Chapter 8: The first test of great elves

Lindomiel did not even know Hallion had sent for her when she came into the Hall. Now his voice rumbled in her ears as he related the details of a complaint from a village in the north. He mentioned whose village early in his explanation. Surely he had. But she had no idea who it was or what they wanted. She knew she should make more effort to focus on his words. She should at least be ashamed that she would not be able to make any intelligent response when he finally stopped speaking.

With effort, she held back a sigh. She was not ashamed in the least.

The battle that Thranduil, Dolgailon and possibly even Galithil were fighting was far more important in her mind than a single village’s requests. Legolas’s whereabouts were more important. Indeed, she did not honestly care what this northern village wanted. Let them have it, whatever it might be. She wanted to know what news had come from the south!

“…Thranduil, but I expect a messenger soon,” she finally registered Hallion saying. Then he fell silent.

Lindomiel’s gaze flicked from the door of the Hall to his face. He was studying her with open concern. And sympathy.

Now she was ashamed of herself. “I beg your pardon, Hallion. I did not follow…well, to be honest, I heard very little of what you were saying. What did the village want? And which village was it?”

“Lalwen’s village,” he said. “She wants more of the dried meat, out of fear that this winter will be as bad as last, and thus the game as scarce. But I was wrong to approach you about this now. It will wait. I only hoped to distract you, if only for a few moments.”

“I am afraid I will need to check with Maidhien before I can judge if we can afford to send them more meat. Given all that has happened with Legolas this season, I have not been managing the distribution of the fall supplies as closely as I normally do. Maidhien made the distribution lists and inventories. It is late, but I think she is still in the kitchen…or laundry. I could send someone for her.” Lindomiel started to rise to summon a servant.

Hallion grasped her hand where it rested on the meeting table and held her in place. “It will wait,” he repeated softly.

Lindomiel made an effort to smile. “Then what did you say about Thranduil and a messenger?”

“I expect news soon, both from the south west and south east,” he replied. “I was informed earlier that messengers from both borders are en route.”

Lindomiel nodded and turned back to the doors, willing them to open right now.

“If I may, my lady,” Hallion said into the silence, “you seem more than simply….preoccupied.” He hesitated. “Do you…. Is there…anything I should know?”

Lindomiel frowned as she considered how to answer that question. “I do not want to cause alarm,” she said. “It might be nothing. Perhaps simply the rigors of the battle demanding Thranduil’s full attention…”

Hallion’s posture stiffened.

So much for not causing alarm.

She faced him fully. “I have very little sense of him,” she admitted, speaking bluntly. After three ages serving the House of Oropher, Hallion should be able to handle direct speech and she was in no mood for equivocation. “Less than when he was unconscious after being injured in the past.” She let her gaze drop back her her hands. “I confess that I am very worried about him.”

“And Legolas?” Hallion asked after a moment’s pause.

A scoffing noise escaped Lindomiel before she could stifle it. “Naturally I am worried about Legolas! And Galithil. They are much too close to a battle that is far beyond their skill—one that is apparently challenging for Thranduil, who has ages more experience in war than I hope my son and nephew will ever have. And on top of that, they are certainly within Manadhien’s grasp. I am worried about all of them.”

She clenched her jaw to keep from saying more. To prevent herself from telling Hallion exactly how upset she was that he had allowed Legolas to chase after that courier. Legolas insisted, Hallion explained when he first told her where Legolas had gone. Insisted in a way Hallion felt compelled to obey. That was—or at least soon would be—Legolas’s right. Lindomiel had to recognize it just as Hallion did. But now? When Manandhien was scheming to spill every drop of her family’s blood? That was when Legolas decided it would be best to assert his authority as the king’s representative in his absence?

She silently loosed a long breath, unclenched the fist she must have made at some point and flattened her fingers on the cool, wooden surface of the meeting table. She was seated in Thranduil’s chair. His hands had rested on this spot many times. She could see them in her mind. Her thumb caressed a bit of wood, worn smooth over the ages, seeking some hint of his presence.

“Of course you have every right to be worried,” Hallion’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I regret sending Legolas after the courier. I would take back that decision if I could. But what I meant was: you do not…there is no reason to believe, as yet, that Legolas is also injured?”

“No! I am certain he is perfectly fine,” she responded immediately, shaking her head for emphasis. Perish the very thought! Then her heart raced as her mind caught up to the full meaning behind that question. If the king was in danger, Hallion wanted to be sure his heir was not. Lindomiel closed her eyes tightly against the implication. She refused to allow her thoughts to go in that direction. Thranduil would return and be fine. He always did.

They were spared the need to pursue that topic further when the door to the Hall opened.

Two warriors entered.

Linomiel eyed them carefully. Though they looked familiar, she could not immediately recall either of their names. Neither was a normal courier, as far as she knew. Both bore wounds—ones that even she could tell left them unable to fight. They limped too much to have reached the stronghold on their own. They must have come on horseback. The second to enter the Hall carried a large bundle, wrapped up in a cloak or blanket.

Lindomiel drew a shuddering breath and rose to her feet when she realized what must be concealed in that cloth. A body.

“What is this?” Hallion demanded as the warriors stopped a few paces from the table. The one laid his burden on the floor, none too carefully, allowing its head to thud against the stone. They both bowed to Lindomiel.

She could not take her eyes off the body. Surely it could not be…. No one would dare…. No elf in this realm would bring her husband back to her in such a cruel, blunt manner. Besides, while Thranduil’s presence felt distant, it was not absent. His fea still touched hers. It could not be….  

But who was it? Who would these warriors bring into the stronghold?

Not Galithil! Please not Amoneth’s baby! She studied the form wrapped in the cloth. It did not appear to be Galithil. It was too tall. Too broad of shoulder. But it could be Dolgailon…. She found herself struggling for breath.

“Delethil sent me,” the warrior replied to Hallion’s question. His tone was defiant. Falsely brave. He held his chin high in the air as he spoke, but his back was rigid. “I am responsible. For this.” He gestured to the body without looking at it. “Delethil told us that if we saw an elf amongst the orcs attacking Maethorness’s village, Lord Dolgailon’s orders were to prevent him from escaping. At any cost. He said any elf amongst the orcs was a traitor. I was following those orders.”

Lindomiel frowned. The warrior was making very little sense. And he was not addressing the most important matter at all. “Tell us who that is, ere the world ends!” she exclaimed, pointing at the body.

The warrior stared at her a moment. Then he leaned over and flipped the cloth back from the body’s face. “I think Delethil said his name is Fuilin, my lady.”

“Oh!” was all she could manage as all the air rushed from her lungs. It was Fuilin. Only Fuilin. She experienced a quick pang of guilt that she could not muster any regret that he was dead, but she could not. She only felt relief. Relief to see him instead of a member of her family.

The warrior regarded her worriedly for a moment and then turned back to Hallion. “I was following orders,” he repeated. “I shot him in the leg when I first saw him, to disable him. But an orc tried to carry him to safety. We were told not to let him escape. He was allied with the orcs. With orcs! I saw it myself. He gave them orders and they tried to save him.” The warrior stopped and drew himself up. “I shot both this elf and the orc helping him. I killed them. I killed him. And since he was helping the orcs attack the village, I do not regret it.” His voice quavered as he made that claim. “I am here to accept responsibility for my actions,” he concluded.

Lindomiel felt a great swell of pity in her heart for this warrior. What a horrible deed! What a terrible burden!

“I think only the King can judge you, Boril,” Hallion said quietly. “And he is not here. You will have to wait for his return. But I do not think you need fear his judgment, nor should you judge yourself too harshly. You did indeed carry out not only Lord Dolgailon’s orders, but the king’s own. Fuilin was a greater threat to this realm than any orc. His death means the forest is much safer.”

Boril’s shoulders slumped slightly. “This Fuilin,” he said, using his foot to nudge the cloth to cover the body’s staring eyes once again. “Is he one of the elves that attacked Lord Legolas during that training exercise before the Fall Festival? The ones that murdered the young warriors and wrote the note pinned to Tulus’s shoulder threatening the king? Is that why he is accused of treason?”

That was why this warrior—Boril, apparently—seemed so familiar, Lindomiel thought. He was the warrior Denoth sent to carry news of Legolas’s abduction to the stronghold. He was one of the warriors that had freed Tulus and found the murdered Sixth Years.

Hallion nodded. “Those are some of his many crimes. Fuilin also is responsible for murdering Lord Celonhael and plotting many other times against the queen and even the king himself.”

“Well, good riddance then,” Boril said.

“Indeed,” Hallion replied. “And enough of him. There are more important topics. Foremost in my mind: what news do you bring of the battle in Maethorness’s village?” He turned to the second warrior. “And Rossoth, I assume you have come from Lord Dolgailon’s village?”

“We held Maethorness’s village. Barely, but we held it,” Bornil replied.

“The same in the west,” Rossoth added.

Lindomiel managed a faint smile. Despite her initial fears, these warriors brought very good news. Fuilin was eliminated as a threat and the villages both survived. Once Hallion was finished with military topics, she would have to ask about supplies. Surely both Maethorness and Dolgailon’s villages lost at least some of their winter stores and would need for her to restock them.

The warriors pulled sealed envelopes from their tunic pockets.

“Delethil’s report from the first battle,” Boril said, handing his paper to Hallion.

Lindomiel’s smile faded slightly. First battle?

“And Lord Galithil’s,” Rossoth said.

Her gaze darted to Rossoth. Galithil’s report? Why would Galithil write reports for Dolgailon’s village?

To Lindomiel’s great frustration Hallion opened Delethil’s message first. “You barely held the village,” he repeated while unfolding the paper.

Boril nodded gravely. “Without the support of my patrol and Delethil’s, I think the outcome of the battle in the east would have been very different.”

Lindomiel’s brow knit as she began to catch on. Boril was a warrior of the Eastern Path Guard. Delethil captained the Eastern Patrol. They both helped defend Maethorness? The Eastern Patrol did not normally defend the border that far south, did they? The Path Guard certainly did not!

“We were all very lucky Lord Legolas was in the patrol’s camp,” Rossoth agreed. “Without his orders to bring Boril and his fellow warriors south, mine would not have been available to aid Lord Dolgailon’s village. That would have certainly led to disaster.”

“Hmmm,” was Hallion’s only response as he skimmed Delethil’s report.

Lindomiel, in contrast, openly gaped at Rossoth. Legolas’s orders? While chasing after that courier, had Legolas taken it upon himself to divert warriors from their normal patrols and send them into battle in Maethorness’s village? That was a bold decision! Perhaps overbold. Even if it did prove fortuitous, Thranduil might not approve, given Legolas’s age and inexperience. Lindomiel bit her lip. Well, she would help Legolas handle Thranduil if it became necessary.

Hallion shuffled the second report—Galithil’s—forward and tore it open. Rossoth’s gaze flashed to Lindomiel and then to his boots.

Lindomiel leaned over Hallion’s shoulder. She saw nothing more than Galithil’s handwriting before Hallion drew a sharp breath and folded the paper in half. He took a step back from the table. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the Troop Commander’s office,” he suggested, spreading his arms wide to herd the warriors out of the Hall.

A cold chill coursed through Lindomiel’s body and her fears for Thranduil, Dolgailon and Galithil came rushing back. Hallion would not attempt to hide good news from her.

“Rossoth, tell me what news you bring from Lord Dolgailon’s village before you leave,” she said while grasping Hallion’s arm. “Did the king manage to arrest Manadhien? You might know her as Moralfien. And what did you mean by ‘the first battle?’ Did it seem as if the orcs were regrouping for a second attack? Will the king and Lord Dolgailon be able to send Galithil back to the stronghold before it begins?” She looked from Rossoth to Boril. “And can either of you tell me precisely where Legolas is and when he will return?”

Rossoth’s brow furrowed and he turned to Hallion for guidance.

Hallion adopted a completely neutral expression. “According to this report,” he waved the still folded paper in the air, “the village is preparing for a second attack,” he confirmed. “I need to discuss the details of that attack with these messengers—promptly—if you will excuse us, my lady.” He again made to drive the warriors from the Hall.

Lindomiel blocked their retreat. “I am surprised you would not bring Galithil—and Legolas, if you know where he is—back to the stronghold with you, in anticipation of this second attack. Why did you not?” she demanded. Then her heart skipped several beats as a possible reason occurred to her. “Was Galithil injured in the first battle? Is he unable to travel?” she asked and she braced herself for the answer. The warriors were extremely hesitant to speak.

“Lord Galithil was wearing mail,” Rossoth replied. “He received only a very minor injury in the battle—a broken arm. And now he is doing a fine job finding housing and necessities for those who lost their telain. The traitors sabotaged the village’s battle preparations and the orcs used flaming arrows, so the eastern edge of the village was destroyed by fire,” he explained.

Lindomiel stared at him, unable to respond. Galithil was not injured while sheltering with the villagers. He had actually fought! And now he was responsible for finding the villagers housing? Where was Dolgailon? Too busy managing the patrols, most likely. That must be it, especially if Thranduil was injured, as she suspected he must be. But what about Engwe? He was with Thranduil. Could he not help Dolgailon so that Galithil could be sent straight home? She frowned. As annoying as Engwe was, she certainly hoped he was not seriously wounded as well.

“As for the traitors,” Rossoth continued, kicking a boot in Fuilin’s direction without touching him, “I heard that one of the King’s Guard killed two more of Moralfien’s servants during the battle. The king went after Moralfien herself, but she… escaped him.”

Lindomiel stifled a frustrated sigh. Would they never arrest that elleth?

“Her luck did not last long,” he said, his tone now harsh. “After the village was secure, Lord Legolas and the King’s Guard scouted south. They captured her and Glilavan. They even rescued Lord Dolgailon from her orcs.”

Lindomiel stopped breathing. Surely she did not hear that correctly.

“What did you say?” Hallion asked. “How did Lord Legolas come to be in that village, much less further south of it?”

If Lindomiel had not been so utterly stunned by the claim that Legolas was as far south as Dolgailon’s village, in the middle of a battle, capturing elves that only a month past had tried to kill him, she would have laughed at how completely like Thranduil Hallion had just sounded.

Rossoth looked between Lindomiel and Hallion nervously. “I escorted him there,” he explained in a much more subdued voice. “At his orders. And after the battle, when Lord Legolas learned Moralfien escaped and Lord Dolgailon had been captured by orcs, he took the remaining King’s Guard and that strange wizard, Radagast, to arrest Moralfien and rescue the Troop Commander, if he could. I understand that he did succeed in both endeavors. And it was during that scouting trip that he confirmed the fears we all had that Moralfien was planning a second attack. Without that foreknowledge—if he had not sent for more warriors—neither Lord Dolgailon nor Maethorness’s villages could hope to survive a second attack.”

Lindomiel and Hallion both stared, gaped at Rossoth.

In response, Rossoth’s posture stiffened. “You did receive Lord Legolas’s orders that the Path Guard and Northern patrol should send more warriors south?” he asked in a rush. “The warriors were sent? If not….”

“I did receive those orders and I sent the warriors,” Hallion hastened to assure him. “I simply had no idea the orders arose from information Lord Legolas scouted himself. Or even that they were his orders. They came to me from the village, written in Lord Engwe’s hand.”

“May I ask why Legolas is commanding the patrols?” Lindomiel interjected. “Dolgailon was rescued, correct? Why is the Troop Commander not ordering the defense of the villages? And where is the King?”

Rossoth’s expression was immediately very guarded. “From what I heard, Lord Dolgailon is badly wounded, my lady,” he replied. “Lord Legolas took him to the nearest safe haven to recover—that wizard’s home. Rhosgobel.”

“What?” Lindomiel blurted out.

“Impossible!” Hallion exclaimed. “Rhosgobel is south of the Forest Road!”

“The King was also gravely wounded while defending the village,” Rossoth hurried on without acknowledging either outburst. “Before Lord Legolas left to search for Lord Dolgailon, he ordered Belloth to bring the King back to the stronghold. I was going to the Hall to receive treatment for my own injuries when they spoke. I heard Belloth protest that the king prefers to convalesce where ever he is wounded until he can ride back to the stronghold himself…”

Lindomiel firmly stifled a gasp. It was every bit as bad as she had feared. Thranduil was so seriously wounded that he could not ride.

“…but Lord Legolas insisted he should be taken to safety, since the village might fall under attack again and the king was….unable to defend himself.”

“How, specifically, is the king wounded?” Lindomiel asked, managing to keep her voice perfectly even.

Rossoth shifted from foot to foot and remained silent.

“Answer me,” Lindomiel commanded.

“The king was struck in the head, my lady,” Rossoth replied. He did not continue. He seemed unable to.

“How badly?” ‘So badly that he cannot ride,’ she answered herself silently. She had heard of injuries to the head that rendered the victim senseless or sometimes unconscious for hours or even days.

Rossoth closed his eyes and loosed a deep breath before speaking again. “Badly enough that his skull is caved. Here.” He touched a place on the back of his head.

Lindomiel felt her heart stop. She would have swayed on her feet if Hallion’s hand did not close firmly around her arm. Such wounds were fatal. She had never seen any elf awaken after suffering a blow that crushed his skull. Her breath came in gasps. This could not be right. She shook her head and tried to tell Rossoth he had to be mistaken, but she could not form the words. She glanced at Hallion, willing him to speak up in protest. His eyes were closed and his lips moving in a silent prayer. She looked back to Rossoth and Boril. Their eyes were full of pity. And concern.

This is no way to publicly behave, Lindomiel reminded herself sternly. She held her breath, in an effort to control it, and clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.

“When should we expect the king to arrive?” Hallion asked quietly after a long moment.

The question caused an image of Thranduil, all but lifeless, being carried into the stronghold to spring into her mind. She swallowed a sob.

“Tomorrow night, I would guess,” Rossoth replied. “I left the village with him and Belloth, but they are traveling more slowly.”

In her peripheral vision, Lindomiel saw Hallion nod and dismiss the warriors, asking them to wait for him in Dolgailon’s office. They bowed to her and turned to leave. She scarcely noticed their departure as her mind swirled. She felt Hallion’s hand on the small of her back, leading her towards the door behind the throne—the most direct and private route to the family quarters. She moved to comply, making it as far as the dais before a thought brought her to a sudden stop. “Did Helindilme not say that she was a surgeon?” she asked. “Is she still here or has she departed for Imladris?”

Hallion half turned to face her. “She is a surgeon.”

Lindomiel drew a hopeful breath. Hallion was clearly encouraged to be reminded of the healer visiting from Imladris.

“I saw her work in Mordor,” he continued, spinning on his heel and taking long strides towards the doors of the Hall. “She saved many of our warriors’ lives. I do think she left this morning for Imladris, but I will send someone to retrieve her.”

Lindomiel silently watched Hallion rush from the Hall. Helindilme would come back and save Thranduil. Of course she would. Even as she tried to convince herself, Lindomiel’s chin trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Thranduil so direly wounded. Legolas and Dolgailon south of the Road. Galithil in the middle of a terrible battle. She could not hold back the tears. There was no way this could be worse!

*~*~*

In the deep, pre-dawn gloom, Glilavan’s eyes darted back and forth, from rock to tree to stump, the furrow between his brows steadily deepening. The finger he held pressed against his lips flicked in the direction of a distant rock and he began to mouth the word ‘there.’ Before any sound emerged, his finger froze in place, hanging awkwardly in the air, and his lips pressed together again.

“Pity’s sake!” Tureden muttered, his expression growing even more sour. But he said no more. He had challenged the decision to search for Tulus rather than return directly to the relative safety of Dolgailon’s village one too many times already and he knew it. He kept his attention fixed on his own charge—Manadhien, seated on the horse in front of him.

“Please, just one moment more,” Glilavan begged. Again.

Galuauth shifted a bit on his horse, enough to face Legolas, and turned a dramatically patient look on him while maintaining a firm grip on the back of Glilavan’s collar.

Legolas nodded and silently prayed they would find Tulus soon. Two full days and nights had passed since Glilavan hid him and turned back to help Dolgailon. So much could happen in two days…. Legolas firmly shut down that line of thought. He refused to abandon all hope until he saw evidence that he should.

“Is that a rock over there?” Glilavan asked, squinting northwest. He gestured with his chin for them to move closer to a dark form pressed against a tree several dozen paces away.

Galuauth waited for another nod from Legolas before moving forward a few paces.

Legolas’s horse followed, prancing, its hooves clattering against the hard ground. Legolas studied the forest carefully before removing his hand from his bowstring to stroke the animal’s neck.

The horses Radagast had persuaded to carry them north were wild—unaccustomed to carrying riders and not entirely willing to leave the sunny plain to explore the shadows of the forest. If anyone was more anxious than Tureden to complete the journey to Dolgailon’s village, it was them.

Glilavan thrust his arm out, pointing.

The sudden movement made both Legolas and his horse jump.

“That is the outcropping of rocks where I left him,” Glilavan declared loudly enough to cause a bird to startle out of its nest and flutter hurriedly away. “I am certain of it.” He nudged his heels against the flanks of the horse he shared with Galuauth.

Galuauth, in turn, tightened his legs against the horse’s side. “I see movement there,” he whispered.

“Yes. My adar, no doubt,” Glilavan replied, kicking the horse more forcefully.

When the horse’s nostrils flared, Legolas thought it had finally lost its temper with the conflicting messages its two riders were giving.

Then he saw eyes, glinting in the moonlight. More and more eyes, emerging from the darkness and advancing on them swiftly. A moment later he heard it—clanking armor, labored breathing and the occasional frightened or pained squeak.

Orcs!

He drew his bow and took aim at the nearest figure, his heart sinking as he did. If Glilavan was correct that his father was over there, the approaching enemy would not fail to discover him. He let his arrow fly just as both Manadhien and Glilavan drew sharp breaths. The cry for help that Manadhien would have loosed was stifled by Tureden’s hand clamping over her mouth. She emitted a muffled, incoherent noise instead.

“Oh no!” Glilavan whispered. His hand instinctively reached for his bow, but encountered nothing.

Galuauth grasped his wrist. “Do not get any ideas,” he ordered in a low voice while trying to persuade his horse to move closer to Legolas. The horse had other plans. It danced and huffed so furiously that Galuauth barely managed to keep it from fleeing altogether.

“Get control of them and fight!” Tureden ordered, directing himself to Galuauth. A glance showed he had no hope of doing the same. Between Manadhien’s desperate attempts to free herself and his horse’s wide-eyed terror, Tureden was fully occupied.

Legolas’s first arrow dropped the nearest orc. He yanked a handful more from his quiver.

“After them! Keep on their trail! Do not let them escape!” an elven voice shouted from the trees, north of them. Several orcs in the back of the advancing pack collapsed to the ground, arrows protruding from their backs.

Legolas loosed three more arrows of his own before the approaching orcs realized they were running straight into more danger. When three of them reeled backwards, clutching arrows in their chests, the rest slid to a halt so suddenly that their comrades behind them plowed into their backs, shoving them a few more steps forward. Then they all dove behind any available shelter and returned attack.

Legolas’s horse reared as arrows whistled past, pawing the air and forcing Legolas to twine his fingers in its mane to keep from being thrown. It bucked in a circle, panicked and unable to decide which direction to run. Its neighing nearly drowned out the orcs’ alarmed squeals.

“You are only making matters more difficult,” Legolas protested, but there was no hope he could bring the undisciplined animal under control. He leapt to the ground.

The horse wasted no time fleeing west, immediately followed by its two companions.

Legolas dropped to one knee to make himself a smaller target and focused on eliminating orcs. In his peripheral vision, Tureden was struggling to right himself while shoving Manadhien towards Galuauth with one hand and reaching for his bow with the other.

Given his guard’s awkward posture, Legolas fleetingly wondered if he had willingly dismounted or if he and his prisoner had been thrown. Despite the seriousness of the current situation, Legolas could not help but smirk. If Radagast could speak to horses as he spoke to birds, those three horses would certainly give him an earful the next time they ran across him.

Galuauth dragged Glilavan and Manadhien behind the largest tree he could find, pressed them between it and himself and held them in place as best he could with one arm around each of them.

Legolas’s brows rose as he reached for another handful of arrows and began releasing them. Was Glilavan helping Galuauth to keep Manadhien from escaping? He spared a moment to fully glance at them as the orcs’ attack—and numbers—dwindled. Glilavan had a handful of Manadhien’s hair twisted around his fingers.

“Over there!” Tureden called, turning his bow towards a place south of the original group of orcs where the undergrowth shuddered and rustled.

Legolas jerked his attention back to the battle. Tureden flinched when one of Legolas’s arrows flew past him. An orc pitched forward, out of the brush, and fell face down on the ground, writhing and clutching its gut.

Tureden cast an annoyed glare over his shoulder before releasing his own arrow.

Legolas barely noticed. Orcs swarmed out of the bushes like bees from a hive. These did not carry bows. When they spotted the new enemy, they charged forward, brandishing swords and axes. Draw, release, shift another arrow to his string. That was all Legolas had time to think about now.

“There are too many!” Tureden yelled.

A pile of orcs had already formed in front of the bushes, but the elves on the far side of the battlefield still drove more and more forward in search of an escape.

Tureden shifted his stance backward, as if to retreat.

“We will hold this position,” Legolas said, never pausing in his attack.

The orcs kept coming. Some tried to flee to either side of Legolas and Tureden. A few rushed straight at them, slathering.

Tureden loosed several more arrows and then, with the orcs within sword’s range, he shouldered his bow and drew his blade, throwing his weight forward to meet the coming onslaught more solidly.

Legolas positioned another arrow against his bowstring, drew and released. One of the fleeing orcs fell.

“Your sword!” Tureden called, raising his own to a high guard.

Legolas placed two arrows on his bowstring, drew and released. Two more fleeing orcs dropped.

“Your sword! Now!” Tureden ordered. His began a downswing to fend off the blade of the nearest orc.

Legolas took a step back, loosed one more arrow to prevent one more orc from escaping and finally did as Tureden demanded—he shouldered his bow and pulled his sword free of its scabbard just in time to parry an attack. The orc drove Legolas’s one handed grip on his blade down with relative ease, using its full weight against him. Legolas sidestepped. The orc’s momentum carried it past. Tureden drove his offhand weapon—a knife as long as Legolas’s forearm—into the orc’s spine without so much as a backward glance.

Legolas drew his own belt knife and was on balance before the next orc was in position to attack him.

He plunged his sword under its breastplate. Ducking beneath the swing of another enemy, he placed his foot on the fallen orc’s chest to yank his sword free. The force of that effort cut the legs from under another charging orc. Legolas straightened and parried a blow aimed at his head.

Someone, and it was not his guard—Tureden still stood in front of him—finished that orc.

Legolas glanced to his right and saw Dollion. To his left, Seregon slit the throat of the orc he fought. Galithil’s friend, Galasserch, and several elves Legolas did not recognize stood on the opposite side of the group of orcs.

They had the remaining enemy surrounded.

Legolas allowed himself a grim smile as he swung at an arm holding a sword that was striking out towards him. Sword and arm flew through the air. Tureden relieved that orc of its head.

Finding themselves outnumbered and with no hope of escape, the orcs began to panic. They broke ranks entirely in an effort to charge through any gap between the elves. Grateful his training masters were correct about orc discipline, or the lack thereof, Legolas aimed a hacking blow at the neck of the nearest enemy.

Before he knew it, the forest was once again silent, save for the groans of dying orcs.

Sword raised, Legolas searched for any further attack. He saw only his guard, two captains, and three warriors. They were all inspecting him with open concern.

Legolas drew a deep breath and lowered his sword. “I am uninjured,” he said, looking for something clean it with. There were plenty of orc corpses to wipe it on.

Dollion, Seregon and the warriors broke into smiles. Tureden did not cease his scrutiny.

“Adar!” Glilavan shouted into the silence from the tree where he still sheltered with Galuauth and Manadhien. Legolas reflexively spun towards the noise in time to see Galuauth’s hand cover his prisoner’s mouth. Glilavan turned his head to the side. “We have to help my adar,” he managed to get out.

“Be silent,” Tureden demanded, pointing his sword at Glilavan. He turned a glare on Legolas. “Are you satisfied that he is doing nothing more than leading us into a trap?”

Legolas scowled.

“He led us straight into an orc lair!” Tureden exclaimed.

“I did not!” Glilavan retorted. He pointed towards the rock he had originally intended to approach. “My adar is there. Please, we have to get him out of here. Before more orcs come.”

Legolas looked at the rock jutting up into the air. A dead orc, with a yellow-fletched arrow in its eye, was sprawled against it. Several other orcs lay all around it. If Tulus was there…. He turned a pitying gaze on Glilavan. He understood all too well how it felt for a son to fear for his father…to hold out hope in the face of hopelessness for his father’s survival….

“We saw no evidence the orcs had a prisoner,” Dollion said with an alarmed tone, looking between Legolas and Glilavan.

Glilavan ignored him. “Please,” he pleaded. “We came this far. We cannot abandon him now.”

“Glilavan,” Legolas began, his voice sympathetic. “With those orcs there, Tulus could not be…”

“He is not dead!” Glilavan cut him off. “I would know it if he were!”

Legolas clenched his jaw. That was the very same hope he clung to.

He readied his sword and, disregarding Tureden’s frustrated growl, strode towards the stone, praying Glilavan was correct that they would find Tulus. More realistically, the least they could do, having failed to reach him in time, was see to it that his body—whatever the orcs had left of it—was properly cared for.

Tureden pursued him.

Legolas rounded the rock and tree and peered into the shelter they formed, bracing himself to see his friend’s broken body.

“Is he unconscious?” Glilavan called.

Staring at the ground, Legolas shook his head. He saw…nothing. Nothing at all. “He is not here.”

“Of course no one is there,” Dollion and Seregon said together, sounding confused.

“How could anyone be where three dozen orcs were only moments ago?” Seregon asked.

“And why would Tulus be there at all?” Dollion asked.

“This is where I left him. I am absolutely certain,” Glilavan exclaimed, speaking over them. He pointed to a place where the tree trunk was split and grew on either side of the rock. “I remember that. Where is he?”

“He was never here,” Tureden answered. He had knelt down to inspect the ground. “There is no sign of him. The only tracks are from those orcs.” He looked at Legolas. “He is leading you to your death. We must get out of here while we still can.”

“I am not doing anything but trying to help my adar. We have to search for him.” Glilavan drew a sharp breath, but the call he intended to make was cut off by Galuauth’s hand covering his mouth again. Glilavan struggled against him.

“What is going on here, my lord?” Dollion asked, coming up along side Legolas. “Why do you expect to find Tulus here? And what is he,” he pointed at Glilavan, “doing here. The King exiled him before the festival.” He paused and then continued in a strained voice. “And where is Lord Dolgailon? I thought the message we received said that you found him. Alive.”

Seregon, Galasserch and the other warriors all stared at Legolas, awaiting his answer.

“Dolgailon is safe,” he answered quickly. “We left him with Radagast. In Rhosgobel. To heal from his wounds. But Radagast promised us that he would recover.”

“Thank the Valar,” Dollion and Seregon whispered together. Then Dollion gestured towards Glilavan with a raised brow.

“Glilavan is trying to kill us all,” Tureden answered before Legolas could speak.

“I am not!” Glilavan exclaimed.

“Tulus was in the village, spying on Manadhien for the king, but he was captured,” Legolas intervened. “Glilavan says he rescued him from orcs and hid him here to go back for Dolgailon…”

Dollion’s brow climbed higher and he studied Glilavan.

“Tulus is not here and never was,” Tureden interrupted. “Glilavan is trying to find an escape for himself and…”

“Enough!” Legolas cut him off. “I believe Glilavan expected to find Tulus here. Perhaps Tulus was aware of the orcs approaching and he sought a better hiding place….”

“Glilavan said his leg was broken,” Tureden interrupted again. “If someone with a broken leg dragged himself away from here, we would see evidence of it.”

“Not if he moved before the rain stopped,” Galuauth suggested. “That deluge would have washed away the tracks of a passing army.”

“And it likely did,” Legolas muttered, looking back at Seregon, Galasserch, Dollion and the warriors. Surely their presence, chasing orcs, was a good sign. Surely it meant they had held the village.

“Why would he move hours ago, before the rain stopped, when the orcs were just here now?” Tureden exclaimed, exasperated.

“Perhaps he moved when the orcs first marched through here on their way to attack the village,” Seregon suggested.

Tureden drew a breath to debate that assertion.

Legolas had no desire to hear his words. He needed to find out how the village had fared and he wanted to know what had stopped Galithil from accompanying Dollion, Seregon and Galasserch to hunt orcs. That meant he needed to conclude this search for Tulus now. Without waiting for Tureden’s argument, Legolas loosed a sharp whistle—a long note with rising pitch—the signal he and Tulus had trained to use when separated in battle.

There was no return call.

Legolas allowed his eyes to close briefly.

“Have you lost your mind!” Tureden exclaimed into the silence. “Must we keep you quiet as well?”

“Try it. And learn how I will respond,” Legolas retorted with a forbidding tone while shooting his guard a sidelong glare. Then he turned to Glilavan. “I am sorry,” he said softly.

Glilavan shook his head. “We have to search for him. He must be nearby. He could not walk by himself. West,” he declared, pointing in that direction. “He would have gone west. If we go in that direction, we will find him.”

Legolas remained silent as Glilavan spoke, allowing him to make his argument. “We will go west,” he agreed, keeping his voice gentle. “And we will look for him as we go towards Dolgailon’s village. But I think you must consider the possibility that we will not find him. At least not alive. He would have answered my call if he was nearby and able….”

Glilavan made a slicing motion through the air with his hand, in an effort to cut Legolas off. “We will find him!” he insisted.

Legolas said nothing more. He only signaled for Galuauth to get ready to move. Then he turned towards Dollion and Seregon, intending to ask about Galithil.

“You!” Galasserch snarled, before Legolas could speak. He leveled his still drawn sword in Galuauth’s direction.

Eyes wide, Legolas looked to where Galasserch pointed.  

Galuauth and Glilavan’s movements in preparation to leave had revealed Manadhien kneeling next to the tree where Galuauth had pinned her during the battle. Galasserch stormed towards her as she struggled to her feet.

“Stop!” Legolas ordered, taking a long step forward to intercept him.

Tureden intervened at that order, bodily checking Galasserch’s charge.

“She set orcs on my village!” Galasserch yelled, trying to step around him, while still pointing his sword at Manadhien. “They killed my naneth.”

Legolas’s heart lurched at that statement.

Galasserch finally managed to shove Tureden aside. He backed Manadhien, who had only just found her feet, against the tree and stood nose-to-nose with her. “How could you lead orcs against us? We trusted you to defend us and you betrayed us!” he spat into her face, ignoring Tureden’s hand grasping his arm and pulling him back.

Manadhien lifted her chin and laughed. “You and your family trusted the king, never me. Now you understand, as I have long understood, the value of promises made by the House of Oropher. Thranduil is not capable of keeping you safe.”

Anger surged through Legolas at that accusation, a fury so overpowering that he found himself driving the tip of his sword into the ground in front of him to hold himself back from advancing on her himself. How dare she make such claims! His father had given his life to keep that village safe!

“Traitor! Liar!” Dollion growled, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. “The king and the warriors he led have twice prevented your orcs from murdering everyone in that village.”
 
“They would not have murdered everyone,” Manadhien replied. She fixed her gaze on Galasserch. “They were only ordered to eliminate fools—anyone loyal to Thranduil.”

Galasserch made another lunge towards her. “That would be everyone in the village!” he shouted, as Tureden held him back.

“Leave her,” Legolas ordered, as Galasserch’s closed fist narrowly missed boxing Manadhien’s ear. “I will not see her abused.”

Galasserch whirled around. “You will not see her abused?” he repeated, voice rising in pitch. “She destroyed my village. She is responsible for the deaths of dozens of elves….”

“Including your naneth,” Legolas interrupted, keeping his tone level. “And also my grandparents and uncle.” He paused for emphasis. “And possibly our king. I am well aware of her crimes and I will see her face justice for them. She will stand before her victims—all of them that wish to confront her—in court. This,” he stabbed his finger downward towards the muddy ground, “is not that court.”

Galasserch ground his teeth together, but took a step back. “Of course not, my lord,” he managed. “I beg your pardon.”

Legolas nodded once and continued in a softer voice. “I deeply regret your naneth’s fate. I would have prevented it if I could.”

Galasserch lifted his gaze and glared at Manadhien. “My family has never doubted the king’s dedication to this forest. I know you did everything possible. The village still stands due to your efforts.”

Legolas laid a hand on the young guard’s shoulder. “And yours,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Seregon and Dollion. “The village did resist the second attack, then?” he asked.

“We did,” Seregon replied. “The only task left is to hunt down the enemy that escaped the battle.” He waved a hand at the orcs lying scattered around them.

“No more remain between here and Rhosgobel.” Legolas said. “We finished two other groups on our way north.” He looked with disgust at an orc at his feet. “What of Galithil?” he asked, holding his breath.

“He remains in the village, ordering its recovery,” Dollion answered.

Legolas loosed the breath he was holding as quietly as he could and nodded. “I think it would be best for us all to return to the village to help him and secure these prisoners.”

“Agreed,” Tureden replied, signaling Galuauth to take charged of Glilavan and seizing Manadhien’s arm himself.

Legolas chose to ignore the rough way he handled her. Instead, he started north.

Seregon jogged up along side him while fixing Manadhien with a deadly look. “Some of her,” he spat the word, “allies remain in the village, my lord. Some of the guard that was loyal to her and not the king.”

Legolas nodded. “I have not forgotten them,” he replied. “You are certain they are still in the village? They did not try to escape with their mistress?”

Seregon shook his head. “None of them stood by her once they realized she was allied with orcs. I will give them that much. And they were all too seriously wounded to flee after the battle. I told Salabeth and her apprentices to keep an eye on them. They await your judgement, my lord.”

Legolas’s only reply was to continue striding towards the village. He wanted to see this business finished, with all Manadhien’s allies imprisoned alongside her, as quickly as possible.

*~*~*

Standing at the top of the stairs to the Hall—a makeshift dais—Legolas looked beyond the prisoners before him and at the village behind them. Despite years of experience in court, he struggled to keep the dismay he felt from showing on his face. The rising sun illuminated the damage the village had suffered. Its eastern side, right up to the court yard, was burnt beyond recognition. Legolas could not distinguish which blackened trees had once held telain and which had not. Where would the elves gathered around him, watching him judge Manadhien’s allies, sleep? And how would they rebuild? With what materials? Burned trees? With what work force? In the court yard laid the bodies of the elves killed in the battle, warriors and villagers whose family members were too badly injured themselves to claim them. They were covered with blankets.

“I swear, my lord, I had no idea she was allied with…Him,” Lumil concluded and then he fell silent.

He was on his knees, alongside Baranil, Solchion and Manadhien’s advisors, at the foot of the stairs. They had been dragged from their beds in the Hall and put there by Seregon and other villagers loyal to the king. Lumil’s hands were clasped in front of him and Legolas had the distinct impression he would have looked upon an attacker brandishing a weapon in much the same way he was looking at him at the moment.

“But you confess you knew Manadhien intended to usurp the king’s rule?” Galithil demanded from his place to Legolas’s right.

“I knew she intended to replace Lord Dolgailon in this village, at least,” Lumil admitted.

Galithil took a step towards him, fists clenched at his sides.

A seething murmur erupted from the crowd.

Lumil thrust his hand out in front of himself, defensively or pleadingly, Legolas would not have ventured to guess which at the moment. “I knew her ultimate goal was to overthrow Lord Thranduil,” he hurriedly conceded. He allowed his hands to fall to his side and his shoulders slumped. “She claimed she could offer us a better defense against the orcs. And she seemed to do so.” His brows drew together sharply. “How she managed that is clear now, of course, but we had no idea she was allied with the enemy before this attack. I swear it,” he repeated.

Baranil, Solchion and the advisors nodded their agreement.

“Send them from the forest!” one of the villagers yelled. He pointed at Lumil, waving his finger like a sword.

That demand was immediately taken up by at least a dozen more elves, becoming a steady chant.

Legolas silenced it with a raised hand. “You might be spared the fate your fellow villagers demand if you tell me who else was involved in this conspiracy,” he said.

Lumil lifted his gaze to face Legolas, shaking his head and spreading his hands wide. “But I do not know of anyone else, save Gwathron and Mornil. They were her most trusted allies, but we heard they were killed in the battle.”

Legolas studied Lumil and then each of the elves beside him in turn. He saw no lie in their eyes. Perhaps they did not know the identity of Manadhien’s remaining servant, if she had one.

“They do not deserve the protection and comforts of the forest they betrayed,” a villager called. “Send them away!” Again, a large number of elves took up that cry.

Legolas regarded them silently. Manadhien’s allies would likely be safer outside the forest, if the mood of this crowd was any measure of the future they faced, but it was simply not his place to make such decisions. That right still laid with his father.

“Hold them in a talan,” he ordered, directing himself to Seregon. “I will take them back to the stronghold when I return there. In the meantime, no one speaks to them unless I am present.” He looked at Tureden. “Make sure a member of the King’s Guard watches them at all times.”

He started down the stairs as the guards began pulling the prisoners to their feet.

The surrounding crowd continued shouting.

“Lock them in a cell in the bowels of the mountain and we will see if they turn into dwarves,” one person shouted as the guards began to lead the prisoners away.

“Or the orcs that they are,” yelled another.

“Better that than releasing them into exile,” a village guard said. “Remember what Moralfien’s friend, Bronil…or Demil…whatever his true name was…remember what he did when the king exiled him.”

Everyone looked at Legolas. He forced his expression to remain impassive.

“Exile. Imprisonment. Either is better than they deserve,” an elleth shouted, her voice shaking. “Just as my son deserved better than death by an orc’s blade.” She turned to Legolas. “How can they be allowed to live when they took the lives of so many elves in this village?”

Lumil’s head spun around and he gaped at that elleth, shock and fear written plainly on his face. A good many other elves did the same and a hush fell over the crowd.

Legolas again refused to visibly react, but his heart began to pound. The elleth had not directly called for anyone’s death, but her words would loose a storm Legolas would have much preferred to avoid. He felt more than saw Galithil step shoulder-to-shoulder with him on his right. Engwe also took a long step forward, almost enough to interpose himself between Legolas and the villagers.

“Are you suggesting Lord Legolas should kill them?” Galasserch exclaimed.

The elleth said nothing. She only continued staring at the prisoners, her expression pinched with pain.

Galasserch drew his sword from its scabbard and shifted his grasp on it, as if to offer it to her. “If I hand you my sword and bring this elf to you right now,” he gave Baranil a slight shove, “is that a deed you would be willing to undertake? Truly?”

Tears welled in the elleth’s eyes and she looked away.

“Enough, Galasserch,” Legolas said in a quiet, reproachful voice. It served nothing to further upset someone who was already grieving.

“Melwen is not Lord Legolas,” another villager called, stepping between the elleth and Galasserch. “Lord Legolas has already been called upon to defend this realm against Moralfien’s allies, including Demil. And Mauril. We all have heard that.”

Legolas’s heart beat harder.

A murmur spread across the crowd. People nodded, most with pity, a few with satisfaction in their eyes.

Seeing that satisfaction made Legolas’s stomach clench.

“He should defend us again,” the elf concluded.

The murmur erupted into a roar--people reacting to and arguing that demand.

“He already did defend us!” Galasserch yelled over them all. “He fought the orcs with everyone else. He scouted south to warn us more were marching against us. But asking him to kill elves?” He shook his head. “I lost my naneth in this attack. I do not believe she would want to be the cause of further bloodshed.”  

“Nor would my brother,” someone else agreed.

“They deserve it!” and “Look at this village!” others shouted.

Galithil and Engwe both drew a breath to enter the argument.

“Enough,” Legolas repeated in a voice just loud enough to rise over the others. The shouting quieted and Legolas took a moment to meet the gaze of everyone that had spoken. “I am not debating this decision,” he said. “These elves,” he pointed at the prisoners, “are returning with me to the stronghold to be judged by the king…”

“You are our king now, my lord,” someone interrupted.

“My adar is our king,” Legolas retorted, a little more sharply than he intended, “until his fea passes to Mandos’ Halls, which, I assure you, has not yet happened.” He paused to govern his tone and make sure it carried all the authority these villagers seemed willing to give him. “But I will tell you this much: if it does finally fall to me to judge these elves,” he pointed at Manadhien’s allies, “I will not consider executing them. I deem that they are not responsible for the orcs’ attack on this village. I believe them when they say they did not know Moralfien was allied with the enemy….”

The crowd buzzed again.

Legolas continued, speaking over them. “Moreover, until I took it from her, Moralfien was in possession of a craft of the Evil One. One that I believe enabled her to bend people to her will…”

The whispers around him grew louder and everyone, including the prisoners—including Galithil and Engwe—appeared stunned.

“I will not speculate to what degree these elves were masters of their own actions. And I will not take measures against them that cannot be undone until I determine to what extent they can be made to see the folly of their deeds. That is my final word on this matter.” He paused for emphasis. “Unredeemable evil I shall never offer quarter. You may count on that. All else I have been taught to judge with mercy and so I will do. If you cannot accept that, then I recommend, if it should come to such an end, that you not accept me as your king.”

By the time Legolas finished speaking, the only sound to be heard was the song of birds, awakened by the rising sun. A few of the surrounding elves met his gaze, nodding. Those that had called for a harsher sentence stared fixedly at the ground, but nodded also.

“I will follow you, my lord,” Seregon said. “Without hesitation. As I followed your adar and daeradar.”

A chorus of ‘So will I’ sprung up around him.

Legolas had to stop himself from biting his lip. It was not his intent to spur anyone to such declarations.

“So will I,” Dollion, Galithil and Engwe said at once.

Involuntarily, Legolas pressed his hand against his tunic pocket—the pocket that still carried his father’s mithril ring. ‘Aran o Eryn Galen.’ He stood silently a moment, fingering its outline.

“Regardless of what becomes of my adar,” he finally said, “I will always strive to prove equal to the faith you place in me. Still, I refuse to lose hope that the king that has protected this forest for the last two Ages of this world will continue to do so.”

Saying that, and with a glance at Galithil, he strode off in the direction of his cousin’s talan. He had had enough. He needed some rest before he could face anything else.

The same elf that had challenged him before, stepped into his path. “What of Moralfien’s fate?” he demanded, loudly. “Surely we all recognize that she does, in fact, represent an ‘unredeemable evil’ and should be dealt with accordingly?”

Legolas’s hand convulsed around the hard form in his pocket, but he returned the elf’s glare steadily. “Moralfien is, indeed, another matter,” was all he said.

The elf waited for him to continue.

“Make way,” Legolas ordered and he was relieved when the elf stepped back and bowed, allowing Legolas to resume his march toward the talan.

*~*~*

Eyes closed, Legolas leaned his head against the wall. The chair he had collapsed into in Dolgailon’s bedroom was wooden, with no cushions or upholstery, straight-backed and hard as a log. Legolas did not care, so long as he was finally behind a closed door.

Seated at the desk next to him, Galithil made scratching noises with his quill. He had been muttering to himself and writing since they retreated to the bedroom.

The talan was not the refuge Legolas had hoped for. Many villagers needed somewhere to sleep, so Galithil, like everyone else whose home was spared the fire, had houseguests. Galasserch, his father and aunt were staying in Dolgailon’s talan. Their voices rumbled softly in the sitting room, on the other side of the bedroom door.

A feminine sob rose above them.

Legolas squeezed his eyes closed a bit tighter, as if doing so would block out sound. Galithil’s quill scritched along more quickly.

They had already done and said all they could to comfort Galasserch’s family, after all. They spoke to them and everyone else in the village that had lost someone in the battles after Engwe’s whispered reminder that they should. Galithil was even able to supply some personal memory of each elf that had died and his words made their condolences seem so much more genuine. Legolas was very grateful for his cousin’s efforts. Speaking to all those families had clearly weighed on him.

Legolas understood that. Those visits were more difficult, by far, than anything he had ever done. More difficult than any battle he had fought, more difficult than seeing his own friends or family injured, possibly more difficult even than facing his own family’s deaths. He was not responsible for the loss of his uncles or grandparents. He was not, in truth, responsible for commanding the battle in this village, but the people in it looked upon him, in his father’s place, as if he had been.

Legolas opened his eyes slightly and peeked at his cousin. Galithil had helped to command the battle. Had he seen Galasserch’s naneth die? Or any of the other elves that he knew? It was hard to believe he had not. No wonder he had filled an entire page of parchment with…well, the Valar only knew what he was writing.

“The village will need cloth. Wool, especially, but linen too,” Galithil mumbled as he dipped his quill into the ink.

Legolas shook his head and closed his eyes again. A few moments without thinking about the villages or battles. That is what he needed. Then he would help Galithil. He sifted through his recent memories for a more pleasant thought to distract himself and finally conjured up an image of dancing with Aewen at the Fall Festival.

That momentarily raised his spirits, until it reminded him of the feast Seregon told him the village was planning to celebrate their victory over the orcs. Legolas knew such things happened. He had read about them, but he never lived through a victory deemed worthy of a feast. Contemplating it now, he wondered two things: first, what was his role supposed to be? He would have to speak to Engwe about that. And second, where did the village plan on holding this feast, given that there were still bodies in the courtyard and wounded in the Hall. He loosed a long breath. He simply did not understand the concept of a feast after such a horrible battle. Perhaps he would after experiencing it.

He doubted it.

“The winter is a good time to stay inside and sew,” Galithil’s voice droned on. His pen stilled briefly. “With luck it will be a light, short winter. At least here in the south.” He tickled Legolas’s cheek with the feathery end of the quill to get his attention. “You know more about these sorts of things than I do. How much wool would you say we will need?”

Legolas left his eyes closed a moment longer before opening them and sitting straighter in the chair. He stared at Galithil’s paper. It was covered, top to bottom, with a long list of requests to take back to the stronghold.

“How many elves lost their homes?” Legolas asked, trying to focus. Despite his efforts, his gaze drifted from the desk to the window in Dolgailon’s room. The sun was bright outside. Perhaps a walk into the forest would be better.

If only the forest floor was not strewn with orc corpses, he reminded himself.

“Eighteen families. Sixty-three people,” Galithil replied.

Legolas drew a deep breath. “No less than two and a half bolts, then.”

Galithil recorded that amount on his list.

Legolas’s eyebrows climbed. “Galithil,” he whispered, conscious of the voices of Galasserch’s family just on the other side of the bedroom door. “You know we do not have that much wool to spare.”

Galithil did not even pause in his writing. “I know precisely how much wool is in the store rooms. Five bolts. We brought it from Dale ourselves.”

“For nana and her ladies to make winter cloaks and tunics for the warriors…”

“And, under the current circumstances,” Galithil interrupted, “I am certain these villagers would be overjoyed to have the queen’s help making winter cloaks for those that lost their telain. The people here have enough to do. If they can be spared the need to sew cloaks, all the better. Now.” The quill moved down to the next line on the list. “Clay is next. We need to haul clay from the river before the winter freeze, else we will have nothing to cook in. How much of that do you suppose?”

“Five pounds per large bowl. A little less for a dinner plate. Half that for a cup,” Legolas answered. “You do remember Maethorness’s village was attacked as well? She will have also suffered losses and will need supplies.”

“Maethorness’s villagers are not my concern. Mine are,” Galithil said while calculating the number of plates and bowls and cups needed per person on a scrap of paper and multiplying that sum by the weights of clay Legolas had provided. When he finished, he added another line to his list.

Legolas leaned over and took the quill from him.

They glared at each other in silence a moment before Galithil reached to retrieve the quill. Legolas sat back and withdrew it further. “How do you suppose we will fetch that much clay from the Celduin to this village, on the opposite side of the forest?” he asked.

Galithil shrugged. “The warriors can carry it,” he replied, also leaning back in his chair. His expression dared Legolas to contradict that suggestion.

“Galithil!” Legolas exclaimed. “There are no warriors! You know how many were wounded…!” He silenced himself and glanced at the door again. The voices on its other side had fallen silent.

“If there are no warriors, they will not need cloaks, so that solves the wool problem,” Galithil responded.

Legolas loosed an exasperated groan and gave his cousin a kick with the toe of his boot. “Be serious!”

“I am serious.”

Legolas ignored him and touched the measurement of clay with the tip of the quill, yanking it back when Galithil snatched at it. “You might as well ask for that amount in mithril. These are impossible requests.”

“And I suppose you think that Maethorness’s will be more reasonable?” Galithil asked.

Legolas open his mouth to argue, but found he had no response. He did not even want to imagine facing that elleth’s demands.

“It is my duty, in Dolgailon’s absence, to represent the needs of this village,” Galithil continued. “To prevent more deaths, if I can,” he said under his breath. “It is your duty,” he went on in a stronger voice, “to weigh the needs of the entire forest. I recognize that. But do not think that the fact that we are cousins will stay me, even slightly, from advocating for these people.” He thrust a finger behind himself to point out the window of the talan.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and started to retort that Galithil should not expect the fact that they were cousins would influence his decisions regarding how to fill the requests. Before he could speak the words, he closed his mouth again, not certain if it would be appropriate to engage in any sort of banter about what would or would not influence his decisions if…if he had to make decisions in the future. Instead of speaking, he prayed silently that he would not be responsible for managing the aftermath of these battles—and not only because that job would be nearly impossible.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” Galithil said quietly. “I did not intend to make you think about your adar. I just need to get these requests ready… and I hoped that a bit of work would help distract you. Distract us both.” He looked down. “That might work for me, but perhaps you have worked your way through too many difficulties this season already after Demil and Mauril. I am sorry. Sincerely.”

His adar. Demil. Mauril. Thinking of them brought to mind Celonhael’s death. His grandparents’ deaths. And Tulus’s assignment in this village and subsequent disappearance. Too much. Too much loss. Too much of it by his own hand. Eyes stinging and fists clenched, Legolas stood abruptly and walked towards the window.

Never. Not once in his life had he seen his father cry. Not after Celonhael’s death. Not after Amglaur and Limmiel’s. Not even after Aradunnon’s. Strength, even if only a facade of strength, was critical to…ensuring that people felt confident in their own safety…the king’s leadership…. Both, Legolas supposed. And much more. Whatever the reason, he no longer felt free to allow his true emotions to show. Even in Galithil’s presence. And that was a very…stifling…lonely…unexpected feeling. A feeling more burdensome than any he had experienced since his father’s injury.

Behind him, Legolas heard the cap of the ink jar clatter into place. Then a chair scraped against the wooden floor. A moment later, a hand grasped Legolas’s shoulder and Galithil pulled him around to face him.

“So, the way I see it, you probably either want to punch me or you want me to find you a handkerchief. Which is it?” he asked in a mostly teasing voice.

Legolas glared at his cousin. “At the moment, I think I would prefer punching you,” he replied.

Galithil shrugged. “Fair enough. Have at it.” He planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart, as if readying for an attack. “Just have bit of pity for my bad arm. That is all I ask.”

Legolas rolled his eyes skyward and half turned away.

Galithil stepped around to remain in his field of vision and fixed him with the same sort of look he normally wore when preparing to argue that they should do something utterly insane. “Legolas,” he began, his voice perfectly serious.

Legolas tensed and braced himself, unable to imagine what his cousin was about to propose.

“We have known each other our entire lives. I have seen you at your absolute worst. Many times. All the times you were injured and brought to tears from pain. All the times you were brought to grief from the loss of an uncle or grandparent or friend. All of your pathetic attempts to court Aewen.”

Legolas’s jaw clenched involuntarily and tightened even further when Galithil’s eyes lit with amusement.

“And even that time you lost your temper and finally let Anastor have what was coming to him.” He paused and smiled. “You really walloped him that day. As funny as it seemed to me at the time, I realize now that the people in this realm should be very glad you had a strong example of mercy in justice throughout your upbringing, else your temper could really make a tyrant out of you.” Galithil was careful to say that last with an unmistakably joking tone.

Despite himself, a snort of laughter escaped Legolas and he shook his head.

Galithil’s smile broadened in satisfaction before disappearing altogether. “What I am trying to tell you is this: you may be my king now, but we are still cousins. We have been raised as brothers. I will support you without question, always, no matter what doubts or fears you have privately divulged to me. Just as my adar did for yours. Remember the arguments they had? Some were so grand that we both feared they would come to blows. Still, my adar never failed to follow yours, because he knew—he knew—your adar was a great king.” Galithil paused and his gaze intensified. “I know you Legolas. I know you every bit as well as you know yourself. And I will follow where ever you lead until the end of Arda.”

Legolas stared silently at Galithil for a long moment. He had no idea how to respond.

Galithil grinned and leaned back against the window sill, cradling his splinted arm with his uninjured one. “After all, if I did not follow you, the Valar only know what would happen to you. I am constantly getting you out of trouble, you know.”

The absurdity of that assertion made Legolas laugh out loud. “I think you must be confused, gwador nin,” he said. “Between the two of us, I am not the one who could find a different sort of mischief under every leaf.”

Galithil continued as if he had heard nothing. “Look what happens when I go to my village for a few weeks: you end up in the range of the Southern Patrol. You go south of the Forest Road! To Rhosgobel! What would happen if I left the realm for a month? Would you end up in Mordor?”

“I would not be surprised if one day I must go to Mordor to extract you from its pits,” Legolas interjected, trying to sound serious, but failing.

Galithil still refused to acknowledge Legolas’s barbs. “Indeed, after all you have done the last few days, you should be thankful that it is impossible to confine a king to his room, else your naneth might have confined you to yours. You might have even seen the inside of one of the cellars that Uncle Thranduil used to threaten us with. The Forest Road, Legolas? Even to retrieve my brother and arrest Manadhien, that was far more insane than the worst idea I ever had. Try to deny it,” he concluded with a smirk.

A jumble of responses boiled to Legolas’s lips. The first was to remind Galithil that he was not king yet. The second was to remind him how much worse the outcome of the battle in this village would have been if he had not gone south. The third was to repeat some of the ‘worst ideas’ Galithil had in the past that easily rivaled traveling to the Forest Road. But none of those arguments were the point. The point was that Galithil had managed to tease him to distraction. He had managed, if only for a moment, to make him laugh in earnest and forget all that lay ahead.

“Thank you, gwador nin,” he said, casting his cousin a sincere, if weak, smile.

Galithil smiled back, but his eyes gleamed. Unchallenged, he was not through with his teasing.

Long experience told Legolas there was only one way to respond to that—go on the offensive. “I saw a Nazgul, you know,” he said in a very offhand manner, knowing the shock that would deliver. It was possible to joke about it now, since they were safely ensconced in a talan guarded by three of the King’s Guard. “It stood not a dozen paces from your brother and reprimanded Manadhien for the loss of so many orcs, if I understood it properly. She should probably be glad to be going to adar’s cells rather than the pits in Dol Guldur. The enemy has little tolerance for failure, it would seem.”

“That is one thing they have right then,” Galithil said softly. Then he loosed a somewhat forced laugh. “You saw a Nazgul! Of course you did! And Sauron himself, I suppose. I hope you remembered your manners—and your language lessons—and invited them both for tea? Can you speak the Black Speech or only understand it?”

“Neither. And I fear I forgot my manners entirely,” Legolas answered, “and aimed an arrow at the Nazgul. Luckily, Tureden was there to remind me that one cannot fight the Nazgul with arrows, so I left off that attempt. It marched off with the army attacking Maethorness’s village before it noticed us and Tureden never got around to telling me how one does fight the Nazgul. Do you know? Have you learned that in the training program or while helping the Troop Commander?”

Galithil stared at him, half amused, half trying to determine if he was serious.

Legolas suppressed a smile—he had him—and raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how to fight them?” he repeated.

Galithil’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” he whispered. “Did you honestly see a Nazgul?”

Legolas nodded, feeling slightly guilty for taking the topic of the Nazgul so lightly, but he desperately needed some amusement and watching Galithil’s expression cycle through doubt, fascination and utter horror was definitely amusing. It was a rare accomplishment to truly surprise him.

“Fire,” Galithil managed to choke out. “I asked adar once and he told me almost nothing hurts them, but they are weakest in the daylight, typically do not cross water and if they are wearing any sort of raiment, it can be burned and they hate fire. I cannot believe you are serious! What was it like? Adar and Dolgailon both told me that being near one is like facing fear itself.”

“It was terrifying,” Legolas responded, his voice now serious. “It never saw me, fortunately. Still, I could barely keep from throwing myself to the ground in complete panic. I am very glad only the King’s Guard was there to see that and they can be trusted not to gossip.”

Galithil shook his head. “I do not think anyone would dare criticize you for reacting badly to a Nazgul! Pray your adar and naneth never hear about this. You might never leave the stronghold again.” Then he stepped closer and punched Legolas on the arm. “I cannot believe you saw a Nazgul and I did not. I am jealous and I cannot deny it!”

“This from the elf that claimed he did not want to be a warrior only a fortnight ago.” Legolas retorted, pretending to rub his arm. Then he frowned and looked more closely at his cousin when he grimaced.

Galithil made a scoffing noise. “I learned, in no uncertain terms, over the last few days how foolish that wish was,” he muttered.

Legolas raised his eyebrows and studied him, but did not pursue that topic when his cousin refused to meet his gaze. Instead he returned to teasing him about the Nazgul. “I am certain you could probably find the Nazgul if you only went a day or two south. You could take Manadhien as bait. After leading a second army of orcs to their utter destruction, surely she is being hunted. If the Nazgul take her, you will have the opportunity to see one and, at the same time, you will solve one of this realm’s largest problems.”

Galithil looked at Legolas sidelong. “Will you…?” he began, before cutting himself off and waving his hand in the air to erase his words. “Never mind,” he said.

For a long moment, Legolas said nothing. Galithil told him ‘never mind.’ He offered him an escape. But, this was a problem Legolas dare not deny he needed advice to solve. And not a moment ago, Galithil had promised to listen without judgment.

“I am not yet certain,” he finally replied quietly. “I admit, I have given it thought. In case I do have to make this decision. I have thought about all that adar and Celonhael and everyone else argued. I tried to imagine myself ordering her brought to me so that I could….” He worked his jaw, but the words would not come out. “I cannot even bring myself to say it, Galithil,” he whispered. “What if I do not have the courage to do it?”

If any admission tested Galithil’s claim that he would follow Legolas regardless of anything he confessed to him privately, that did. Legolas trusted his cousin’s word. Implicitly. Even so, he held his breath.

“I do not think it is a matter of courage,” Galithil answered after a moment’s thought. “If you weigh all sides of the decision and conclude that to execute her is to do evil, then you cannot do it. You will not do evil to fight evil. I have heard you argue that many times, both in theory for lessons and in practice at council meetings. It is not in your nature to behave in such a way, so you must find another way to prevent her from harming the realm and family you are now responsible for. That will not be easy. It may, in fact, be the option that requires more courage, since it incurs more risk. But you will manage it.”

Legolas looked back up at his cousin. “Thank you, Galithil,” he said solemnly. “Again.”

Galithil shrugged and gave Legolas a half smile.

Legolas returned it before walking back to drop into the hard chair next to the desk.

Galithil followed and leaned on the desk. “This village needs leadership,” he said after a long silence. “Strong leadership. Either Dolgailon or I or some member of our family is going to have to stay here, at least throughout the winter, to undo the damage that Manadhien did.”

Legolas looked up at Galithil with wide eyes and prepared to dispute that. The king’s council was needed in the stronghold! But he held his tongue. Galithil was right—they owed it to the people of this village to right Manadhien’s wrongs.

“If adar does…. If I….” Legolas paused and ground his molars together. “If adar dies,” he forced himself to say, “I will need Dolgailon in the stronghold.”

“In that case, with Dolgailon’s permission, I will stay in the village,” Galithil replied. “Else, I suppose you could relieve yourself of Engwe by sending him here.”

“Shush!” Legolas said, looking over his shoulder at the door as if Engwe might be standing in its threshold. He could not suppress a snorting laugh.

Galithil grinned at him.

“I think nana will still have the final word over where either of us serve this realm,” Legolas continued. “At least for a few more years. And there is no possibility she will let you stay this far south. And if you are thinking about going without her permission, I urge to to remember: there are still those cells you mentioned a few moments ago.”

“I will address that if it becomes necessary,” Galithil replied with a smirk. “And hopefully Dolgailon will support me. I think I can persuade him.” His smirk faded. “But for now, we need to return home, at least temporarily. Your naneth needs us most at the moment.”

Legolas grimaced. He had avoided thinking about how everything that had happened would affect nana. “We will go home as soon as Radagast sends Dolgailon north. So we can travel together. It will be safer and it will make escorting Manadhien and Glilavan easier.”

“I hope he gets here soon,” Galithil said, not bothering to conceal his worry.

“So do I,” Legolas agreed. His worries were much bigger than his cousin’s.

*~*~*

AN: The title of this chapter is adapted from this quote from John Ruskin: The first test of a truly great man is his humility. By humility I don't mean doubt of his powers or hesitation in speaking his opinion, but merely an understanding of the relationship of what he can say and what he can do.

Adar — Father

Naneth/nana — Mother/mum

Gwador nin— sworn brothers

Aran o Eryn Galen — King of Greenwood