Chapter Five: Caught In The Tide

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

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Malaithlon—captain of the guard

Calardir—runner of the Southern Company

Thorchanar—palace guard

Maeglir—captain of the Southern Company

Nandir—another captain

Rochiron—another captain

Twice the thanks to Kayson135 for beta editing this chapter and the last!

oooo

Thranduil focused his eyes in the darkness of his chamber and felt that dawn was near. He rose quickly and paused, relishing the sense of anticipation before sunrise. Even though the elven-king’s room was an inner cavern and boasted no windows, every fiber of his being hummed the music of Arda in unison with the outside world. To mortal senses, the air lay silently chill within the cave, yet to the king, the air murmured excitedly of the unfolding day. Thranduil felt birds chattering and sensed that the trees stood slightly taller, reaching out to grasp the first rays of light. He inhaled deeply, feeling his body thrum with the same anticipation of the natural world, echoing the joy of life.

His mind was abuzz with little tasks and various priorities, which rose and fell in his thoughts like blades of grass in a gentle breeze. For today he was journeying to Lórien, and despite his plans and preparations yester eve, the king was anxious lest some detail be forgotten. He donned breeches and a simple tunic, opting for practical traveling clothes rather than his ceremonial attire. He braided his golden hair with deft fingers, twisting them into the plaits favored by warriors of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil hesitated for a fraction of a second before finishing the last braid. He found that he could not quite remember the last time he had attired himself in this fashion. Breaking into a smile, the king almost chuckled at his unusual display of fastidiousness in his dress.

He fixed his gaze on the leathern rucksack sitting neatly at the foot of his bed. He knew that all was in order and he had not forgotten any item that should be wanted. The king lifted the bag easily, and glancing once about the chamber, strode purposefully from the room. He knew he had time before dawn to attend to a matter which should not have been pressing on his mind, yet had insistently crept into his slumber.

It was still early for much traffic in the corridors of his halls, so Thranduil was unsurprised to cross barely a handful of elves along his journey. Those whom he passed greeted him with respect, but his subjects were accustomed to their king’s apparent ability to forego any sleep. Thranduil paused a moment in an antechamber before the Gate and abandoned his sack with a nod to a guard. Then, the elven-king began to wind his way through the twisting corridors that worked ever downwards in the hillside.

As he walked, Thranduil attempted to discipline the nagging doubts that had grown in his thoughts during the night. He wondered at himself for doubting, considering the lengthy conversations sustained with his children, Ivanneth, his commanders…even Galion had proffered his opinion on the matter. Yet Thranduil could not shake a presentiment that aught was amiss with the dwarves, and after so many thousands of years upon Arda, he knew better than to dismiss the warning of his heart.

The reasonable part of his mind scoffed at his worry. The dwarves were securely imprisoned in the labyrinthine lower cells of his caverns, with the proud leader kept well apart from the others. Capable guards stood sentry, the doors were wooden, and tightly locked. Furthermore, even should the dwarves manage to escape their cells, they could not exit the Gate unawares. There was no other way out of his halls, and Thranduil knew even entertaining these possibilities was assuming far too much of the strength and cleverness of dwarves.

Nevertheless, the king obeyed the instinct which prompted him to seek out the guard’s chamber and find Malaithlon.

As he entered the spacious chamber assigned to the palace guards, Thranduil was chagrinned to find the room empty, save for the requisite guard on duty.

“My lord.” The young elf shot upright.

“The Captain has not yet been down?” the elven-king asked to soothe the wide-eyed youth, despite already knowing the answer. Thranduil was well aware that the ever-careful Malaithlon reported to the guardroom with unfailing regularity each and every morn.

“Nay, sire. Shall I summon him?” In his eagerness, the guard was poised to run on his errand within a moment’s notice.

Thranduil hesitated, knowing that he had nothing truly urgent with which to disturb the Captain, yet wanting to speak to him nonetheless. The elven-king glanced about the room, debating a course of action, when his eyes lighted upon a pile of knives arrayed carefully in a corner.

The young guard watched curiously as his king frowned, crossed the room, and halted in the corner containing the prisoners’ weaponry. The youth had not found dwarven knives particularly interesting.

“To whom does this belong?” Thranduil asked quickly without looking at the younger elf.

“Those were taken from the dwarves, my lord.” The guard studied the pile, attempting to discern whether he had skipped over anything significant.

“I seek only to know the origin of this blade.” The king stooped and grasped a sword, which had lain buried beneath the other knives. The scabbard was intricately carved, and the jewels along the hilt reflected the light of the torches. Thranduil drew the blade slowly and brought the point to rest against the flat of his other palm. He turned, and his eyes met those of the guard.

“From which dwarf did you take this?” he inquired seriously.

The young guard hesitated. “I know not, my lord,” he confessed softly. “My shift began at midnight and the prisoners had already been disarmed, I…”  

The elven-king gestured for silence. “Please summon Captain Malaithlon. I shall await your return here.”

Attempting to nod and bow simultaneously, the youth fled on his errand. Left alone, Thranduil gently fingered the runes running along the blade. His eyes grew unfocused as he stared beyond the naked steel into centuries of turbulence, violence, and death. He rubbed the jeweled hilt reverently, and though unable to decipher the runes, the history of this sword filled him with awe and yearning.

Malaithlon and the young guard returned quickly. Despite the predawn hour, the Captain of the Guard was alert and immediately concerned at his king’s presence in the guard chamber. “My lord, you called for me?”

Thranduil nodded slowly and tore his eyes away from the sword’s beauty with reluctance. “Aye, Captain.” He looked again at the sword. “I desire to know from which dwarf this sword was taken.”

Malaithlon approached the king smartly. He examined the weapon in question with sharp eyes and then scanned the pile of assorted knives still resting in the corner of the room. “I believe, my lord,” he spoke confidently, “that this belongs to the first dwarf. The one imprisoned in the lowest cell.” He gestured in the general direction of that cell.

“I see.” Thranduil felt the warning in his mind increase in intensity. There was a mystery here, he knew. Why a dwarf should possess an elven blade of such ancient make, he could not guess. Unless, his mind suggested, the leader was no ordinary dwarf. If the proud prisoner were of noble lineage, then Thranduil had acted rashly. Or, another part of his mind countered, the dwarf could have stolen this fine sword. Such behavior would not be foreign to the greedy creatures, especially since the theft of an elven blade in particular would rank high among a dwarf’s priorities. If so, then the elven-king had meted out just punishment. However, if the dwarf had come by the sword honestly, the group could not be in service to the Enemy. Or, Sauron himself could have provided the weapon merely to disguise the identity of his servants.

Thranduil shook his head. There were too many possibilities, and he felt his thoughts coursing haphazardly in all directions, like water splashing from a fast-running river.

“My lord?” Malaithlon regarded the king. “I believe dawn is nigh.”

Thranduil stretched his senses beyond the sword in his hand, outside the cavern, and realized that night had taken its last breath and the sun was almost born. “Thank you, Captain.” He sheathed the sword. “I will be at the Gate shortly. Please ask my escort to wait.”

The king turned on his heel and strode from the guardroom. Malaithlon bestowed a suspicious parting glance on the young guard before leaving in the opposite direction. The youth was left alone and began to wonder what sort of amusing tale he could construct from his mysterious early morning encounter.

Thranduil walked quickly, his mind reeling. He held the mysterious sword tightly against his side, seeking to deflect curious glances from passerby. Rounding a corner, the king arrived at his destination.

Knocking sharply against a wooden door, Thranduil called, “Ivanneth? My apologies, but urgently must I speak with you.”

Several moments passed before the elven-king’s summons was answered. Ivanneth cracked the door open, hair slightly disheveled, yet manifested only slight surprise at meeting his king. “Thranduil.” He blinked as his eyes quickly lighted upon the stoic face of the elven-king. “Are not you leaving this morn?” he asked conversationally, as he opened the door to admit the king.

“Aye.” Thranduil proceeded immediately to a small table against a wall and swiftly pushed aside the scrolls, which littered its surface. He laid the sword gently on the table.

His advisor followed him to the table. Ivanneth had lived far too long to succumb to the eagerness caused by curiosity, though his eyes widened imperceptibly as he beheld the beautiful sword.

Thranduil rested his gaze on the runes along the scabbard. He traced their outlines with nimble fingers. “Ivanneth,” he asked without looking up, “can you read this?”

The ancient elf approached the sword slowly. The king moved aside and regarded his advisor hopefully. Ivanneth paused in front of the weapon and became immobile. After a long moment, he closed his eyes.

An Age seemed to pass, as both elves remained silent in the half-lit chamber. Thranduil felt distinctly that the sun had risen, and the birds and beasts were almost finished welcoming the day. His journey pressed itself upon him, yet haste was foreign to the king. He would wait out the rest of the year for Ivanneth to answer.

Finally, the advisor spoke. His voice was distant and his eyes closed.  “Long years have passed since I last beheld such craftsmanship. Centuries, yea, but the day remains as crystal in my thought.”

Thranduil nodded. “Never did I behold this sword in bygone times, yet it speaks to me of the days across the Mountains…days I have long kept locked within my memory.” He spoke faintly, almost to himself.

Ivanneth opened his eyes and regarded Thranduil, not as an advisor respects his king, but as a father seeks to explain the past to his son. “Son of Oropher,” he smiled gently, “you were yet living under the enchantment of youth when this sword was forged. Those days are shadowed,” he murmured, “loath am I to speak of them.”

“Ivanneth.” Thranduil felt his heart compress at the pain in the voice of his stoic advisor. He knew Ivanneth hailed from before the reckoning of the First Age, and had been a close companion of his father’s. He had long suspected that the dark-haired elf had accepted the role of advisor merely out of a misplaced sense of paternal obligation toward his best friend’s son. Thranduil had no desire to dwell in memories himself, and he was conscious of forcing his trusted right-hand to relive experiences the older elf evidently wished to forget.

Shaking his head sadly, Ivanneth sighed. “I cannot recount all that passed, Oropherion, for grief still presses my heart. I had a brother…a father…all perished in the folly wrought in Gondolin…”

“The Hidden City?” Thranduil prompted as his advisor trailed off into silence.

Ivanneth’s smile was bitter. “Aye, hidden. Know you that naught can be kept hidden from the Enemy. Aye…hidden.” The ancient elf stared into the middle-space. “This sword,” he returned suddenly to himself, “was forged in Gondolin, in the ancient days, and these symbols read Orcrist, Goblin-Cleaver, I believe is the translation.” Ivanneth furrowed his brows in concentration. “Never again I thought to behold this ancient tongue.”

Thranduil regarded the blade with newfound reverence. The same questions he had hoped to abandon in the guardroom now plagued his mind with renewed vigor. “This was taken from the leader of the dwarves.” He glanced at Ivanneth.

Although the advisor seemed more himself, there was still a shadow of pain in his eyes. Ivanneth shrugged at the king. “Much was lost in the wars of the First Age, Thranduil.”

The elven-king raised his eyebrows at Ivanneth, the challenge in his gaze a forceful message to his advisor that Thranduil remembered all too clearly the turmoil of that era.

“Peace, Oropherion,” Ivanneth said gently. “There are many possibilities of how Orcrist came to be found with the dwarf. However, rather than futile attempts at reconstructing a past of which we shall ever remain ignorant, I advise you to accept that fate has brought this sword to you, and its purpose shall be made clear.”

The king nodded reluctantly. “Think you it is right to keep the dwarvesimprisoned?” he asked abruptly.

Ivanneth eyed him seriously. “To my knowledge, this question has already been answered.”

Thranduil shifted. “Aye— ”

There was a sudden knock on the door.

“Adar?” Girithron’s voice spoke through the wood. “Ivanneth?”

With one last look at his king, the advisor crossed the room and admitted the Crown Prince.

“Adar.” Girithron frowned as he entered the room. “Is aught amiss? The morning fast wanes.”

Thranduil found himself entranced by the sword lying upon the table. He grasped the jeweled hilt and felt the metal rest comfortably in his hold. Among the precious gems, his eyes discerned emeralds. He had always loved the deep green of these stones, as they reminded him of Eryn Galen as it once had been.

So focused was he that the king did not sense Ivanneth’s approach. “I will do what I can to determine how came the dwarf to possess it.”

Thranduil eyed his advisor with gratitude and, not for the first time, was thankful that Ivanneth seemed capable of reading his thoughts.

“Adar?” Girithron’s voice brought the king back to the present moment.

“Girithron,” Thranduil acknowledged his son for the first time. “Come.” He beckoned as he placed the sword possessively at his side. “I must depart, for the day grows and evil does not rest.”

Without a backward glance, the elven-king strode from the room, with Girithron and Ivanneth following in his wake.

oooo

The king had been absent a week when the Southern Company returned to the caverns of the Woodland Realm.

The sky was grey, and the clouds hung heavily, practically crushing the treetops, promising rain. A cold wind blew steadily, carrying the first whispers of winter in its wake. Although the noon hour was high, the forest was dark. Despite great tolerance to the cold, few elves chose to leave their flets or the warmth of the cavern-palace.

The trees which shed their leaves in the colder months had already begun to do so, and the wind carried the brittle foliage helter-skelter. Bare limbs rattled in the morning darkness, but these sounds did not pierce the void of silence in the forest.

Deep within the hillside, Mirkwood’s royal family was enjoying a rare moment of unity. There had been few court matters to resolve, so Hananuir had ended council early that day. Girithron had anticipated the potential attack on Dol Guldur to such an extent that his organization was practically flawless, and he now had to test his patience with waiting. There were no grave illnesses in the infirmary, so Gwiwileth had delegated her responsibilities to another healer. Legolas was enjoying a break in the patrol rotation, relishing the fact that he did not have to scout the forest on such a bleak day. In short, Thranduil’s children found themselves together and unoccupied during the mealtime hour.

“I am glad there is soup today,” Hananuir announced cheerfully over his steaming bowl. “It seems appropriate for the weather, does it not?”

Girithron shrugged. “I once heard a mortal speak thus, but I see no correlation.”

Cocking her head to one side, Gwiwileth eyed the Crown Prince. “Nay, I disagree, muindor. The richness of the soup compensates for the grimness outside.”

“Why should it be grim merely for lack of sunshine?” Girithron challenged playfully.

“Say rather ‘melancholy,’ muinthel,” Legolas added. “The trees yearn for rain, yet the clouds withhold it cruelly.”

“Not so, Legolas, your senses deceive you,” Hananuir countered. “The trees lament the coming of winter.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes. “Winter is not yet come, but the rain is imminent.”

“Then the trees would not be mourning that which shall come to pass.” Hananuir grinned.

“The same can be said for winter, for that always comes to pass,” Gwiwileth teased.

“I still fail to understand the relationship between the soup and the rain or the winter,” the Crown Prince returned to the original question.

“Whether it be rain,” Gwiwileth looked at Legolas, “or winter,” her eyes slid to Hananuir, “the outside world is hollow today, muindor. The missing element is the soup.”

“Arda is not diminished.” Girithron shook his head.

Legolas’s eyes grew unfocused. “Nay, but you cannot deny there is a yearning present today.”

“A yearning for soup?” The Crown Prince snickered.

Hananuir rolled his eyes. “Do not pretend to be denser than you already are, Girithron.”

“I am not the one asserting that Arda clamors for soup.” The Crown Prince raised his eyebrows at his sister.

“Nor am I,” she rejoined sardonically. “You mistook my meaning.”

“Which is?” Girithron prompted.

“Merely that the emptiness in the weather promotes a desire for fulfillment within living beings. This desire is aptly satisfied with soup,” the Princess spoke with finality.

“Just so.” Hananuir nodded approvingly. “That is just what I meant.”

“Yet you said nothing of the kind.” Girithron smirked.

“I think we should discuss,” Legolas began, “that the hollowness preceding a rainstorm varies from the feeling before winter.” He glanced significantly at Hananuir.  “And today is perfect evidence of the former phenomenon.”

Girthron shook his head at his youngest brother before Hananuir could retort. “Hold, Legolas. I am still not convinced about this soup nonsense. If one were to indulge in a bowl of soup in the summer, say—”

“Lord Girithron! Lord Girithron!”

Allowing his thought to remain unfinished, Girithron along with his brothers and sister turned their heads to acknowledge the frantic shouting of an elf entering the main dining hall. All conversation ceased in the hall as every elven eye followed the trail of the guard as he approached the royal family. The brothers rose, all concerns with soup and weather forgotten.

“Speak quickly Thorchanar!” Girithron ordered sternly as the running elf paused to bow in front of the princes.

“The Southern Company has returned, my lord! They have been waylaid and less than half has arrived—” the guard gasped.

Without speaking, Girithron turned quickly and began to run toward the Gate. Hananuir and Legolas followed suit, with Gwiwileth trailing at a brisk walk in their wake.

The princes dodged surprised elves as they wound their way along the corridors snaking upwards to the mouth of the cavern. As they neared the Gate, a sizeable crowed blocked their way.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, Girithron began clearing a path. “Move aside! Let us pass! Your prince commands you!”

Several moments later, the Crown Prince had managed to wrestle his way to the front of the press. His brothers were close behind. When Girithron could finally see that which the throng of elves had obscured, he gasped.

For, hunched over on one knee, trembled the pale form of Calardir, the runner of the Southern Company. The elf’s eyes were closed and his breathing labored. A healer stood over him, speaking gently, while Calardir’s brother, a palace guard, supported him by the elbow.

“Calardir,” Girithron spoke firmly as he knelt in front of the pale elf. “What has occurred? Tell me all.”

Calardir opened his eyes at hearing Girithron’s words, and, recognizing the Crown Prince, bowed his head.

“Speak, where are the others?” Girithron pressed.

“My lord,” the other elf rasped. “I came as quickly as I could. I have been running from the Mountains since the attack—we were divided—wargs and orcs…”

“You were assailed south of the Mountains?” Girithron demanded.

“Nay, north—the orcs cut us in two groups, the others were forced back across the peaks—and then the wargs came.” Calardir’s voice shook as he recounted his experience.

Girithron’s face grew pale. “How many foes?”

The trembling elf shook his head weakly. “They seemed countless, my lord. We were overwhelmed.”

Standing behind the Crown Prince’s shoulder, Hananuir spoke anxiously, “How many survivors come behind you?”

Calardir’s eyes were bleak and his voice barely a whisper as he answered. “I know not, my lord. Captain Maeglir bade me run for aid before the battle was ended. I saw him…slain…as well as most of the first group.” There were tears in the elf’s eyes. “The second group may have escaped, but I know not. They are across the Mountains.”

“How many days did you run?” Girithron asked tightly.

“Three…four…I know not, my lord. The time is blurred.” Calardir hung his head.

Nodding, Girithron rose and placed a hand on Calardir’s shoulder. “Rest now, warrior of the Woodland Realm. Come.” He beckoned to his brothers.

Girithron marched away from the crowd, his expression closed, and his eyes snapping with sudden fire. Those elves in his way retreated of their own accord as the ire of their prince became palpable. Hananuir followed his brother’s greater strides with practiced ease, and Legolas walked silently behind his elder brothers. As the trio wound their way in the direction of Thranduil’s study, Ivanneth materialized and joined their procession without a sound. Arriving first in the room, Girithron jerked the door back and threw himself into Thranduil’s chair behind the desk. He waited impatiently for the others to be seated.

“Ivanneth,” the Crown Prince nodded sharply at the advisor, “I presume you have heard the news and are come with counsel.”

“News I have heard yet counsel have I none. I would hear your thoughts first.” There was unusual reluctance in Ivanneth’s voice.

“Your thoughts are my thoughts in this matter as there are no choices open to us. We will send a rescue party. They will form two groups: one to recover survivors and the other to find and destroy the enemy.” Girithron rapped the table to emphasize the role of each group.

“This is folly!” Hananuir half-rose from his chair. “We cannot risk more lives in a death trap!”

“Death trap?” Girithron echoed derisively. “You would leave forty warriors of this realm to die?”

“Nay, but neither would I double that count with recklessness!” Hananuir stood and challenged his brother.

“You call me reckless, muindor?” the Crown Prince asked softly. “I would remind you of whom you are addressing.”

“Girithron—” Legolas interrupted but was ignored.

“Indeed,” Hananuir’s voice cut across the words of his youngest brother. “A Commander who sacrifices the lives of his warriors in vengeance against overpowering odds rather than protecting his refuge.”

Girithron slammed both fists on the wood of the desk as he, too, rose in fury. “Speak you of sacrifice! Speak you of vengeance! I am no novice and I know how to protect my own! We are being cornered. Heard you not Calardir’s words? They were attacked north of the Mountains!

“Exactly!” Hananuir’s voice rose in volume though he rarely shouted. “And into this trap you would send more lives! How easy it would be for our enemies to surround us, wait for us to cross the Mountains seeking our lost comrades, and then close in upon us until we are shattered against the rocks on the one side or slaughtered by orcs and wargs on the other!”

“You cannot be certain of their position.” Girithron countered.

“There are many uncertainties—” Legolas began again, but his brothers did not so much as glance at him. The youngest prince looked beseechingly at Ivanneth, but the old elf merely shook his head sadly.

“Does it matter?” Hananuir retorted. “We will be surrounded regardless. I would not see our defenses decimated on the eve of war!”

“Think you this attack is unrelated to that war?” Girithron threw up his hands in frustration. “These creatures could not have ventured so far north without the aid of the Enemy!”

“Again, you further my point! If this be the case, how can you possibly hope to best them without reinforcements?” Hananuir all but shouted.

“I will not be penned in, like a beast in a snare!” Girithron roared.

“You have no choice!” Hananuir yelled.

Stunned silence met the mild mannered prince’s display of temper.

“I will not abandon forty warriors to face torment and death. Not while I am a prince of this realm,” Girithron spoke quietly, but no less forcefully.

“You know as well as I that we no longer have forty warriors. Calardir was unsure, but there can be but few survivors. I am not cruel, muindor,” Hananuir’s voice was pained. “Loathe am I to leave them without aid, yet can we truly afford the number required to guarantee safety for victim and rescuer alike? Think you on it! How many refugees have swelled our own numbers here? How can we protect all fronts?”

Girithron balled his fists and began pacing the short distance behind the desk and the walls that flanked it. “You know nothing of placing warriors, Hananuir,” he replied tersely. “The attack comes to us from the south, and we must meet it lest we are overrun.”

“I know enough to understand that we cannot protect our colony here and send enough warriors south to defeat such a large host. They will be massacred, and we will be left vulnerable.” Hananuir’s eyes burned with anger.

“Muindyr.” Legolas also rose and spoke in agitation. “I beseech you, cease this arguing! How can we determine the best course of action when you are blinded by your anger?”

“My anger, Legolas, is directed at he who would forsake the lives of his kinsmen,” Girithron growled.

“And my anger, little brother, is for the commander who would place the lives of the defenseless in danger through his reckless pride,” Hananuir spat.

“I wonder at Adar for leaving his government in the hands of the two of you!” Legolas narrowed his eyes. “I see nothing but foolishness in both your words.”

Girithron relaxed his fists, but his body was no less tense. Hananuir jerked his head slightly in acknowledgement of the rebuke, yet his eyes flashed dangerously.

“Many thoughts plagued me as I caught the rumors of Calardir’s report,” Ivanneth began heavily in the ensuing silence.

The three brothers turned to face the advisor, who had occupied his usual chair in the back of the room. The old elf waited patiently until he was sure of their attention.

“It seems I am not alone in suspecting Sauron’s complicity in this attack. Further, though I am no military commander, I too doubt our strength of arms. However,” Ivanneth paused and frowned at both Girithron and Hananuir,  “I see yet another solution which neither of you can discern behind your stubbornness.”

“Speak, Ivanneth,” Girithron asked respectfully in the silence, which followed. “‘Twould be great folly to ignore your counsel.”

“How many would be needed to scout the terrain north of the Mountains?” the advisor asked blandly.

“For survivors?” Hananuir eyed his elder brother.

“For whatever is to be found,” the advisor returned. “How many can be spared?”

Girithron weighed the question. “We could pull about fifteen warriors for the scouting group and we could back them with two patrols at established distances. Though, not,” his eyes narrowed, “for too lengthy a time.”

Legolas creased his brow as he contemplated the suggestion. “This distance must remain fixed, as when we are hunting.  The groups should move in unison.”

The Crown Prince’s eyes grew unfocused as he studied his younger brother’s idea. “Nay, Legolas.” He finally shook his head. “The groups could not communicate, and so there would be no warning of danger. The distances would be too great for bird-calls.”

“Yet not archery signals,” Legolas spoke with determination.

Girithron frowned. “I know not of this technique.”

“A colored flag or pennant is attached to the shaft of an arrow, which is then shot straight upwards into the sky at established times. The other groups need only have an elf in the trees to see the signal and can then proceed forward,” Legolas said quietly.

The tallest brother nodded abstractedly as his mechanical mind worked its way through the details of this plan. “It could work,” Girithron concluded finally, “but the signal would depend greatly on the weather.”

“What if this group is attacked in the same manner as was the Southern Company?” Hananuir asked no one in particular.

“And Ivanneth,” Girithron asked tensely, “you spoke merely of scouting? Is not this group to rescue wounded comrades? Or to seek the whereabouts of the stranded warriors?”

The ancient elf seemed to grow even older as he sighed deeply before answering. “This scouting group must act primarily to gauge the strength of the enemy and discover aught of our kinsfolk if it can,” he added sadly. “However, the group must not attempt uncertain rescues. If the group is attacked,” he eyed Hananuir, “then I hope your system of coordination works to ensure victory or successful retreat. I have no further counsel to give.” He rose and contemplated each prince before leaving the room.

Left alone, the brothers regarded each other with grim anxiety.

“I will speak with Captains Malaithlon, Nandir, and Rochiron now,” Girithron decided. “We will determine the composition of this scouting group. Join us, Legolas.” The Crown Prince gestured toward his youngest brother. “You have devoted much to the forest, and your insights are invaluable.”

Legolas accepted absently, but his gaze was on Hananuir, who had not moved.

“If this is to be our decision,” Hananuir began, “then I will see to it that the warriors’ families are not misinformed. I will not give them false hope,” he replied to Girithron’s raised eyebrow, “but neither would I have them anticipate grief.”

“It appears the war has already begun,” Legolas murmured.

“Nay, muindor.” Hananuir shook his head sadly.

“It never truly ended,” Girithron concluded grimly.

oooo

Translations:

Adar: Father

Muindor: Brother

Muindyr: Brothers

Muinthel: Sister