Chapter 10: Back Again

A/N: Thank you to all the dedicated readers who have stuck with this story. As of right now, I am anticipating possibly two more chapters before this tale must come to its conclusion. A sequel is in the plans though. I took a bit of a departure in writing this chapter and I am still hesitant about posting it. But the story must go on, and it’s high time for an update, I think. Let me know what you think in a review (please!).

Also, I am without a beta at the moment so if you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them!

oooo

Legolas sighed anxiously as he reclined against the bole of an oak tree. The day had dawned misty and cold, but the autumn sun had burned through the clouds and now shone in the azure sky. Although never able to fully relax amid the dangers of the forest, the elves were enjoying the rarity of a clear day. The youngest prince of Mirkwood had just withdrawn from the Company, seeking a few moments of solitude to ease the turmoil in his mind.

His senses ever alert, the prince was not idle despite his peaceful posture. Turning his head, Legolas discerned the unmistakable signs of an intruder in his haven.

“I have been searching for you for the better part of two hours, your highness,” came the peeved tones of Calethor from the ground. “Of course,” his voice rose along with his body, “I would not have been quite so disoriented if I had been awoken at dawn and not allowed to gorge myself on slumber like a drunken man.” The dark-haired elf paused in his diatribe as he came into view of the prince. “However, your highness deemed it best that I be excluded from the ceremony despite my official standing as your lieutenant.”

Legolas met his friend’s frown with a slow smile.

“Furthermore,” Calethor glowered, “I am not so fragile a maiden that I require both Erethion and Haedirn to scrutinize my every breath for signs of ailment. Add to that Súlinnor, who has practically smothered me with attention this morning that I am liable to become as cossetted as your royal self.”

The prince laughed merrily as Calethor settled himself moodily against the tree. “Peace, mellon nín,” Legolas finally chuckled. “Your pretense of anger is quite comical.”

“Pretense?” Calethor demanded angrily, though he was betrayed by the slight quirking of one eyebrow. The two friends regarded each other momentarily before the dark-haired elf also dissolved into laughter. “I cannot deceive you.” Calethor grinned as he shook his head in mock-defeat.

Legolas rested his eyes on his friend. “You are well?” he asked seriously after a moment.

Calethor sobered and nodded gravely. “Aye, Legolas, I am well. What of your hurt?” He inclined his head toward the prince.

“It aches,” Legolas confessed candidly, “but no more.”

Calethor nodded sharply. “Report from the camp is that all are healing fast. Maeglir is able to rise, and Rochiron is threatening to do so if only to keep Súlinnor at bay.” The friends shared a smile. “Thanduir is also recovering, but Amathor’s leg will prevent him from traveling for several days. He will have to be carried.”

“What of Belegir?” the prince inquired.

Calethor chewed his lower lip before answering. “Still somewhat dazed, I fear, but otherwise hale. Ai, Maldir and Amborn also have hurts that prevent them from walking. I believe those were all the major injuries.” His eyes grew unfocused as he reviewed the warriors in his mind.

Satisfied, Legolas breathed deeply. “We shall be prepared for Girithron’s arrival, then.”

His friend regarded him briefly before beginning to speak. “Your brother tarries.”

The prince narrowed his eyes. “He may have waited until first light before crossing.”

“Such behavior seems slightly at odds with his nature,” Calethor rejoined.  

Exhaling in defeat, Legolas let his shoulders slump. “In truth, Calethor, I fear some evil has beset their group. I was resolving to lead a scouting party up the peaks ere your arrival.”

The dark-haired elf nodded seriously. “Aye, ‘tis prudent. Though if I may suggest we send Lieutenant Súlinnor on this expedition.”

Legolas smiled. “One cannot help but be drawn to his kindness.”

“Perhaps, but he would put even a Noldo to shame with his loquacity,” Calethor retorted.

The prince chuckled as he began descending the tree. “Come, let us make for the camp. I would send the scouts early and have them return ere nightfall.”

The two friends fell in step together as they crossed the foothills toward a rocky overhang in the east, which had served as their nocturnal refuge and encampment. Despite the beauty of the day, the warriors were far from idle. Those not recovering from wounds were busy crafting arrows or repairing weaponry. Legolas had formed a small hunting party earlier that morn and those elves had not yet returned with their findings. Arriving back at the campsite, Legolas quickly found Súlinnor and informed the lieutenant of his orders. Five other warriors were assembled and without further delay, the scouting party began its ascent into the Mountains.

Gathering his half-empty quiver and selecting pieces of wood from among the warriors’ supply, Legolas made his way toward Captain Rochiron. The captain was sitting upright against the rocky wall of the overhang with his bandaged leg pointing straight out in front of him. He had drawn up his other knee and was leaning his chin against it.

“Captain,” Legolas said cordially as the prince settled himself and his supplies. Legolas selected a broken arrow from the quiver and began scrutinizing its length with an expert eye.

The silence stretched between them as Rochiron’s gaze was lost in the horizon and Legolas was absorbed in his work.

Finally, with an imperceptible sigh, Rochiron turned to watch Legolas. “I spoke with Galadthor earlier,” he began with his customary gravity. “He related to me all who have fallen.”

The prince paused in his actions. “Is he well?” he asked softly.

The captain shrugged. “Feron was beloved by many, not least of all his own kindred. If Galadthor’s son yet lived, but now his descendants are no more.”

Legolas regarded the captain curiously. Rochiron’s own son had perished in the previous century, and the captain rarely spoke of families.

“It must be peaceful,” Rochiron continued, staring again into the distance, “for mortal parents to die before their offspring.”

The prince blinked at this strange line of discourse. “’Tis not always so,” he pronounced slowly. “Several fathers have I met in Esgaroth and Dale whose sons had fallen in battle before them.”

Rochiron remained immobile for a long time, and Legolas returned to his craft. “It cannot be of much consequence to the fathers,” the captain suddenly began, “for their sons to fall in the prime of youth since their own lives will soon be ended as well.”

The prince laid down the arrow shaft and stared at Rochiron. “Captain,” he hedged, “it is my understanding that mortal parents bestow the same love upon their offspring as elven parents. I am sure their sons are of great consequence to them.”

Rochiron regarded the prince skeptically. “Believe you honestly that in so short a span of years a parent can truly love his child? Why, barely does a man know his son before he can lose him in battle. Nay,” the captain shook his head in finality. “The death of one’s child cannot be of the same import to them as it is to us.”

Legolas bit his lip in indecision. He was keenly aware this painful topic of conversation could not be pleasant to Rochiron, though the prince was at a loss to understand why the captain himself had raised it. Unsure whether to pursue the discussion or change the discourse to other matters, Legolas toyed with the arrow in his hand. However, a nagging voice in the back of his mind urged the elf to voice his doubts, and so the prince found himself continuing the debate. “Captain, I believe that mortals experience the same love for their offspring as we do.”

Rochiron shook his head again. “I find this impossible given the brevity of their lives. Tell me, childless-one, how is it that a parent loves his child?”

Disarmed by the sudden taunt, Legolas remained silent.

“I shall tell you,” Rochiron said gruffly. “In the beginning, the love is natural, unconscious, and unforced. Like the child, the love simply exists. But as the child grows into adulthood, this love deepens out of the parent’s respect, admiration, and pride in the wisdom and skills of his progeny.  Thus the love is ever growing, ever new, and ever strong. Mortal love is not thus. They must love naturally throughout their lives, without thought or consideration whether the object of their love merits such admiration. Thus, the death of a child or son early in his manhood cannot trouble them overmuch.”

His eyes growing unfocused, Legolas considered every scrap of knowledge he possessed about men. His personal encounters with that race had been brief: meetings in the marketplaces of Esgaroth and Dale and official business with the civic leaders. True, each time the prince had visited these cities; sons had replaced their fathers. Legolas remembered his studies and bits of lore he had collected from books and conversation. A particular exchange he had once overheard between Girithron and his father suddenly entered his mind.

“Edain,” Girithron had proclaimed scornfully. “Ever they follow, ever they are second to us. Imitating us in all, what would they have become had the Eldar not given them instruction?”

“You speak of that which you have no understanding,” Thranduil had reprimanded, swiftly and wrathfully.  

The rest of the conversation had been lost on the youngest prince as he had passed his father and brother by.

Legolas returned to the present moment and found Rochiron eying him keenly. The prince suddenly felt that the captain was testing him and this entire conversation was only a means to achieve some hidden purpose. Legolas had often felt thus with Rochiron as seemingly innocuous discussions about battle tactics would often grow into conversations about life and death. Now on his guard, Legolas narrowed his eyes as he replied, “If Men have not the luxury of time to understand their loves, then I believe they must love with swifter intensity. Their loyalty once won must prove unbreakable.”

The captain’s eyes gleamed as he recognized that his game had been discovered. “Caution, young prince, caution. Forget not the treachery of Men and that true loyalty must needs be borne out of love.”

The broken arrow lay forgotten in the prince’s relaxed grasp as Legolas cocked his head in confusion. Before he could speak, Rochiron nodded sagely and spoke again.

“Ever deceit perverts faithful service in the hearts of Men and Elves. Love is turned to jealousy and fear, and thus loyalty becomes treachery.” Rochiron looked toward the forest edge and the faint outlines of the mounds of the fallen elves. “Already doubt sways our hearts,” he asserted.

“You speak of Tulustor?” the prince asked directly. “But he committed no treachery,” Legolas countered at Rochiron’s nod.

The captain shifted his injured leg with a grimace of pain. “Galadthor tells me he was found fleeing from the battle. A warrior does not abandon the fight, his comrades, Captains, and Prince without orders to retreat.”

“If his fear—”

“Tulustor was no novice for fear to take hold of him and drive him to madness,” Rochiron said harshly. Both elves were silent before the captain spoke again. “I assume Súlinnor has imparted to you the way in which the Southern Company was lured across the Mountains?”

Legolas nodded bleakly.

“What of that she-elf who lied—for a lie it can only have been. Think you her heart was turned in loyalty toward her kindred?” The captain shook his head vehemently. “Think not we are immune from deceit simply because we have the capacity to love longer than Men.” Rochiron looked southward for a long moment before turning toward the prince. “I tell you this because soon we are to battle the Necromancer, and there can be no foreknowledge of what we shall encounter.”

Legolas felt his spirits sink despite the beauty of the day. The prince was completely baffled by the twists and turns of this conversation with the captain. Legolas was still wearied from the exhaustion of the previous day, and he marveled that Rochiron was able to casually discuss such weighty matters in the aftermath of battle.

As if reading his mind, the captain spoke again. “I find myself in need of distraction, Prince Legolas, and you are most generous to humor my wants.”

The prince dipped his head. “I, too, would rather pass the time in conversation than dwell within my thoughts.”

Immediately, Rochiron’s glance pierced the prince like a spear. “What thoughts trouble you now that we are victorious?”

Legolas shifted uncomfortably and realized that in his uncanny way, the captain was probably already aware of the prince’s worry. “Girithron’s Company,” he confessed boldly. “They have not yet come.”

“They would have been here by now if you had not disobeyed my orders and gone to summon them,” Rochiron promptly replied.

The prince felt his breath catch in surprise. “I did not suppose my actions required justification,” he answered, and his eyes flashed.

“They do not, especially as your valor in leading not one but two attacks is primarily responsible for our triumph.” Rochiron smiled one of his rare and brief smiles. “Loyalty,” he stated simply.

The prince felt a smile growing on his own face and shook his head softly in defeat. “I find myself more wearied by this discussion than by fighting goblins.”

Rochiron’s deep laugh bounced against the rock wall and was soon joined by the prince’s lighter tones.

“Your joy lifts my spirits,” Maeglir said as he proceeded toward the captain and prince. The Captain of the Southern Company leaned heavily against a wooden staff and held himself slightly hunched. Easing himself upon the ground, Maeglir smiled at both elves. “Rochiron, you are healing fast?” he asked.

Rochiron glanced at his injured leg. “So says Erethion, but I suspect mountain climbing is not encouraged for either one of us, Maeglir.” The captains shared a glance before looking at Legolas.

Recognizing the discussion that would occur, the prince sighed as he launched into the inevitable topic. “With the aid of Girithron’s warriors, I propose that those unable to cross the mountains on foot be carried.”

“This does not seem entirely practical,” Maeglir rejoined softly.

Rochiron snorted. “You know well this is the only alternative, Maeglir. I think seeking the eastern river would be folly.”

The Captain of the Southern Company examined the elven warriors scattered about the camp with a critical eye. “We could tarry a few more days until our full strength be recovered.”

“I would not linger in this place,” Legolas countered.

Maeglir shook his head sadly. “Well I remember the days when we still kept the Road. This is the furthest south I have come in many years, and look what has befallen us!”

“Taur-en-Daedelos,” Rochiron said harshly.

All three captains fell silent.

Legolas sighed again as he cast his gaze out upon the afternoon sky. The day was passing rapidly and the prince marveled at its speed. Reluctantly, he brought his mind back to the discussion at hand. “I do not think it prudent to split the company,” he began, “nor tarry. I suggest we repair back to the palace with all haste.”

Rochiron raised an eyebrow.

“This system of rescue patrols,” Maeglir began pensively, “seems problematic to me as it appears that call for aid can come from two directions.”

Both Legolas and Rochiron turned to contemplate the soft-spoken captain. “Explain yourself,” Rochiron commanded.

“Lieutentant Calethor outlined the system of signals, and it appears a good plan, indeed the best method for such an uncertain rescue,” Maeglir said smoothly. “My only qualm is that Prince Girithron’s patrol may have been called in two directions.”

“Aegnir’s group may have been attacked?” Legolas voiced his question in disbelief.

“Precisely.” Maeglir nodded sharply. “Prince Girithron might have received their call for aid before yours, and so hastened north instead of south.”

Rochiron grunted softly and Legolas felt the beginnings of a headache.

“Next time, we shall leave you to the goblins,” Rochiron growled.

“I sent a scouting party up the mountains and they should be returning soon,” Legolas imparted.

“Should their tidings confirm our fears then we must count without Prince Girithron’s aid,” Maeglir warned.

“This possibility only urges greater speed in our return.” Rochiron glared at his injured leg.

Legolas felt the dull ache in his back sharpen as the captains began to discuss in detail each wounded warrior. The prince was drawn into the conversation as the three elves reviewed logistics down to the last possibility. The sun was sinking in the horizon when Súlinnor and his group finally returned to the overhang.

The talkative lieutenant approached the wearied captains with undisguised anxiety upon his usually merry face. “Captains,” he began hurriedly, “there is no sign of Prince Girithron’s group upon the peaks. None whatsoever.”

Maeglir looked unsurprised, Rochiron grunted, and Legolas closed his eyes in frustration.

“What of the goblins?” Calethor asked as he walked up beside Súlinnor.

“Vanished.” The Lieutenant of the Southern Company sighed.

The five elves remained in tense silence, which was finally broken by Erethion’s timid voice as he joined the group. “Forgive me, Captains, Lieutenants, but I must check the dressing of your wound, Captain Rochiron.”

Legolas watched closely as Erethion carefully unwrapped the bandage upon Rochiron’s leg. The healer moved to block the prince’s view, and Legolas could only gauge the seriousness of the cut by Rochiron’s face. The captain had turned completely white and clenched his jaw in obvious agony. Legolas knew few such hardy warriors as Rochiron, but the prince was also aware of the damage that the blades of goblins could wreak. Shifting his gaze to Maeglir, the prince examined the captain critically. Maeglir sat somewhat hunched, and the prince wondered how long it would take for the elf to stand fully upright. Erethion himself was favoring one leg, and Legolas noticed that even Súlinnor sported a bandage the prince had not previously noticed. Finally looking upon Calethor, Legolas tightened his jaw at the gash across his friend’s forehead.

Breathing deeply, Legolas stood and all eyes rested upon him. “Brother warriors,” the prince began resignedly, “it seems we have no choice but to remain in this place on the morrow.”

Maeglir nodded. Rochiron made a sound suggesting agreement, but the captain’s eyes were now tightly closed against Erethion’s ministrations. Calethor shrugged in defeat.

“But what of Prince Girithron?” Súlinnor demanded quickly.

Legolas met his gaze evenly. “We cannot aid anyone in our present conditions, Lieutenant. Girithron’s fate is beyond our control.”

“Lately, everything seems beyond our control,” Rochiron retorted caustically.

Regarding the wounded captains briefly, Legolas bowed his head and turned toward the rest of the camp to announce his orders to the other warriors.

oooo

The rain began shortly after dark. With weary resignation, the elven warriors prepared themselves to endure the stormy night. The overhang provided little shelter, as the rain fell sideways and the wind ensured that every aperture in the elves’ clothing would be soaked. Legolas had initially denied permission for the able-bodied elves to retreat to the forest and benefit from the tree-cover, but by mid-morning of the next day as the rain continued, the prince relented. The company was split, and the warriors were given orders to return to the overhang before night fell. Legolas remained with the wounded by the rock face, attempting to pass the day in relative tranquility.

As the day grew, Legolas felt his temper shrinking. The cut across his back throbbed afresh and the cold dampness of his garments sharpened his pain. Súlinnor had gone to the forest, leaving the prince with a grim bunch. Maeglir sat huddled under a pile of sodden blankets, shivering occasionally. Erethion had finally sewed Rochiron’s wound, but the captain was in such pain that he merely growled at any that approached him. He had wrapped himself in a soaking cloak and had practically turned to stone over the course of the morning. Hadron sat by Legolas, but the Spear-Elf’s taciturnity was grating on the prince’s nerves. Even Calethor’s jests fell on empty ears that day, as the dark-haired elf passed the time by pacing the campsite with frequent glares at the sky.

The other warriors returned from the forest ere nightfall, and their enthusiasm for the unprotected overhang was manifest in their unrestrained grumbling. Legolas reprimanded them sharply, doling out that night’s watch to the most vocal complainers. The temperature dropped rapidly during the night, but the elves could light no fires in the pouring rain.

Shortly after midnight, a party of orcs attacked the warriors.

“Why not?” Calethor challenged furiously as the elves on watch sounded the alarm. “Sleep is impossible in this weather so why not battle goblins!”

Ignoring his friend, Legolas coordinated the attack with Súlinnor. The prince ensured that the wounded were kept closest to the rock face and well protected. Upon hearing the first alarm, Rochiron demanded his bow and would not stop harrying the prince until his wishes were obeyed. Although the elves had advance warning, the defense of the overhang proved trickier than expected. The rain seemed to aid their enemies and to Legolas’s utter frustration, more wounds were amassed in the battle’s short duration.

The grey dawn brought an end to the rain. Hunched miserably in an awkward crouch, Legolas shivered as he listened to Súlinnor’s report.

“Two more out of action, Captain, and several flesh wounds, though nothing serious enough to impair mobility,” the lieutenant recited gloomily.

The prince balled his fists as he attempted to stand, but his back screamed at him to arrest his motion. Legolas gnashed his teeth as he could neither sit nor stand without pain. “We will stay here today,” he ground out in frustration. The prince strode angrily toward a fire that had finally been lit by the wounded.

Maeglir examined him indifferently but said nothing. Rochiron eyed Legolas with unbridled irritation. “I am crossing those mountains tomorrow,” he announced wrathfully, “and if any being attempts to dissuade me, be they goblin or elf, I will not hold my strike.” He finished his declaration with a particularly dire look at Erethion, who lingered nearby.

“Allow me to join you in that endeavor, Captain,” Legolas rejoined heatedly, “as I will not be spending another day in the shadow of these accursed mountains.”

Tempers ran high during the course of the day, and even the sky withheld its rain, perhaps wary of the wrath of thirty-six elven warriors. The night passed uneventfully and dawn revealed a bustling camp full of elves preparing for the journey north.

Legolas eyed Rochiron skeptically as the captain tied another bandage around his leg. Erethion hovered disapprovingly at a distance, though the healer made no sound.

“You are going to reopen the wound,” Legolas remarked dryly once Rochiron had hauled himself to his feet with the aid of a sturdy staff.

The Silvan elf narrowed his eyes. “I believe two litters are trouble enough for the present company,” he retorted. “Worry not over my pain, Prince Legolas. Speed is of the essence as it will likely take us the better part of the day to cross in our states.” The captain indicated the grouped warriors in various states of debilitation, ranging from scratches to Thanduir’s broken leg.

Legolas clenched his jaw in agreement. Mentally cursing every single peak in the range before him, the prince gave orders for the company to begin the march.

oooo

Hananuir sighed deeply as Girithron continued his pacing across the Council Chamber. The Crown Prince still limped from his injury in the recent attack, and it was painful for Hananuir to witness his brother’s crippled gait tread the same path over and over again. Beside him, Captain Nandír shook his head in exasperation, clearly at the end of his patience. Despite the heavy bandage over his forehead, Captain Aegnir’s grimace was clearly visible. Hananuir scanned the other captains and noted that Ivannenth exhibited his customary statuesque poise. Exhaling wearily, Hananauir decided to intervene.

Mirkwood’s third prince rose from his seat and casually relocated himself in the midst of Girithron’s path. The Crown Prince reached his brother and stopped with a scowl. “Well?” Girithron demanded. “Are my ideas the only thoughts in this matter?”

Hananuir deflected the question from himself and turned to contemplate the room’s other occupants, forcing Girithron to change the direction of his gaze.

“My lords,” Nandír began reluctantly, “I am no coward nor would I shirk my duty if it be commanded of me.” The elf narrowed his eyes. “How could I forget that my own son is amongst the lost warriors? There is a part of me that urges haste in his recovery. Yet my heart commands me to remain here in order to aid those whom I have sworn to protect in the last defense.”

“There can be no doubt that the attack in the west is but a foretaste of the enemy’s plan,” Tarthuir said heavily. “First, he distracts us in the south. Then, he gauges our strength in the west. His next attack will come swiftly with numbers we cannot possibly best. No warriors can be spared from the defense.” The ancient captain said this with a pointed look at the Crown Prince.

Girithron felt like a caged bear, and, in his frustration to expend energy, skirted Hananuir and resumed his pacing. The two princes had been in council with Ivanneth and all the captains for the better part of the day. The elves had discussed the recent attack in the west, particularly the heavy losses they had incurred. The palace-defenses were reorganized, and it was only with his authority that Girithron prevented the summoning of every travelling warrior back to the settlement. Captain Aegnir had even advocated the extreme circumstance of forbidding all patrols and requiring every forest warden to abandon his post. The Crown Prince was determined to resume the aborted rescue mission, but the captains were eloquently undermining Girithron’s plans.

The Crown Prince felt that the conversation was running in circles, but he could not refrain from repeating his earlier arguments. “We were victorious over the goblin-horde,” he proclaimed. “No foes escaped alive.”

“This is of no consequence to the enemy,” Tarthuir replied hotly. “He will only send another, larger force.”

“We are being felled like leaves in the autumn,” Malaithlon said miserably.

“If King Thranduil were here,” Aegnir muttered under his breath, but to his shame, Girthron’s keen ears overheard the whisper.

His wrath blazing, the Crown Prince spun on his heel and glared at Aegnir. “If King Thranduil were here?” he demanded vehemently. Immediately, the room was deathly still. “Aye, ‘tis well for you to wonder the reaction of your King if he had the misfortune to be privy to such cowardice and disloyalty as I am witnessing this day! Must I reprimand you as novices? Must I draw out your shame as you would an elfling?”

“I meant no disloyalty, my lord,” Aegnir said softly in the silence that followed the prince’s diatribe. “I only question the prudence of weakening the palace’s defenses in these uncertain times.”

“Nandír.” Girithron pinned the captain with a look. “If your son had been slain, would you not know it in your heart?”

All eyes turned toward Nandír as the elf held the Crown Prince’s gaze evenly. “I believe he yet lives, my lord,” Súlinnor’s father asserted gently. “But where and in what circumstances, I cannot say.”

“That is the problem,” Hananuir broke in smoothly. “Our total lack of knowledge of their conditions prevents us from coordinating any successful rescue. Our plans have already been foiled once.”

“There is no certainty the Enemy will attack immediately,” Girithron repeated his former logic.

“With all due respect, my lord,” Tarthuir rejoined with raised eyebrows. “This pattern of attack is hardly innovative.”

Realizing that the discussion was becoming endless, Girithron turned with sudden inspiration toward Ivanneth. Thranduil’s advisor had not spoken a single word during the course of the afternoon’s debate. The Crown Prince regarded the ancient elf respectfully. “Ivanneth, counsel us. You have witnessed the Enemy’s tactics far longer than any of us. What say you?”

Ivanneth studied the elves dispassionately for a moment before speaking. He finally settled his eyes upon Girithron. “The darkest times herald the darkest decisions,” he said meditatively. “None should have to choose between duty and a brother,” his eyes flickered to include Hananuir, “or a son,” and he looked at Nandír. “Sadly, fate has determined that—”

“Such a decision is not yours to make,” finished a voice at the wide doorway of the chamber.

“Legolas!” Girithron cried in disbelief, and several voices joined his exclamation. Hananuir laughed aloud in joy at his brother’s arrival, but also at the unprecedented look of complete surprise upon Ivanneth’s face.

Smiling broadly, the youngest prince of Mirkwood bowed to the assorted elves. Captain Maeglir drew up behind the prince with an equally wide smile while Captain Rochiron limped up beside them with his particular expression of serious pleasure.

“My lords,” Legolas began formally, “I have not the words to describe with what joy and relief we return to you.” Sobering suddenly, the prince continued, “Our mission was successful in that we have retrieved our missing brethren, but lives have been lost.”

“Aye, and many more have fallen in your absence, my lord,” Captain Tarthuir announced somberly.

Several voices began asking questions together, and Girithron raised his hands for silence. “We would hear your report, Captain Legolas, and no doubt you would know our doings. Yet you must be wearied from your journey. Desire you rest before the telling?” Despite his formality, the Crown Prince’s anxiety was clearly evident in his expression.

Legolas shook his head. “Our journey was not overly taxing, but our hearts can find no peace until our questions be assuaged. I beseech you to put our minds at rest.” Chairs were quickly brought for the three captains, and in a moment, all eyes were turned upon Girithron.

“Captain Nandír,” the Crown Prince said. “I fear the beginning must fall to you.”

As he rose, Nandír sought Legolas’s eyes. The pain in the captain’s eyes was unmistakable, and the prince quickly shook his head in answer to the unspoken question. Nandír sighed audibly before he began speaking. The Captain of the Western Company related how the sudden goblin attack had begun. Hananuir dexterously intercepted the narrative and described how he had rallied to Nandír’s aid. Other captains contributed sporadic details, until Girithron finally concluded the tale.

Without waiting a moment, Maeglir began to relate the misadventures of the Southern Company, stopping at the point of his capture. Rochiron continued heavily, with aid from Legolas. Together, the three elves patched together the events of the past fortnight.

As the elves spoke, Legolas read the faces of his brothers and knew that they, in turn, were examining his. The sons of Thranduil did not betray their fears and retained their lordly composures. Yet Legolas felt clearly that his panic was obvious, and he descried doubt in Hananuir’s posture and anxiety in Girithron’s mannerisms. The situation within the Woodland Realm was now dire.

oooo

An “x” by a name denotes character death.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

Celeguir x—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

Warriors

Captain Aegnir

Captain Maeglir

Captain Malaithlon

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron

Captain Tarthuir

Lieutenant Calethor

Lieutenant Súlinnor

Amathor

Amborn

Barahad

Belegir

Brethildor x

Calardir (runner)

Celegnir

Dorothor x

Erethion (healer)

Esgaldir x

Feron x

Filechon x

Galadthor

Gilbor

Hadron

Haedirn (healer)

Helediron

Lalvon x

Lastor x

Málchanar

Maldir

Ornor x

Raenlas (runner/messenger)

Thanduir

Tuilinnor

Tulustor x

TRANSLATIONS:

Mellon nín: my friend

Taur-en-Daedelos: the Forest of the Great-Fear