to regard Thranduil with restrained irritation.

“What purpose brought you into the forest?” the elven-king spoke directly to the venerable dwarf.

He did not answer, but his gaze almost matched that of an elf in studied intensity.

Thranduil felt his grasp on his staff growing strained, and he forcibly relaxed his hand lest his ire become public. With the last of his patience, he glared at the white-bearded dwarf. “Why were you in the forest?” he demanded.

Apparently, Thranduil was not the only being whose patience had disappeared. The old dwarf’s eyes flashed ominously, and, finally, he spoke. “What have we done, O king?” Though less sarcastic than his companion, this dwarf’s use of Thranduil’s title was barely polite. “Is it a crime to be lost in the forest, to be hungry and thirsty, to be trapped by spiders?” The dwarf’s voice grew impassioned as he recounted a list of the group’s grievances. “Are the spiders your tame beasts or your pets, if killing them makes you angry?”

Thranduil’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. How dare the creature suggest an alliance between elves and their foul enemies! Abandoning all restraint, the elven-king rose to his full height, and he glared down at the dwarves with every fiber of his royal stature. “It is a crime to wander in my realm without leave,” he proclaimed coldly. “Do you forget that you were in my kingdom, using the road that my people made? Did you not three times pursue and trouble my people in the forest and rouse the spiders with your riot and clamor? After all the disturbance you have made I have a right to know what brings you here, and if you will not tell me now, I will keep you all in prison until you have learned sense and manners!”

There was deep silence in the void after Thranduil spoke. The dwarves remained stubbornly mute, and more than one of the creatures directed an affronted glare at the elven-king.

“Very well,” Thranduil said harshly as he sat back down. “You will each be imprisoned separately. You will be given food and drink,” he continued, and the fattest dwarf brightened visibly at the prospect, “but you will not pass the thresholds of your prisons until my questions have been answered. Ego,” he ordered irritably, switching to Sindarin.

Malaithlon bowed and began assigning guards to each dwarf. The elves were slowly departing the throne room when Thranduil spoke again.

“Legolas, godolo nín.” The king did not pause to observe whether his youngest son followed him from the room through a small door along the right-hand side of the rock wall. Father and son walked with quiet footfalls up a narrow corridor, which rose slightly.

Arriving in his study, Thranduil immediately poured two goblets of wine and settled himself behind his desk. He drank deeply and allowed his eyes to wander about the small room, sliding among the many maps, which hung from the walls, and finally resting on his youngest son.

Legolas sipped his wine thoughtfully, his gaze unfocused. Immediately feeling his father’s eyes upon him, the young prince returned to the present, and smiled softly. “Dwarves are not known for diplomacy,” he remarked.

Thranduil waved his hand derisively. “Trouble me not with talk of those creatures, iôn nín, for they have wearied my patience. Let us try to forget them as best we can for the moment.”

The smile faded, and Legolas nodded obediently. Experience had taught the prince that it was best to wait for the king to select the topic of conversation.

Thranduil grimaced inwardly, for he had not summoned his youngest to his study for chastisement. Rather, it was the king who was in the wrong. “Legolas,” he began, “it escaped me not at this morning’s conference that you were disturbed to learn the true identity of the Necromancer.” The younger elf paled slightly at this assertion, but did not speak. “I fear I must apologize to you for keeping you in ignorance so long.”

Legolas stared at his father. Apologies from him were rare indeed, though not due to pride or stubbornness, but simply because Thranduil seldom acted wrongly toward his children. The elven-king knew that his offspring loved him greatly, and that Legolas was no exception to this regard. The young prince had often suffered mentally as throughout his maturing, he sought to reconcile the perfection in which he held his father to that elf’s occasional errors.

“I forgive you, of course, Adar, but truly, you need not ask my pardon.” A smile crept into the prince’s eyes, as he grudgingly admitted, “Indeed, I should thank you for allowing my mind to be easy in this matter. I know Girithron and Hananuir have not had that pleasure.”

“Nay.” Thranduil inclined his head to his son’s just statement. “Your brothers have shared my knowledge and my anxieties, but I chose not to burden you with this worry. You tell me I have not acted wrongly?”   

The younger elf shook his head. “Understand me, Adar, I seek not to hide from evil and pretend my innocence will shield me, for I know this is folly. If I felt slighted at first, I now discern the wisdom behind your actions, and I truly express my gratitude.”

“Well I know your merits, iôn nín, and you are a source of pride to me.” Thranduil regarded his youngest intently, and Legolas looked down in embarrassment. “But stay,” the king continued swiftly, “now we are come to this heavy subject, we will not dismiss it lightly.”  

“But what can be done, Adar?”

Thranduil almost smiled at how childish his warrior son now appeared, as the young elf’s gray eyes beseeched his father for a solution. “This in part, I cannot yet answer, as I hope to learn much at the Council. You know our plans for war from this morning’s meeting?”

“Aye,” Legolas confirmed emphatically.

“Good, now unfolds the purpose for which I called you here tonight.” Thranduil paused though Legolas’s attention was obvious from his rapt expression. “In the attack against Dol Guldur, I wish you to command the archers.”

Legolas blinked and his jaw dropped slightly. His first few failed attempts at an answer would have been comical had the situation been less grave. “All of them?” he finally breathed.

Thranduil nodded solemnly.

“Adar,” Legolas began uncertainly, “never have I led so many in direct battle. Could I not lead a group of scouts, as is my habit? Or merely a unit of archers?”

Thranduil did not let his son’s hesitation affect him, for the king had debated this particular idea for some lengthy years. He knew that his youngest was an expert tracker in the forest, and he suspected that coupled with his own vast knowledge of the woods, the father-son duo would prove lethal hunters even blindfolded. Further, Legolas was an exceptional bowman and a capable commander. The king knew that in order to mature as a warrior, his youngest must experience battle in a leadership position.

“Surely there are more senior commanders who desire the position?” Legolas insisted at his father’s silence.

Thranduil smiled sadly at his son’s reluctance to lead. Ai, he thought, but Legolas is exactly the opposite of Celeguir. He distinctly recalled how his brazen eldest son had willfully ignored both Thranduil’s and Oropher’s warnings in Dagorlad, and had lead his unit further than their numbers could safely have permitted. A shaft of pain pierced his heart afresh as the king remembered how Celeguir had paid the price for his pride with his life. Thranduil’s bitter memories also thrust upon him the terror he had experienced, when rumors of Oropher’s death had become fact. Thranduil had become sole commander of the Silvan forces that day, but he had been unprepared for the responsibility. Almost three thousand years had passed since that tragedy, but for Thranduil the emotions still had the rawness of having entered his heart bare moments ago. He had resolved on that day that in future his sons would be trained to fulfill all duties and possibilities of leadership.

“Adar?” Legolas tentatively recalled his father to the present.

“Forgive me, Legolas, for my mind has wandered to darker times. Nay, iôn nín, doubt not your courage and skill. You are more than capable of this honor, and it is time for you to accept the challenge.” Thranduil gazed at his youngest with open affection and pride shining in his eyes. “Rarely have I been disappointed in you, and I have faith that you will succeed in this endeavor.”

“Valar help us all,” Legolas murmured.

“They will, iôn nín, doubt it not! For against Sauron we must implore greater powers to our aid.” Legolas sobered immediately and nodded gravely at his father’s words. “But come, I depart on the morrow and I would not leave you troubled.”

“Nay, I am well, Adar.” Legolas smiled reassuringly. “There is naught to concern you with me.”

“I am glad to hear of it, for I shall need your wits at the ready to prevent discord between your brothers.” Thranduil smiled at the mischievous gleam that entered his son’s eyes. “See to it that between Ivanneth, Gwiwileth, and yourself, you can prevent them from attacking each other and damaging anything valuable.”

The sarcasm in the king’s voice worked to elicit a laugh from the youngest prince. “Fear not, O king, for if they persist in any disagreement, we shall imprison them with the dwarves to soften their tempers.”

“Valar help the dwarves!” Thranduil quipped drily and was rewarded with another bright laugh from Legolas.The eyes of the elven-king danced, and Thranduil prayed that peace would finally prevail and allow these darkened centuries to appear but as a spot in his long memory. Yet his aged soul knew that no span of peace could erase the creeping tendrils of despair that would all too frequently assail his heart. So, with bitter years of practice, Thranduil tore his mind away from dreamy visions of the future and hopeless memories of the past, and he focused all his thought on the clear peal of elven laughter from the lips of his son.

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Translations:

Ego: be gone

Godolo nín: come (together) with me

Adar: father

Iôn nín: my son