Chapter 12: Feasting

A/N: And we’re finally back to the text! Dialogue has been taken verbatim from: “Barrels out of Bond,” pgs. 160-161, and 164-166 of the Houghton Mifflin paperback edition of The Hobbit. I’ve also included both songs from that chapter (p.165 and p.166) since they’re so delightful to read.

Also, it appears that I was a little too optimistic in wrapping up this story so soon. Definitely at least one more chapter coming your way! ; ) Thank you for reading, and especially for reviewing!

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Thranduil buried his head in his hands in total frustration as yet another knock on the door prevented him from leaving his study. The Elven-King had been attempting to escape this room for the past several hours in order to enact an idea he had had during his morning rounds of the palace defenses. First, Girithron had insisted on reviewing the battle plans that had been drafted the previous day. Thranduil was a master strategist, but even he realized that a certain amount of planning would have to wait until the elves were in sight of Dol Guldur. Then, Malaithlon had decided to agonize further over the defenses. Galion had asked the king’s advice twice on that night’s festivities. Tegilbor and Duindir had spent over an hour with the king searching for discrepancies in the trading accounts. Finally, Captain Tarthuir had been in to inquire if and how the warriors slain in the recent attacks would be honored at that night’s commemoration. And who was it now?

“Enter,” Thranduil sighed in defeat. The king’s frown quickly faded as Gwiwileth entered the room.

“Adar,” she greeted him warmly. “I come as Galion’s messenger.” The princess smiled mischievously. “He bids me tell you that the wine from Dorwinion has arrived after all.”

The Elven-King nodded approvingly. “Glad tidings indeed. The wine will prove an excellent addition to our celebration, which is growing by the minute,” he added wryly.

Gwiwileth shrugged. “We do not customarily lump occasions together, but as the time is short…” she trailed off. “I hope the quantity of wine will prove sufficient.”

 Thranduil rose from his desk and rolled his shoulders. “Dorwinion wine is quite potent, and so a smaller quantity will produce like effects to a larger amount of our usual vintage. I hope this mysterious food shortage we are experiencing has not affected our stores of wine?” he asked sarcastically.

The princess frowned. “It is no laughing matter, Adar. I remain quite concerned about the whole situation and entirely baffled as to how—”

“Forgive me, iell nín, but I have just spent a good deal of time discussing the accounts with Tegilbor, and we have concluded that such an insignificant amount of pilfering is no cause to raise the alarm.” Thranduil moved toward the door. “You will pardon your father’s haste, but I have not had the opportunity to leave this prison all day.”

Gwiwileth shook her head affectionately. “Of course, Adar, but I should warn you: I will find the thief during my stewardship.”

Chuckling, Thranduil replied, “It eases my mind knowing that Ivanneth will remain to temper your severity.” The king laughingly fended off a mock blow from his daughter as he finally made his way out of the room. Thranduil quickly sobered as he recalled his errand and strode purposefully into the lower hallways of the palace.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Elves rushed hither and thither involved with either festival or military preparations. Hoping that the bustle would decrease as he descended, the Elven-King quickened his pace, only to nearly collide with a great wheel of cheese that was being rolled up from the lower cellars toward the upper halls where the feasting would occur. Feeling thoroughly stifled, the king entered the Guards’ Chamber eagerly. He was slightly dismayed to discover another hive of activity, as Malaithlon was conducting a weapons inventory with several other guards.

“My lord.” The guards immediately stood to attention and saluted the king smartly.

“Captain Malaithlon, I must speak with one of the dwarven prisoners. The leader,” Thranduil stipulated briefly.

“At once, your majesty,” Malaithlon replied enthusiastically. “I myself will conduct you to his cell.”

The Elven-King nodded appreciatively, unwilling to spark further conversation with the overly florid elf. In silence, the two elves worked their way lower underground, passing cellars, storerooms, and the dungeons in which the other dwarves were being kept. The corridors twisted and turned, now ascending, now descending, until after several minutes, the king and captain arrived at a wooden door standing alone at the end of the passageway. Malaithlon carried a torch, and its flickering light cast weird shadows upon the elves.

Drawing a large bunch of keys from his belt, Malaithlon slowly unbolted the heavy door. The wood creaked open and the dwarf’s heavy breathing became audible.

“Please wait here, Captain.” The Elven-King ducked into the low frame of the doorway and the door closed loudly behind him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows in the room, Thranduil discerned the figure of the dwarf. His prisoner stood hastily upon the king’s arrival, and now regarded him balefully with folded arms. Thranduil examined the dwarf closer, seeking to discover signs of the dwarf’s weary imprisonment. Curiously, the dwarf was less emaciated than at the month’s beginning, which irked the king slightly. He did not want to starve his prisoners, but at the same time, he was not providing a banquet for dwarves. Perhaps the guards were being overly generous with the prisoners’ rations. The creature’s pride was not broken, and its eyes snapped with hatred.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes as he began speaking. “Listen closely, dwarf. I have made a decision regarding yourself and your kin which may result in your freedom if you are willing to cooperate.”

The dwarf made no reply, but the gleam in his eyes indicated his attention.

Choosing his words carefully, the king continued. “I am in need of information regarding a certain place within the forest from whence you have come.”

His glare deepening, the dwarf growled, “And what place may that be?”

“The fortress of Dol Guldur,” Thranduil replied casually.

The Elven-King’s words so shocked the dwarf that he actually took a full step backward. Regaining control, the dwarf stared at Thranduil with open malice. “Now, listen here, you elf! I have never ventured near that place of horror and neither have my people. If that is truly what you believe, then why have you kept us alive this long?”

The Elven-King nodded slowly. “I suspect I have concluded rightly, dwarf, about your allegiances.” Thranduil stared intently at his prisoner for several long moments. “I am willing to bargain with you,” the king said finally.

Growling deep in his throat, the dwarf raised both eyebrows as he regarded the Elven-King. “What makes you think I am willing to bargain with an elf? Especially one who has imprisoned and insulted myself and my kin,” he added malevolently.

Thranduil shrugged, and his eyes glinted. “It appears you have little choice in the matter, dwarf. Either you agree to my terms or you continue imprisoned. However, the decision is yours.”

The dwarf sputtered under his breath, and Thranduil chose to ignore the diatribe that was entirely audible to his acute hearing. Finally, the dwarf growled in defeat. “State your terms, elf.”

Thranduil nodded sharply. “My terms are these: I require a group of spies to precede my army to Dol Guldur and draw out the Enemy.”

The dwarf coughed loudly. “Madness!” he expostulated. “We will certainly be killed on the spot! I will not trade my life nor those of my kin for your wars, elf.”

“I doubt you will be harmed when you offer the Necromancer a great prize, one he has long desired,” Thranduil trailed off pensively.

The dwarf glanced curiously at the king. “What prize would that be, elf?” he spat.

“The Elven-King,” Thranduil replied majestically.

The dwarf simply stared at the elf.

A thin smile graced Thranduil’s face. “You have the night to think it over. I will return on the morrow for your decision.” He turned toward the door and knocked once for it to be opened. “Consider carefully, dwarf,” he added abruptly. “You will find that my mercy is not boundless.”

Thranduil waited in the passageway for Malaithlon to lock the prison door securely. As the two elves began ascending, they passed a pair of guards bearing the prisoner’s evening rations. The Elven-King eyed the food curiously as they crossed each other in the hallway.

“My lord?” Malaithlon questioned, uncertain whether there was aught amiss.

Thranduil shook his head briefly. “I assume, Captain, the prisoners will not be left unguarded this night, despite our festivities?”

A faint blush rose in Malaithlon’s cheeks. “Of course not, your majesty. I have reduced the number of guards, certainly, but I am leaving Gáthanar in charge. He is extremely responsible.”

“I should like a word with him,” Thranduil replied.

“Of course, my lord. As it happens, he awaits my return in the Guards’ Chamber.” Malaithlon indicated the passageway ahead, and the two elves quickly closed the distance. “Gáthanar,” Malaithlon announced as they cleared the threshold of the room.

Immediately, a fair-haired elf stood to attention and saluted smartly.

Thranduil approached the guard and examined him critically. Apparently satisfied, the king nodded. “Your king is pleased to receive your duty, Gáthanar.”

“My lord.” Gáthanar bowed. He puffed his chest in pride as Malaithlon silently handed him the keys to the prisoners’ cells.

“King Thranduil!” A messenger breathlessly ran into the chamber and saluted the king. “Captain Lennor and the Northern Company have just returned.”

The king immediately departed the room with Malaithlon and the messenger fast on his heels. Gáthanar smiled amiably at the few guards left in the room.

“Comrades, I go to my post!” he said merrily. Smiling at the taunts he received in reply, Gáthanar jingled the keys authoritatively as he slid them onto his belt. The fair-haired elf began his descent into the lower passageways. As he neared the cellars, Gáthanar met with Galion.

“Why, Galion! Should not you be in the upper halls preparing the feast?” Gáthanar asked jovially.

The old butler shook his head. “There is work to be done here, young Gáthanar! I am come to inspect the Dorwinion just arrived.”

“Dorwinion, eh?” Gáthanar remarked with sudden interest. “I fine vintage, I hear.”

“As do I.” Galion nodded appreciatively.

“I have a weary night of guarding ahead of me,” Gáthanar remarked sadly.

Galion nodded sympathetically. “Now come with me,” he said suddenly, “and taste the new wine that has just come in. I shall be hard at work tonight clearing the cellars of the empty wood so let us have a drink first to help the labor.”

Gáthanar was immensely touched that the king’s butler had issued him such an invitation. He had never tasted the famous beverage from Dorwinion. “Very good,” he laughed in anticipation. “I’ll taste with you, and see if it is fit for the king’s table. There is a feast tonight and it would not do to send up poor stuff!” He winked conspiratorially at the butler.

Together, they made their way to a tiny room adjacent to the main cellars. There, a small wooden table had been set up for the wine tasting. Gáthanar sat at the table while Galion departed with two large flagons in hand. In a moment, the butler had returned with the flagons full of the coveted wine.

“To King Thranduil!” Gáthanar raised his flagon.

“Long may the house of Oropher rule!” Galion rejoined.

The two elves drank deeply.

“Hmm,” Gáthanar uttered appreciatively. “’Tis truly a fine vintage.”

Galion smacked his lips. “The fruit is quite powerful. Delicious!” He took another sip.

“To Crown Prince Girithron!” Gáthanar announced energetically before drinking.

“To Prince Hananuir!” Galion proposed another toast.

“To the fair princess Gwiwileth,” Gáthanar winked merrily at the butler before both elves drank from their flagons.

“To the memory of Prince Celeguir,” Galion said softly. Butler and guard passed a moment in silence before taking a long sip of wine.

“And to young Prince Legolas.” The butler grew cheerful again as he clinked his flagon against Gáthanar’s.

“To you, Galion, and your generosity!” Gáthanar raised his flagon with a smile. “I shall never forget your invitation to me this eve.”

Galion waved his hand dismissively. “To you, Gáthanar!”

Butler and guard drank in silence for a few minutes.

Suddenly, Gáthanar laughed. “This reminds me of the summer solstice feast two years ago,” he remarked with another drink.

Galion chuckled. “That was quite an occasion,” he replied, also delving into his flagon.

Grinning, the fair-haired guard laughed again. “Do you recall the look on Malaithlon’s face when he fell in the river?” He took another sip.

Galion guffawed with gusto. “And he was singing!” The butler wiped tears from his eyes as he collapsed again in laughter.

Shaking in merriment, Gáthanar lurched rather awkwardly to his feet. “In summer’s lengthy days,” he began enthusiastically.

“Nay,” Galion interrupted him with a giggle. “That’s not the tune. It was more,” he laughed again, “like this: in summer’s lengthy days, the—” The butler giggled again. “What’s the next wor’?”

“Iss birds!” Gáthanar announced from inside his flagon. The elf grinned stupidly. “Somethin’ to do wi’ birds.”

“Righ’.” Galion took another swig of wine. He squinted into the distance. “The birds fly further south!” He slapped his thigh in merriment.

“Nay, nay, nay, Galion!” Gáthanar sat heavily with a booming laugh. “Y’are confusin’ two songs! Birds don’ fly south in winter!” he laughed loudly.

“Haha!” the butler pointed at the guard. “In winter!” he guffawed.

Gáthanar eyed him with sudden irritation as an enormous yawn threatened to swallow the guard’s entire face. “Birds don’ fly south in winter,” he repeated drowsily.

“Malaithlon sang about birds!” Galion stated jovially. “But that was ‘fore he fell in the river.” He grinned at Gáthanar. “I remember,” he said proudly.

“’Member the river,” Gáthanar trailed off sleepily as he nodded. Suddenly, he leaned forward and laid his head upon the table. In another moment, he was fast asleep.

Galion took no notice of his companion as he tipped his flagon as far back as it would go. The last few precious drops of wine trickled into his open mouth. “’Spose we should get s’more wine!” he announced with a laugh. “Dorwonin knows how to make wine! Dirwonion.” He giggled. “Dordiwonion!” The butler collapsed in mirth. Suddenly, he yawned. “Doworion,” he muttered sleepily. “Dor…won…ion,” he uttered as he too fell upon the table and succumbed to sleep.

oooo

Thranduil smiled affectionately as he observed his people merrymaking. The feast had been splendid, the food superb. The men of Dorwinion had not disappointed with their latest shipment, and the king was extremely pleased. The celebrations had spilled out into the surrounding wood, and the Elven-King smiled quietly to himself as various snatches of music came to his hearing. Thranduil drank sparingly from a full goblet, relishing the fruity bouquet of the vintage. The taste was familiar, but the wine never failed to produce an impression of novelty upon him. Every vintage was slightly different than the one before, and, despite elven memory, Thranduil did not tire of tasting the drink over the years.

The Elven-King swirled the ruby liquid in his goblet as he observed the celebration around him. The feast was similar to those that had preceded it and those that were still to come. Familiar faces danced and smiled about him, but Thranduil was ever conscious of those who would be forever absent from those halls. Feeling that he had been sitting for too long, the king rose from his table with a nod to Ivanneth and its other occupants.

As he moved away from the first table, Thranduil turned to contemplate the king’s oaken chair at its head. It seemed to him that he saw his father seated in all his majesty upon the wooden seat. Oropher’s booming laugh filled his son’s ears, and Thranduil smiled at that memory of amusement. His father had been so full of life, so exuberant, so vast in a way, that the forest could not contain him. Oropher had been totally fearless, an explorer, a wanderer, quick to anger but gentle in kindness. All of his pursuits were accomplished with fierce and tireless energy. The image of Oropher seemed to grow larger in Thranduil’s mind the longer he stared at the king’s empty chair. In the same way, his father’s personality had seemed to expand from Thranduil’s youth until that last tragic day.

Suddenly, the music and laugher of the feast rushed back into Thranduil’s hearing. He blinked rapidly and realized belatedly that Captain Tarthuir was speaking to him. The Elven-King nodded seriously and exchanged pleasantries with the captain, who appeared unaware that the king had not been listening to his earlier comments. The two elves parted, and Thranduil moved with unshakable purpose toward the entryway of the hall. The king felt unusually stifled.

Thranduil made his way out of the hall and into the woods. The evening was perfect with a refreshing breeze ruffling the trees. There were lights in many of the treetops, and songs floated out of the forest canopy. The Elven-King made his way toward the center of the merrymaking, which was a bonfire lit up in one of the larger clearings by the settlement. He was pleased to find musicians and dancers in full swing with hardly any elves left out of the celebration. Thranduil took up a position on the outer perimeter of the dancing and began to observe the revelers.

His eyes lit first upon Gwiwileth. His daughter was radiant in her beauty, as rare joy shone unblemished upon her face. Thranduil smiled tenderly as he watched Súlinnor dancing with her. The Elven-King had noted that Nandír’s son openly admired his daughter, but Gwiwileth had not demonstrated any serious inclinations. Thranduil shrugged away that train of thought—at least she was enjoying herself this night. The music changed and each couple now joined with another couple to form a circle of four dancers. The king’s smile grew as Hananuir and a fair maiden joined Gwiwileth and Súlinnor. The couples wove in and out with expert grace and Thranduil watched with pleasure.

The music changed yet again and several of the younger couples hesitated. The melody was much slower, haunting and poignant. Hananuir and his partner retreated to the growing circle of elves that stood watching the dancing. The dismay on Súlinnor’s face expressed clearly that he did not know the dance, but Gwiwileth reassured him with a smile. The princess stepped calmly and confidently as she instructed him in the dance. Captain Rochiron and his wife, Nídhel, joined the princess as they danced with faultless grace.

Memories long buried stirred within Thranduil’s heart as he could not ignore the music. It was an ancient Silvan song that had not been played for years or, at least, the king had not heard it for a long time. In his mind, Thranduil stood not in the forest but in his father’s halls away on a hill far to the south, during a feast long ago. Oropher sat in his chair, and his booming laugh cut across the music for a moment. But that night, Thranduil had eyes only for a dark-haired maiden with sad eyes. For that particular occasion, several settlements of elves had journeyed to Amon Lanc to commemorate Oropher’s kingship. She belonged to a Silvan clan living deep within the forest, and she had never seen the Sindar princes now ruling Eryn Galen. The memory of her beauty still rendered the Elven-King breathless.

The Silvan melody continued as Thranduil lost himself in the past. He was unconscious of the smile on his face as he remembered the first conversation with her. He had approached her, awkwardly, shyly, completely aware that she probably thought him a fool.

“My lady,” he had said softly, “I would beg your name, so that I may know to whom such beauty belongs.”

She had fixed her sad eyes upon him, and then she laughed. Her laughter flowed like clear water over pebbles, and Thranduil had also laughed. “My lord,” she replied with a slight accent, “my name is not in your tongue.”

Dismayed, Thranduil pressed her. “I would know it, lady.”

She regarded him gently. “They call my father Lanthiron.”

His heart pounding in his chest, Thranduil began tentatively, “The falls create a new course, do they not? May I call you Ýriel, lady?”

Her eyes rested upon his anxious face with calm reassurance. “This is a beautiful word,” she said finally, and her eyes seemed less sad.

At that moment, the music had begun. It was a Silvan song, and in those days, Thranduil did not know the dance. He looked about him in perplexity as couples began moving to the tune.

Ýriel rose fluidly and indicated the dancing. “Would you learn the steps, my lord?”

Dizzy at what was transpiring, Thranduil had only been able to nod and take her hand. The rest of the night had been lost to him and he could not account for the time that passed. It seemed to him that when he had looked into her eyes, every problem had faded until he knew only joy.

A sudden snapping of branches just above his head brought Thranduil back to the present and caused him to sidestep just in time. He watched in amazement as the form of Calethor came hurtling through the treetops to land in an undignified heap on the ground. An explosion of laughter above identified the tones of Legolas, and Thranduil shook his head in mock exasperation at the duo.

“My apologies, my lord.” Calethor swayed as he bowed to the king. He smiled foolishly.

“Perhaps you have drunk enough, Calethor?” Thranduil asked gently.

More laughter rang out from the tree above. The song had ended and the couples were dispersing. Rochiron and Nídhel approached the king.

“How much wine does it take to knock a wood-elf out of a tree?” Rochiron mused sarcastically with a sidelong look at Calethor, as he dipped his head in greeting to the king.

Grinning unabashedly, Calethor disappeared back up the trunk as Nandír joined the group. Another song was beginning.

“My lord,” Nandír addressed the king energetically. “A wonderful celebration!”

Thranduil agreed kindly, though he regretted Calethor’s interruption. He felt his memories fleeing as the Silvan song had died, and he could not even recall the melody. The elves talked about him, but the king felt disjointed and absent from their conversation. Suddenly feeling a warm gaze upon him, Thranduil looked up and met the grey orbs of Nídhel. She looked at him sympathetically, and the king felt somewhat cheered by her compassion. The Elven-King began listening to the remarks of his companions and, at Nandír’s suggestion, agreed to accompany them back to the palace. As Thranduil crossed the Bridge, he shook his head, determined to dispel his melancholy and leave his memories with the forest.

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Thorchanar sighed irritably over his glass of wine. He exchanged a look with Belton. Together, they grimaced at Túgnir and Faervel.

“Why now?” Thorchanar complained. “The barrels can wait.”

Túgnir shook his head resolutely. “Galion said otherwise.”

“As did Captain Malaithlon,” Faervel added. “He instructed us to go now and have done with the task as quickly as we can, and we may return to the feast.”

Belton shrugged as he rose from the table. “Come Thorchanar!” he said merrily. “Let us have done with the work speedily and we may return!”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Thorchanar joined the trio as they made their way from the halls. The group recruited a couple more guards as they descended into the lower hallways of the palace. The going was not entirely unpleasant, as all the elves had drunk enough to render them even merrier than they were naturally. Belton, in particular, was quite lively, and sang for the entertainment of the group.

“Haha, Belton,” laughed Faervel. “Your voice is worse than Thorchanar’s!”

“What of your own dulcet tones, Faervel?” Belton retorted glibly.

“Where’s old Galion, the butler?” Túgnir interrupted their argument as they arrived at the main cellar. “I haven’t seen him at the tables tonight. He ought to be here now to show us what is to be done.” The guard narrowed his eyes in slight irritation.

“I shall be angry if the old slowcoach is late,” Thorchanar muttered. “I have no wish to waste time down here while the song is up!” He crossed his arms moodily.

Belton shrugged as he searched the cellar half-heartedly to reveal no Galion.

“Ha, ha!” Faervel cried suddenly from an adjoining room.

The others quickly approached the small doorway to one side of the cellar.

“Here’s the old villain with his head on a jug!” Faervel gleefully indicated the slumbering Galion. “He’s been having a little feast all to himself and his friend the captain.” The elf emphasized the last word sarcastically as he pointed to the snoring form of Gáthanar. 

“Shake him! Wake him!” Thorchanar and Belton cried out together in mischievous anticipation.

The guards grouped themselves loosely about the table at which Galion and Gáthanar slept. They were delighted to have caught the careful butler in an embarrassing lapse of responsibility and were eager to share a laugh at his expense.

After several prods and shakes, Galion muttered something incomprehensible and lifted his head from the table. He blinked blearily for several moments as his eyes met with the smiling countenances of six guards. His face reddened, as the guards’ smiles became laughs. “You’re all late,” he grumbled with a frown. “Here am I waiting and waiting down here, while you fellows drink and make merry and forget your tasks. Small wonder if I fall asleep from weariness!” He rose with an affronted sniff.

“Small wonder,” replied Belton innocently, “when the explanation stands close at hand in a jug!”

General laughter met his comment and Galion’s blush deepened.

“Come,” Thorchanar said merrily, “give us a taste of your sleeping draught before we fall to!” 

Túgnir winked conspiratorially at his fellow guards. “No need to wake the turnkey yonder.” He snickered as Gáthanar emitted a particularly loud snore. “He has had his share by the looks of it.”

Huffing in exasperation, Galion filled his flagon with the wine. “Be quick about it,” he muttered in defeat.

The elves passed the flagon around with running commentary about the quality of the beverage. Several guesses were made as to how much the butler had imbibed to put him to sleep. Despite their merriment, the six guards made short work of the flagon and were soon examining the barrels to be dispatched.

“Save us, Galion!” Faervel frowned as he and Belton made to move a barrel toward the trapdoor in the floor of the cellar. “You began your feasting early and muddled your wits!” The guard accused. “You have stacked some full casks here instead of the empty ones, if there is anything in weight.”

Thorchanar shrugged as he lifted his barrel easily. Túgnir frowned as his barrel also proved heavy to move.

Galion was thoroughly embarrassed to have been discovered in such a position, but the butler was still suffering from the after-effects of alcohol abuse. He closed his eyes as the cellar about him teetered dangerously. “Get on with the work!” he growled as his stomach rumbled in protest. “There is nothing in the feeling of weight in an idle toss-pot’s arms. These are the ones to go and no others. Do as I say!” he commanded, grabbing onto a nearby barrel for support.

“Very well, very well,” Túgnir replied soothingly. “On your head be it, if the king’s full buttertubs and his best wine is pushed into the river for the Lake-men to feast on for nothing!”

The others laughed at his comment as they began rolling barrels in earnest. With a broad wink, Belton began a work song, and the others rapidly joined in.

Roll—roll—roll—roll,

Roll—roll—rolling down the hole!

Heave ho! Splash plump!

Down they go, down they bump!

Galion groaned aloud as the song worsened his pounding headache. The butler passed his hands over his face, wishing with all his heart that there were less barrels and that the guards would work faster and sing less. In fact, Galion chided himself mentally, he would have much preferred never to have sampled the blasted wine in the first place. Resolving never to drink again, the butler lowered his body into a chair as he observed the guards at work. Galion was astounded that Gáthanar slept on, despite the racket. The barrels were disappearing rapidly, and two guards had already gone to haul the ropes, which raised the portcullis up ahead. The elves had no mercy on the suffering butler and continued their song with great enthusiasm.

Down the swift dark stream you go

Back to lands you once did know!

Leave the halls and caverns deep,

Leave the northern mountains steep,

When the forest wide and dim

Stoops in shadow grey and grim!

Float beyond the world of trees

Out into the whispering breeze,

Past the rushes, past the reeds,

Past the marsh’s waving weeds,

Through the mist that riseth white

Up from mere and pool at night!

Follow, follow stars that leap

Up the heavens cold and steep;

Turn when dawn comes over land,

Over rapid, over sand,

South away! And South away!

Seek the sunlight and the day,

Back to pasture, back to mead,

Where the kine and oxen feed!

Back to gardens on the hills

Where the berry swells and fills

Under sunlight, under day!

South away! And South away!

Down the swift dark stream you go

Back to lands you once did know!

Belton drew out the last note after the others had stopped. With a flourish, he bowed deeply amidst applause. The guards laughed as Galion had buried his head in his hands during the latter half of the song.

“Why such misery, eh Galion?” Thorchanar quipped with a wink to his companions. “The work is finished!”

“Aye, Galion,” Faervel said innocently. “Is not this what you wanted?”

“Perhaps Galion is thirsty?” Túgnir suggested slyly.

“Or has he drunk his fill?” Belton asked the room in general.

Loud laughter met these remarks as Galion straightened furiously. “Now see here! Your obligation is complete, now be off with the lot of you lest I mention certain comments to your captain!”

The guards guffawed in answer as they began to file out of the room. Galion had to endure several broad winks and grins before he was finally left in peace. The butler eyed the snoring form of Gáthanar in mild disgust. Deciding that he was under no obligation to the sleeping elf, Galion departed shakily from the cellar. A single snore floated through the cellar door as the butler turned the corridor and disappeared down the hall.

oooo

A/N: Just to explain a few names I’m using. According to an online Sindarin dictionary that I found, “lanthir” means waterfall and “ŷr” means river course. So that’s my “etymology,” so to speak, for the name Ýriel.

ORIGINAL CHARACTER GUIDE:

I’m abbreviating this to only those characters actually mentioned in the chapter.

Ýriel x –Thranduil’s wife

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

Duindir—Chief of the raft-elves (so I guess we could call him head of transportation)

Ivanneth—Chief Advisor to Thranduil

Tegilbor—Chief of Trade

Nídhel—Rochiron’s wife

Warriors

Captain Lennor—captain of the Northern Company

Captain Malaithlon—captian of the guard

Captain Nandír

Captain Rochiron (Grawthirion)

Captain Tarthuir

Lieutenant Calethor (Tegilborion)

Lieutenant Súlinnor (Nandírion)

Guards

Belton

Faervel

Thorchanar

Túgnir

TRANSLATIONS:

Eryn Galen: the Greenwood

Adar: father

Iell nín: my daughter