1.  A Troubled Homecoming

Spring came late to Mirkwood that year.  Indeed, there had been moments when Eilian had feared that the shadow hovering ever more darkly over his home would keep the spring from ever arriving again.  But shadow or no, Arda turned slowly toward the sun, and at last the winter gave way.  Pale buds now showed on the trees through which Eilian and his two companions galloped on their way to the fortress of Mirkwood’s king, Thranduil Oropherion.

As they drew nearer to the Woodland King’s Hall, dwellings began to appear in the trees and on the ground on either side of them.  The three Elves did not slow their pace, however, for, accompanied by the guards that were always necessary in Mirkwood now, Eilian was answering a summons from the king himself and such a summons was never to be taken lightly, even by the king’s son.  Moreover, they were all three glad to be seeing home again, for they had spent the last six months on patrol to the south, as far as the Mountains of Mirkwood and sometimes even the Old Forest Road.  There the giant spiders were thick, and Orcs formed an ever present threat. No warrior of the southern patrol ever took returning home for granted.

The three rode to the gates of the Woodland King’s fortress as the afternoon sun began to slip west. Before them rose the great doors of the cave that formed Thranduil’s home and the safe haven of his people in times of attack. 

Servants ran to take their horses, and the three warriors wearily dismounted.  Eilian turned to other two.  Maltanaur was of Thranduil’s generation.  He had served as Eilian’s mentor when the prince had first joined the southern patrol nearly forty years ago.  During the last few years, as Eilian had accepted his right of command and assumed more of the responsibility for leading the southern patrol, he had valued Maltanaur’s counsel more than that of any other Elf with whom he served.  In contrast, he and Gelmir had been friends from the time they were elflings, and Eilian took great comfort in serving with someone who had known him so well for so many years.

At the moment, both of his companions looked eager to be off.  Maltanaur had a new grandchild, Eilian recalled.  He did not know the source of Gelmir’s eagerness.  Likely, his friend was simply reluctant to risk being present when Eilian met with his father.  Gelmir had witnessed Thranduil’s temper first hand when he and Eilian had engaged in childhood escapades together, and the experience had left Gelmir permanently wary of the royal presence.

“Go,” Eilian said somewhat ruefully.  “I will let you know how long we will be here after I meet with my father.”  The two sketched hasty bows and, as they departed, Eilian found himself gripped from behind in a bear hug that knocked the breath out of him.

“Brother!” The cry could only come from the hearty lungs of Ithilden, Crown Prince of Mirkwood, who at the moment appeared intent on smothering his younger brother.  “So you have escaped the spiders again.  You must have run very fast.”

Laughing, Eilian struggled free of Ithilden’s grasp and turned to club his brother on the shoulder and then exchange the clasped forearms of Elven warriors.

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

“Of course I missed you.  I had no one to pummel when events became too annoying.”

“Can you not pummel Legolas?” Eilian inquired as they moved across the bridge over the river that ran through the middle of the green and toward the doors of the hall.

“He is still too small to make a good target.  It will not be long though,” Ithilden admitted.  “I am a bit worried that he will turn out taller than I am.  He is growing like frog weed in a summer rain.”

Eilian thought it unlikely that Ithilden had anything to worry about.  Like their father and Eilian himself, the Crown Prince was tall, but unlike Eilian, Ithilden also shared Thranduil’s broad shoulders, and the power that most Elves hid in a slender build was obvious at a glance.

The brothers entered the ante-chamber of their father’s Hall. Despite its location in a cave, Thranduil’s great fortress was usually considered beautiful.  It had been shaped to imitate the fortress of Thingol; it was lit within by lamps of crystal, and its surfaces were carved all about with leaves and vines and tree branches, to comfort the Elves who dwelled there for the loss of their woodland dwellings. To Eilian’s mind, though, the palace was still a cave. Elves were not meant to live underground. Wood Elves in particular were attuned to nature and suffered when cut off from it. Every time he entered his home, Eilian resented anew the evil that plagued Mirkwood and made the cave dwelling necessary.

As they approached Thranduil’s Great Hall, the guards flung the doors open.  As usual in the late afternoon, most of the crowd that attended on and sought audience from the king had dispersed.  Only one courtier and a scribe stood before the King of Mirkwood, who was engrossed in the scroll, the details of which they were explaining.  At the sound of the herald announcing his sons’ names, Thranduil looked up with a welcoming smile.  In the formal setting of the Great Hall, Eilian and Ithilden both dropped to one knee at some distance from the throne, but their father motioned them to their feet and came forward to greet them, clasping arms with Eilian.

“It is good to see you home again whole, my son,” he said.

As always, Eilian felt the pressure of his father’s forceful presence.  The King of Mirkwood’s power was not merely physical, but also rooted deep in his determined personality. Strangers might regard his handsome features, his elegant clothes, or the jewels he always wore on his fingers or at his throat and briefly think him effeminate, but one long stare from Thranduil’s hard grey eyes would quickly scatter any such idea.  It sometimes seemed to Eilian that his father held the shadow at bay from Mirkwood by the sheer, frightening force of his will.

“We have been awaiting your arrival for several days,” Thranduil told him.

Eilian felt the familiar burn of resentment that flared so often in his interactions with his father.  Thranduil was chary with praise and quick to find fault in his sons.  Eilian loved his father and knew his father loved him and his two brothers, but he frequently found his father maddening.  The friction between them was one of the reasons that Eilian preferred to patrol at some distance from home, though if he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he also drew energy from the ever present danger.

“I came as quickly as I could, Adar,” he said evenly.  “We had moved camp, and your message reached us only two days ago.”

Thranduil nodded, accepting the explanation.  “We have serious matters to discuss, but I must finish this business now.” He waved toward the patiently waiting attendants.  “Perhaps it would be best to wait until the morning when we are rested. Tonight we will celebrate your arrival.  Ithilden, we need you to look at these supply numbers.”  He turned back to take up the scroll again, dismissing Eilian.

Eilian bowed and left the Great Hall only to be pounced upon by Legolas, who had obviously been waiting for him.  “The groom said that you were back, Eilian,” he cried.  “I did not even know that you were coming until yesterday. Adar and Ithilden never tell me anything,” he finished resentfully.

Eilian hugged him affectionately.  He saw what Ithilden meant about the youngling’s growth.  The top of his head was already at Eilian’s eye level and he had not yet reached his full height.  At the moment, he had the lanky form that comes when the young grow quickly and would probably be built more like Eilian than Thranduil.  With his father, though, he shared the blond hair that was rare in Mirkwood.

“How are you, brat?”  He flicked his finger at the bow that Legolas held. “Are you getting any better at this?”  He had seen Legolas shoot the last time he was home and knew that, unbelievable as it seemed, his little brother could already best him, but he was certainly not going to admit that.

The calm demeanor with which Legolas received the insult suggested that perhaps he knew his own strength without being told.  “I have been practicing shooting from horseback.  Penntalion says that I need to improve my balance when leaning and shooting to my right.” It was almost impossible to get Legolas to react to teasing about his skill with weapons.  When it regarded his warrior training, he was intent and serious to an extent that was almost disturbing, even in the increasingly besieged realm of Mirkwood.

The two walked toward the family’s private wing.  “How long will you stay this time?”

“That will depend on Adar,” Eilian answered.  “He has not yet told me what he requires of me.”

“Is it true that the southern patrol defeated an army of Orcs riding wargs last month?” Legolas demanded eagerly.

Eilian grimaced.  “I would not call it an army,” he answered. “Orcs are too disorganized to merit that title.  But they were riding wargs.”  He sighed. The encounter had been an unpleasant one.  “Come and talk to me while I bathe,” he invited.  “I want to hear all about what has occurred while I have been away.”

Legolas made a face. “I can not.  I promised my tutor that I would translate a passage of Dwarvish before tomorrow morning. If I do it now, I will not miss any of the fun tonight.” With that, he was off toward the library.

Looking forward to the evening’s celebration, Eilian ambled toward his chamber.  A long soak in a hot bath sounded deeply inviting after life in a warriors’ camp.  There would be plenty of time before dinner.

Dinner that evening was sumptuous as, with typical Elven enthusiasm for a celebration, the household seized on his arrival as an excuse for a feast.  Tables were set up in the open green outside the doors of the cavern and roasted venison was plentiful along with fruit that had been preserved from the previous fall and the first spring shoots of asparagus.  Eilian particularly relished the fresh bread and honey, both luxuries unavailable to warriors on patrol.  Accustomed to living for weeks on lembas and whatever game he and his companions could bring down while they were on the move, he found the food almost decadent.

When the feasting was done, the tables were moved aside and Elves made themselves comfortable around low burning fires, listening to the minstrels or raising songs of their own.  Eilian reclined next to Legolas on a rug spread on the grass, listening half to the music and half to Legolas’s account of the problems one of Thranduil’s patrols had recently encountered as they attempted to drive giant spiders away from the path that formed the only safe means of travel to the west.  A large pack of wargs had unexpectedly appeared and the Elves had been lucky to escape with only minor injuries. Legolas was scornful of the patrol’s failure to know that the wargs were in the area, claiming that they must have been insufficiently cautious.  Eilian privately thought that his brother was probably right, although he could not imagine how experienced Mirkwood warriors could have been so careless.  He said nothing to Legolas, though.  In another ten years or so, when Legolas joined the Mirkwood warriors, he would have to respect the authority of those in command.  Encouraging him to think that he knew better than his elders was an invitation to disaster.

Scanning the crowd, Eilian found Ithilden off to one side in the shadows.  Unexpectedly, he was deep in conversation with a maiden who, Eilian recalled, was the daughter of one of the palace healers.  Alfirin, was that her name?  That was certainly a new development.  Ithilden was considerably older than his two brothers.  He had been born in a time of war, and indeed had been conceived because in such difficult times even an Elven king needs an heir.  The agelessness of Elves is no defense against a sword.  Thranduil and Lorellin had then waited until the time of the Watchful Peace to bring Eilian into the world, and Eilian rather thought that Legolas’s birth had been an act of defiance thrown in the teeth of the returning enemy.

Ithilden had spent years patrolling Mirkwood and then commanding its forces from the field.  He had only recently begun to spend most of his time in Thranduil’s halls, retaining command of Mirkwood’s forces but also relieving Thranduil of some matters of governance.  If Ithilden were actually courting a maiden, Thranduil would be thrilled.  Elves usually married young, and Ithilden was well past the age when his father would have seen him settled. Eilian glanced over at his father, who sat in a raised chair at the head of the green, to see if he had noticed the pair. Thranduil was dressed in a long formal robe of green tonight and wore his crown of spring flowers.  Seated next to him, there was a slim, dark-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. As Eilian watched, Thranduil leaned over to speak into her ear.

“Who is that next to Adar, Legolas?” he interrupted.

Legolas glanced over at Thranduil and scowled.  “It is Galenadiual, Naneth’s cousin.  Do you not recognize her?  You brought her here the last time that you were home.”

Of course.  How could he have forgotten?  Six months ago, he and his patrol had rescued Galenadiual and her serving maid from an Orc attack on a manor near the north edge of their patrol area. Galenadiual was some sort of cousin to Eilian’s deceased mother.  Her husband had recently been killed, and she had written to Thranduil seeking his protection.  In turn, Thranduil had sent a message asking the southern patrol to check on the manor. They had been on their way to carry out the request when they had seen the smoke in the distance.  They had ridden into the manor’s clearing to find an Orc attack in full progress.  The patrol had made short work of the attack but had found only the two women still alive, and the manor house had burned to the ground.  Eilian had brought the two of them back to his father’s hall. As Legolas said, that mission had been the occasion of his last visit home.

Now that he looked, he could see that Galenadiual was one of the women they had rescued.  The last time Eilian had seen her, her appearance had been marred by terror and exhaustion.  Six months’ of safety in Thranduil’s hall had worked a remarkable change.  Indeed, in her current guise, Galenadiual looked a great deal like Eilian’s mother.  She even wore her hair in the same way Lorellin had done.  She and his father certainly looked friendly, Eilian thought.  He glanced at Legolas, who was still scowling in their father’s direction.  “Do you not like her?” he asked neutrally.

“She does not belong here,” Legolas answered sharply.  “She and her maid are still staying in family quarters’ guest chambers,” he added, in a manner that suggested more than he was saying.

Before Eilian could pursue the matter, a hush fell over the assembled Elves as Thranduil’s minstrel rose to sing. Even among Elves who were almost all musical themselves, Thranduil’s minstrel was much admired. The song was one Eilian had not heard before, and the minstrel had probably written it himself, although it was far more melancholy than any song that Eilian had ever before heard in his father’s court.  It spoke not of love, nor did it retell any of the old legends.  Instead, it told of the troubles that were increasingly returning to Mirkwood, after the Watchful Peace had been shattered by the return of the shadow.  It ended in words that chilled Eilian’s heart:

Tauron, Lord of Forests,

Come with your hot, bright anger

And crush my enemies

That I may again see the forest floor

Splashed with pools of moonlight.

Those I love are choking in the darkness.

Alas! Alas! I cannot see the stars.

Eilian lay back on the rug and looked at the sky.  “I can still see the stars,” he thought rather desperately. “I can.”

2. Encountering the Unseen

The next morning, Thranduil and his sons gathered for morning meal in the small dining room in the family’s wing.  The room was cheerful with a fire driving away the chill of the spring morning.  Also present was Galenadiual.  This was the first time Eilian had spoken to her since he had left her and her maidservant in the capable hands of one of Mirkwood’s healers six months ago.  Now Galenadiual spoke to thank him for delivering her from the danger into which she had fallen.

“I am happy to see you looking so well, my lady,” he responded, as he helped both her and himself to the stewed fruit and bread that made the morning’s fare.  “How is your maid?”

“Arramiel is with me still and has recovered nicely,” Galenadiual answered. “I am sure that she too will want to thank you.”

Eilian waved away the gratitude. What else could he and his companions have done?

The meal passed peaceably enough in the desultory exchange of family news.  It was obvious to Eilian that Thranduil enjoyed Galenadiual’s presence and that Legolas resented it.  It was also obvious to him that the two reactions were connected.  Thranduil had always liked women, and, unsurprisingly, they had always liked him.  They were attracted by his good looks, his undeniable charm, and his sheer masculinity.  Secure in her belief in his fidelity and love for her, Lorellin had always laughingly accused him of being an incurable flirt.  His friendships with women since Lorellin’s death had been lightly formed, for he was, after all, still bonded to Lorellin.  But he evidently saw no reason to shun the close company of women, and if his closeness had ever strayed beyond the bounds of flirtation, Eilian did not know it.  Of course, this was the first time that one of the women had ever lived in the palace.

Until now, Legolas had been too young to notice his father’s discreet friendships. Evidently that was no longer the case, and his little brother was plainly affronted by Galenadiual’s presence. Perhaps Galenadiual felt Legolas’s hostility because she did not linger over the meal but rose to take her leave, offering excuses of work to be done.

Eilian half expected Thranduil to take advantage of their increased privacy to reveal whatever the matter was that had caused him to send for Eilian, but Thranduil seemed willing to bide his time until Legolas too went about his day’s business.  Thranduil had always attempted to leave his sons at peace in their childhoods to the extent that the troubled times allowed.

Legolas, however, was fidgeting and seemed to be steeling himself to speak.  “I had a letter from Turgon yesterday,” he finally began.

“Is he away?” Eilian asked.

“Yes, thank the Valar,” said Ithilden fervently.  Along with another youngling named Annael, Turgon was one of Legolas’s best friends and was an inspired mischief maker.  Whenever Legolas got into trouble, Turgon was almost sure to be on the scene somewhere. The royal family always breathed a little easier when Turgon was elsewhere.

Legolas glared briefly at Ithilden and then turned to Eilian.  “He is at his family home.” Many of the Mirkwood Elves had ancestral homes at some distance from Thranduil’s fortress.  The perils now infesting Mirkwood had driven most of them to live closer, but some chose to stay in their more remote residences as Galenadiual had done. Still more visited these spots for part of the year. Abandoning them entirely was painful for a people who felt linked to the very trees they had known from birth.

“He has asked me to visit for however long you will allow, Adar.” Legolas looked hopefully at Thranduil.

“I will not allow it at all, Legolas,” was Thranduil’s prompt response.

“But Turgon says that his father is allowing him to join his guard patrols,” Legolas plunged on. His father and brothers all turned startled faces toward him.  Turgon was Legolas’s age, a good ten years too young to be serving as a warrior, especially in the more dangerous areas of Mirkwood remote from the palace. Ignoring his family’s astonishment, Legolas pushed resolutely on to what was obviously the point of this speech.  “I am much better than Turgon both with a bow and with long knives.  For that matter, I am better than either Ithilden or Eilian with a bow.”  Eilian saw Ithilden open his mouth to protest, but then close it again, whether because he recognized the truth of the claim or thought better of entering the tense conversation, Eilian could not say.

“All I do here is train,” Legolas continued eagerly.  “I want to do something useful. You think I do not know because you do not tell me, but I hear things and I know that Mirkwood’s situation is worsening. Let me help to defend it.”

As Legolas had made his plea, Thranduil’s face had reddened, a sure sign the he was irritated. “I have said that I will not allow you to go, Legolas,” he snapped.  “Cease this argument immediately.  Mirkwood does not send its elflings to battle.”

Legolas’s mouth compressed in a thin line as he struggled for control. The word “elfling” had obviously rankled.  Finally he flung down his spoon.  “May I be excused? I have a Dwarvish lesson. That is obviously much more important than ridding Mirkwood of Orcs.”

Thranduil’s tone of voice made it clear that he was brooking no nonsense.  “Govern your tongue, Legolas.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Legolas responded as Thranduil plainly expected him to do.  “I beg your pardon, Adar. I should not have spoken so,” he said rather stiffly.

“I grant you my pardon. You may go.”

Legolas left swiftly, possessing just enough restraint to avoid slamming the door.  There was a moment’s silence. Then Ithilden murmured, “What can Vardalan be thinking, to allow his son to take such a risk?”

Thranduil snorted. “He is a fool. I can think of few Elves whom I would be less likely to trust with Legolas’s safety.”  He toyed with his cup for a moment and then sighed and settled to his purpose.  “As it happens, however, Legolas has raised the matter that led me to send for you, Eilian.  In the last few months, our situation has worsened.  We have lost warriors from three different patrols when the enemy surprised them.”  Eilian thought of the story Legolas had told him the previous evening about the patrol that had been unexpectedly set upon by wargs.  “It is as if our moves are anticipated,” Thranduil went on, “as if the eye of the enemy is upon us, and he sees not only what our actions are but what they will be ahead of time.”

“But how?” Eilian burst in. “How could this be happening?”

“We know not,” Ithilden picked up his father’s story, and like Thranduil, he carefully avoided speaking the enemy’s name.  “Perhaps our enemy is using crebain or wargs as spies, although we cannot understand how these beasts could anticipate our moves.  Perhaps there is some sort of foul magic at work that we do not understand.”

Eilian grappled with the notion.  The thought that their actions might be observed sent a chill up his spine, as if the enemy were in the very room in which he sat. The words of last night’s song came drifting back to him: “Alas, alas, I cannot see the stars.”  He shuddered.

“Have you not seen similar events with the southern patrol?” Thranduil asked.

Eilian considered.  “No,” he said slowly. “Things seem to be much as usual.”  A sudden memory occurred to him of a near disaster that had happened about two months previously.  “Or perhaps there has been at least one such occasion.  Do you remember when you asked us to venture further east to verify reports you had received about increased numbers of Orcs in the area?  Orcs were waiting for us as we came through a ravine. I thought at the time that their attack was just chance, but perhaps our movement was anticipated and the attack was an ambush.”  He looked at his father and brother. “What are we to do about this?” he demanded.  “There must be something that we can do.”

“That is what I wish us to discuss,” responded Thranduil. “We must consider what course of action to take to learn about our enemy’s means of information and then obstruct it.  We three alone must devise whatever plan we can. To involve others is to increase the chance that our efforts will become known and prevented.  I ask you both to think about the matter and then meet in my study to discuss it when I have concluded the day’s business. We must act and act soon if we are not to be too late.”  They all sat for a moment more, struck to silence by the frightening prospect before them.  Then, without another word, Thranduil rose from his chair and left the dining room.

Eilian and Ithilden had risen when their father did. Now they looked at one another.  Finally, Eilian shook himself into speech.  “I think best when I am in motion,” he said. “I need to tell Maltanaur and Gelmir that we will be here some days, and then I will ride to the waterfall.” Thus the brothers parted.

Eilian went first to the cottage of Gelmir’s family but found only his mother at home.  When Eilian asked about Gelmir’s whereabouts, she snapped that she had no idea where her good-for-nothing son was and all but slammed the door in Eilian’s face. Nonplussed, he stood on the doorstep for a moment and then went on to Maltanaur’s cottage where he found his wife and daughter sitting on the grass before the cottage door, playing with the new grandchild. The women required him to admire the baby for a while, and when he had done so to their satisfaction, they directed him to the stables where he found Maltanaur checking on their horses and chatting with the head groom, who was his son-in-law. Eilian congratulated the son-in-law on his new offspring and told Maltanaur that they would remain yet a few days at home. Then he asked if knew where he might find Gelmir to deliver the same message. Maltanaur grinned broadly.

“You will not find him easily, Eilian, and his mother is fit to be tied about it too.”

“Where is he then?”

“You remember those two women we rescued from Orcs when they burned that manor house six months or so back?  The serving maid aproached Gelmir at the party last night. She seemed exceptionally grateful for his heroic actions.  If you want to find him, you will have to find her.”

Eilian laughed.  “In that case, I think that Gelmir might not want me chasing him down. Could you leave a message for him with his mother? I am not brave enough to go back there.”  Having secured Maltanaur’s promise, he readied his horse and then set off to one of his favorite spots, a waterfall about half an hour’s easy ride east from the gates of Thranduil’s hall.

Although Eilian’s thoughts were troubled at first, the ride through the spring forest soon lifted his spirits. These were the trees of his own childhood and they spoke to him welcomingly as he passed.  Much as he thrilled to the adventure of patrolling in the dangerous land to the south of his father’s hall, he had to admit that he frequently longed for the voices that murmured to him now, and he sang back to the trees as he went along. His ride ended in a meadow about one hundred feet from the head of the falls. There he left his horse.

The waterfall dropped perhaps as much as one thousand feet but did so in a series of steps, interrupted by shallow pools. Rocks littered the length of the falls in such a way that it was possible to climb up and down it through the bubbling water.  At the top of the falls, Eilian stripped and then waded in to begin his descent. He scrambled down the rocks along the left side with water running over his legs. At each level of the falls, he stepped into pools that reached his knees or waist. About halfway down was a pool that was chest deep and there he stopped to swim, diving and then rising to float on his back. The water came over a flat shelf here, and he swam over to sit against it so that the water rushed over his dark head.  Finally, his spirit soothed, he climbed back up the rocks and then stretched out in the grass to dry in the sun.  He lay there in drowsy stillness listening to the rush of the water.  A hawk wheeled overhead, the tips of its wings spread like fingers. The wind brought him the scent of new grass and blended with the water in singing a song that called to him with the voices of ancient beings.

As he lay in the grass and listened to the song, part of his mind began to walk in Elven dreams.   It seemed to Eilian that he was still floating in the water but also floating in the wind and that the voices of both water and wind became clearer.  “Look inward, little one,” they said.  “There is no magic here.”  As he floated and listened, a glimmer of an idea worked itself into Eilian’s mind and, as this idea became clearer, he was suddenly fully alert. The notion seemed so clear and obvious that he wondered that he had not thought of it before.  He looked at the sun. He must have truly slept, he realized, because to his surprise it was now dropping in the sky.  He offered one brief prayer of thanks, scrambled into his clothes, whistled for his horse, and rode hastily back to his father’s hall.

He entered Thranduil’s study to find Ithilden waiting. Thranduil entered almost immediately after and waved them to seats.  “Let us hear what ideas you may have had.”

They sat in silence for a moment and then Ithilden spoke.  “I believe that we need to send for Mithrandir.  He has always been a friend to the Elves, and he may be able to tell us the means of this magic.”

Thranduil frowned.  “We may be driven to that,” he admitted, “but I wish to keep our troubles to ourselves if we can. I do not like involving outsiders in our affairs.  Moreover, the wizard’s presence in Mirkwood may draw the enemy’s eye to us, rather than deflecting it. Magic draws magic,” he finished, quoting an old saying.

“I do not believe that we can afford to wait to be driven to it,” Ithilden argued.

“Nevertheless, it is what I would prefer,” Thranduil was not encouraging.  He turned to Eilian.

Eilian hesitated.  Now that he had to put his idea before his father and brother, it seemed less promising. Surely Thranduil and Ithilden had thought of this before.  And Thranduil had never had much use for the dreams and intuitions which Eilian sometimes allowed to guide his actions. He regarded them as part of Eilian’s reckless love of the unpredictable.  “Is it possible,” he finally said, “that the source of the enemy’s knowledge is not magic but a spy among us?”

“A spy?” Thranduil asked. “You mean an Elf?” He was incredulous.  As Thranduil had just finished making clear, he did not like outsiders in Mirkwood.  People sometimes came on legitimate business such as delivering goods that Mirkwood did not produce itself; they were encouraged to finish their business quickly and go.  The only permanent inhabitants of Mirkwood were Elves. That one of his own people could enter into betrayal was literally unthinkable to Thranduil and thus the possibility had not previously occurred to him. Now he considered it, and Eilian could see the moment when his father admitted to himself that such a thing was possible.  The shadow corrupted the woods; it was surely possible it could corrupt the Elves who were tied to that woods.  It would not be the first time that Elves has listened to the lies or promises of the enemy.

With his customary reliance on evidence rather than intuition, Ithilden was working out whether Eilian could be correct.  “You say the southern patrol has had only one occasion when the enemy seemed to anticipate its moves?” he asked. Eilian nodded and he went on. “And that occasion was one in which you were acting on a message from Adar.” Eilian nodded again. Ithilden turned to Thranduil.  “That would be consistent with someone obtaining information here at the palace. Eilian’s people are not usually targets because their remoteness means that they operate on their own most of the time. Someone picking up information here would not know enough to harm them, except when we send directions to them.” He seemed have convinced himself of the legitimacy of the possibility that Eilian had raised.

“We will root out and deal with this traitor.”  Thranduil spat the last word with all the scorn of which he was capable.

“How?” asked the ever-practical Ithilden.

Again, they considered.  Then Thranduil began to lay out a plan.  “We will each create several false stories about planned patrol actions.  We will feed these stories to people who seem overly interested in what we are doing and post watches to see if any of them are acted upon.  That may not tell us who our traitor is because those to whom we tell these stories could pass them on to another, but it will give us a place to start.”

The three spent the next two hours devising stories and planning the distribution of scouts who would report on unusual action in an area a story mentioned. By the time Eilian and Ithilden left the study to dress for dinner, they were all feeling more hopeful than they would have believed possible that morning.

Eilian began to sing lines from the song that Thranduil’s minstrel had sung the previous night, only they had a much more exultant tone today:

Tauron, Lord of Forests,

Come with your hot, bright anger

And crush my enemies.

Ithilden looked at him strangely.  He enjoyed music but, thought Eilian, Ithilden was less likely than most Elves to use it for anything beyond the pleasure of hearing it. Now Eilian laughed at the expression on Ithilden’s face and clapped him on the shoulder. “Bear up, brother,” he encouraged. “The Valar have smiled on us. I am allowed a little song.”

3.  In the Glade

Accompanied by Gelmir, Eilian left his father’s hall and strolled along the river, inhaling the mixed perfume of river, grass, and wet earth.  A few other Elves too dallied on the river bank, their voices raised in intertwined song.  From one group, friends called to them.  The two had a destination in mind, however, and did not tarry.  In a clearing some distance away from the palace was a spot known to younger Elves simply as “the glade.” Here, the more daring among them gathered when they wished to engage in merrymaking of which their elders might not wholeheartedly approve.  By human standards, the revelry was tame, but in the conservative society of Mirkwood, it was feared as a corrupting influence. Elven parents tend to be tolerant of the foibles of their young, believing that the long passage of time and the experience it brings will correct youthful mistakes in judgments.  But they also believe that the nature of that experience matters in shaping the people their children will become.  The glade continued to exist only in uneasy forbearance.

In the period just before he had joined the southern patrol, Eilian had spent many evenings in the glade, finding in it a welcome escape from disputes with his father.  In defending the most dangerous parts of the woodland, however, he had found adventure enough to make activities in the glade seem dull. Thus he seldom went there any more.  Tonight, however, he was restless and longed to be out of the cave and in the cool spring air.  The hours he had slept in the afternoon had left him unable to settle now, and he sought distraction from the worries that seemed to hang ever more densely in the air of Mirkwood.

“I am surprised that you could get away from your new friend, Arramiel, Gelmir,” he teased.  “Are you sure that she would approve of this venture?”

Gelmir smiled sheepishly.  “Lady Galenadiual had need of her tonight.  She does seem to covet my company though.”  Eilian laughed. Galenadiual’s maid had sought out Gelmir on every possible occasion in the two days that they had been home.

The sound of music and voices reached them as they neared the glade.  Although Eilian had not been to the glade in nearly three years, the gathering in the clearing was much the same as it had been the last time he was there.  Lanterns hung in the trees, creating soft blue light that mimicked that of the moon.  In the center of the glade, an Elf whom Eilian recognized as one of his father’s foresters was playing a small harp as three others joined hands in a dance. In one corner, a group indulged in Elven love of wagering, betting on the outcome of the throw of a set of tiles and then apparently requiring one another to engage in tasks that they all seemed to find quite amusing. Near the eastern edge of the glade, an Elf named Carondo dispensed wine whose provenance might not bear too close a scrutiny. Eilian knew for a fact that he worked unloading cargo that was shipped into Thranduil’s hall along the river and suspected that the wine he sold in the glade might have been intended for the king’s household.

“It is good to see you again, my lords,” purred Carondo, as Eilian and Gelmir each dropped a coin into his outstretched palm.  “What brings you home?”

Eilian was suddenly alert.  Surely the question was an innocent one?  Yet, the wine dispenser was certainly in a position to gather information for the enemy if he so chose.  Warriors were among those who gathered in the glade, not to mention armorers, stable workers, supply officers, and a range of others.  Any of these might have news to share and tongues were often loose in the spot’s relaxed atmosphere.  Forcing an easy tone, he produced one of the stories that he, Ithilden, and Thranduil had created.  “In a day or two, I will be taking some warriors to scout west for a bit.  In the meantime, I am enjoying what pleasures I can.” Carondo nodded without much apparent interest.

Taking their wine, Eilian and Gelmir wandered to one side.  Eilian leaned against a tree to watch the dancers and turn the exchange with Carondo over in his mind.  He did not like the way that the situation they were in destroyed all trust and multiplied suspicions.

“You look so serious, my lord,” murmured a sweet voice at his elbow.  He turned to find himself looking down at Oroloon, a diminutive, dark Elf maid of whom he had fond memories from his last visit here.  “Much too serious,” she continued, “for an evening in the glade.”

“Perhaps you can help me, my lady,” he smiled at her.  “Can you suggest something to lighten my mood?”

“We shall have to see,” she smiled. She took his wine, handed it to Gelmir, and seized Eilian’s hand to draw him into the dance.  The two of them joined the three already in the center of the clearing and entered an intricate turning, weaving in and out, and joining and loosening of hands that was joyously spontaneous and yet formed a pattern.   The music wove itself into them, and they wove themselves and one another into the music.  Eilian laughed aloud with pleasure at the harmony that they and music created.

He felt a sense of loss as the music stopped, and Oroloon clasped his hand.  “It seems I can lighten your mood, my lord,” she crowed.  “That is much better.”  With joined hands, the two made their way back to where Gelmir stood.

In the center of the clearing, the minstrel began to sing a new song, this one made for listening rather than dancing.  Eilian suddenly snapped to attention as he realized that the song’s subject was Mirkwood’s king and his dalliance with a lady not his wife.  Evidently Thranduil’s friendship with Galenadiual had not been so discreetly handled as Eilian had thought.  Such irreverent songs were common in the glade and formed one of the chief reasons that older Elves objected to its continued existence.

The game in the corner erupted in sudden laughter as the tiles spilled out the hands of a cloaked figure sitting with his back to Eilian.  “Carondo,” shouted one, “bring another goblet of wine for our young friend here.”  With a flourish, Carondo produced a goblet, and the gamers cheered lustily as their “young friend” downed the wine in a single long gulp.  As the drinker tilted his head, his hood fell back.  Eilian blinked and stifled a groan.

“Eilian,” prompted Gelmir in a strangled tone.

“I see him,” Eilian sighed.  He turned to Oroloon.  “I am sorry, my lady, but we must find another time to see if you can further lighten my spirits.  I see someone that I need to speak to.” Gently brushing her finger tips to his lips in farewell, he strode purposefully toward the gaming table.

Gripping the arm of the cloaked figure in one hand, he spoke heartily: “There you are!  We really need to be going, or we will be late.” The startled face of Legolas turned to him as Eilian pulled his little brother from his chair. With his free hand, Eilian drew the hood back up over the tell-tale blond hair.  Legolas was not supposed to be out of the palace at night without permission, and Eilian very much doubted that Thranduil had given him permission to go to the glade!  All Legolas needed was for someone to recognize him and tell Thranduil where he had spent his evening when he was supposed to be in his chamber.

“The youngling owes a bit of money, my lord,” protested one of the other gamblers.

“I…” Legolas hesitated.

Eilian gritted his teeth.  “How much?” he asked and then, having tossed a handful of coins on the table, dragged his little brother off toward the path leading home.

At the path’s entrance, Gelmir met them. “Hello, brat,” he smiled.  “I can not say that it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Shut up, Gelmir,” said Legolas rudely. Gelmir laughed, while Eilian gave his brother a vexed shake.

“Do you want me to come?” asked Gelmir.

“No, you can stay.  One of us might as well enjoy himself,” Eilian responded, and plunged into the night with Legolas still in tow.

They walked in silence for a few hundred feet, Eilian waiting until they were beyond the keen ears of the Elves in the glade before he exploded. “For the Valar’s sake, Legolas! What did you think you were doing?”

Legolas jerked his arm out of his brother’s grasp.  “Why should I not go there? You do,” he said defiantly. “And anyway, what I thought I was doing is none of your business.  You are not Adar.”

For the first time, Eilian felt some sympathy for his father’s side of their own testy relationship. “Would you rather I took this to Adar, then?”

Legolas flinched.  “You are right,” he said, rather more meekly.  “I am sorry about the money.  I did not understand quite how the game went.  I will repay you.”

“Indeed you will.”

They walked on in silence for a moment. At least Legolas was not drunk, Eilian thought, noting his steady bearing.  Then, in a low tone that Eilian had to strain to hear, Legolas asked, “Did you hear what the minstrel was singing?”

Eilian really did not want to discuss Thranduil’s private life with his little brother. “It does not do to pay too much attention to gossip, Legolas.”

His brother rounded on him.  “But it is not gossip!  Have you not seen them together?  Has he forgotten Naneth?  How can he do this?”

Eilian sighed.  Apparently they were going to discuss the matter whether he wanted to or not.  He fumbled for the words.  “Adar has not forgotten her, Legolas. It is Naneth that he is bonded to. It is she he will look for in the Undying Lands, Mandos willing. And at any rate, it is not our place to judge Adar.”

“He does not act like he is still bonded to Naneth.  He acts like she never existed.” Legolas seemed genuinely angry.

Eilian hesitated. “Actually, I think his attraction to Galenadiual is a sign that he thinks of Naneth.  Have you not noticed how much Galenadiual resembles her?”

Legolas looked startled. “Does she?”  He seemed to be searching his memory. Then, in a wistful tone, he said, “I am not sure I remember clearly what Naneth looked like.  I remember her voice, I think, and I can picture her smiling at me, but it is rather vague, and perhaps I am imagining it.  I have the impression that she was much more beautiful than Galenadiual is.”

Eilian tried to hide the degree to which he was dismayed by Legolas’s sad admission.  It seemed impossible to him that Legolas had forgotten their mother. He remembered so vividly how grief over her death had overwhelmed the ten-year-old elfling that Legolas had been.

Lorellin had been spending time with part of her large extended family an easy two-day ride west of the palace.  Originally, Legolas was to have gone with her on the trip, but on the morning of her departure, the elfling had thrown a temper tantrum over something now long forgotten.  As a consequence, he had not been allowed to go with his mother, a circumstance that proved more fortunate than any of them could have predicted. On the day of Lorellin’s death, she had been awaiting the escort that Thranduil had promised to send to fetch her home and had decided to ride out to meet them accompanied only by the two Mirkwood warriors who had remained with her throughout the visit.  They had been set upon by Orcs against whose numbers they could not hope to defend themselves.  They had all been dead by the time Thranduil’s escort reached them.  Thranduil and his sons had all been devastated, none more so than Legolas.  For a while, they had feared he would not survive her loss.

4.  Parents and Sons

30 years previous

The entire southern patrol had ridden pell-mell into the clearing in front of Thranduil’s fortress, their horses showing the strain of a long, hard ride. Eilian slid from his mount and raced across the bridge and up the steps with Maltanaur close behind.  Eilian’s eyes were darkly circled and wild with grief.  Maltanaur seemed to be concerned as much about Eilian as about the death of Queen Lorellin at the hands of Orcs. When Eilian had joined the southern patrol, Thranduil had made it clear that his training and his safety were Maltanaur’s responsibility.  Eililan was his responsibility still, whereas the death of the queen had occurred four days ago and was beyond his power to mend, although not, he grimly vowed, beyond his power to avenge.

At the door stood one of Thranduil’s advisers, braced for this encounter with Lorellin’s second son.  Before Eilian could speak, he gave his news.  “Lords Thranduil and Ithilden left yesterday with every warrior who could be spared.  The king bids you and your companions to follow at all speed.”

“Yesterday,” Eilian repeated, knowing what would have had to occur before Thranduil could leave.

“Yes, my lord,” said the adviser. He looked at Eilian steadily. “They left immediately after the funeral.”  Eilian flinched.  He had been absent when his mother was attacked and had not even been there when her fëa was commended to Mandos’s care and her body reduced to ashes. He pushed the idea from his mind.  Now was not the time for self-indulgent grief; now was the time to make sure his mother’s murderers paid for their actions.

He turned to Maltanaur. “How long before we can be ready to go?”

“It will depend on what horses we can muster.  I will see to it at once and come to you.”  He turned and went back to the other members of the patrol, shouting orders as he went.

Eilian made his way toward the family quarters, intent on choking down what food he could before they were underway again.  He hadn’t been hungry since Thranduil’s message had come, but he was an experienced enough campaigner by now to know that starving himself would do neither him nor those who relied on him any good.

Before him now, however, stood Nimloth, Legolas’s caretaker and caretaker to Eilian and Ithilden before him.  “I need you to come and speak to Legolas, Eilian,” she announced.

“I must get ready to be underway again as soon as we can,” he protested, trying to step by her.  “I have no time for Legolas right now.”

“You must come. I can not manage him.”

At this frightening admission, Eilian paused. Nimloth was one of the most capable people he knew, and he had never seen her at a loss. Reluctantly, he followed her into Legolas’s chamber. Despite Nimloth’s best efforts, the room was ordinarily littered with toys and the sticks, stones, and other debris that Legolas managed to drag in from the outside.  Today it was tidy, looking almost as if its small occupant were not there.  And indeed, in a way, he was not.  Legolas lay curled up motionless on his bed, clutching a ragged blanket that Eilian thought he had put aside a year and more ago.

“Look who is here, lovey,” crooned Nimloth.  “It is Eilian.”  For a moment, Legolas did not react. Then he lifted his head and focused his dull gaze on his brother. Recognition suddenly lit up his small face and, gathering himself into a crouch, he leapt with a cry into Eilian’s arms.

The elfling’s weight was negligible, but Eilian was unprepared for his jump and staggered a bit.  Then he settled into the rocking chair near the hearth, cradling his little brother in his lap.  With his face buried in Eilian’s chest, Legolas began to pour out his grief in almost hysterical phrases that Eilian could barely understand through the sobs.

“She is dead, Eilian.  Nana is dead.  And Ada burned her.  He would not let me see her, and then he burned her. How can she come back if she is all burned up?”

Eilian hesitated. Death was not natural to Elves as it was to Men.  How could he explain death to this grieving elfling when he didn’t understand it himself?  “That was just her body that Ada burned, little one. Nana’s fëa wasn’t there any more. She is gone to the Halls of Mandos.”

Legolas did not appear to have heard him but rushed on in horrified confession. “I was naughty, and I was angry because she would not take me with her, and I said that I wished she would get eaten by an Orc.  And it happened!”

Eilian was appalled.  “No, no, little one. Your being naughty had nothing to do with this.  You could not have wished the Orcs away, and you did not wish them on her.”  Legolas looked up at him, his face wet with tears, slime running from his nose.  Eilian swiped at his face with the blanket.

“Ada and Ithilden left. They went to hunt the Orcs that killed Nana. But what if the Orcs kill them too?  You will not go, will you? Stay here with me, Eilian! Do not go.” Nimloth and Eilian looked at one another over Legolas’s head.  They both knew that staying was not an option.

Forgetting his own grief for a moment, Eilian clutched the elfling to him, rocked him, and murmured what reassurances he could.  As Legolas’s muffled words finally faded into shuddering sighs, Nimloth put a chunk of bread into Eilian’s hand.  “See if you can get him to eat,” she urged.  Eilian broke off bits of the bread and, coaxing Legolas into opening his mouth, fed him like a baby bird.  With one hand clutching his blanket and the other wrapped around one of Eilian’s braids, Legolas slipped into silence and then into a light sleep, his eyelids half lowered over glazed blue eyes.  Eilian detached his little brother’s hand from his braid, laid him on the bed, and stood looking down at him.

“He will not sleep long,” said Nimloth.  “Nightmares will wake him. And that is the first he has eaten.” She looked at Eilian. “I am worried,” she said, and Eilian knew the danger she saw.

Eilian studied the sleeping Legolas and offered a silent prayer asking for forgiveness for what Legolas was bound to see as another abandonment. Within two hours, he and his companions had set off to follow their king.

Ten days later, Thranduil and his two oldest sons rode back into the courtyard at the head of an exhausted but grimly triumphant group of warriors. Their swords and clothes were stained with the black blood of many Orcs. As they dismounted and then began to scatter, Nimloth appeared at the top of the steps holding Legolas by the hand. Eilian had not spoken to Thranduil about Legolas’s distress, for Thranduil had been deep in his own grief and savage need for vengeance, and, in any case, he would not have been able to do anything about Legolas so long as they were from home.  But Thranduil had seemed to sense the elfling’s trouble without being told.  Weary and filthy as he was, he had climbed swiftly up the stairs, swept his youngest son into his arms, and disappeared with him into his own chamber.

In the silent Great Hall that night and for many nights after, Legolas had sat on his father’s lap clutching his disreputable blanket.  It had been months before he had moved first to sitting next to Thranduil and leaning against him, and then to playing quietly on the floor near him, occasionally patting one of Thranduil’s elegantly shod feet. His family had breathed sighs of relief the first time that his friends, Turgon and Annael, had lured him off to visit a litter of puppies. Life would never be the same, but it would go on.

***

Eilian and Legolas had walked along in silence for some time, each wrapped in his own thoughts.  They were now approaching the doors of their father’s hall. “How do you get in and out without being noticed?” Eilian asked curiously.

Legolas’s shot his older brother an impudent grin.  “I walk in and out the doors, of course.”

“But then surely Adar knows of your wanderings,” Eilian protested.  “The guards keep track of anyone entering the king’s hall.”

“The guards keep track of outsiders entering the king’s hall,” Legolas corrected. “I live here. And besides, I am just a youngling.  They scarcely notice me.  I will bet that they never record your comings and goings either.”

“If you are wise, brat, you will not be betting on anything again for a while.”

Legolas flushed but led the way through Thranduil’s doors.  Just as he had predicted, the guards saluted Eilian and seemed not to see Legolas at all.

Eilian marveled and then had a disturbing thought.  If familiar figures could slip in and out of the palace so easily, a spy would do well to become a member of the household.  He resolved to speak to Thranduil about the guards’ habits as soon as he could.  He only hoped he could do so without betraying Legolas.  His younger brother had enough problems right now.

They entered the corridor along which the private rooms of the royal family were ranged.  “I think perhaps that I will accompany you to your chamber, little brother.  I am not entirely sure that I trust you to get there on your own.”

He opened the door to Legolas’s chamber with a flourish and then followed him in, running into him as he stopped just inside the doorway.  “Do you have to stop right in the way?” he asked irritably, and then froze.  Seated near the fire, his elbows propped on the arms of the chair and his fingers steepled together in front of his unsmiling face, was Thranduil.

He contemplated them in silence for a moment until they both shifted uncomfortably. “Where have you been?” he finally asked.

“In the glade,” Legolas answered, sounding rather as if he were having trouble drawing a deep breath.  There was no question of lying to their father, not unless they wanted to make things very much worse than they already were.

Thranduil immediately turned flashing eyes on Eilian. “You took him to the glade?” he asked in outrage.

Before Eilian could deny the charge, Legolas jumped into the fray. “Eilian had nothing to do with it.  I went on my own. He found me there and brought me home.”  Thranduil regarded him steadily for a moment, and then turned to Eilian.

“I would have thought that you had outgrown the glade by now, Eilian.  Your friends may have time to tarry in childish pursuits, but you do not.  You have responsibilities for Mirkwood that require your attention now, not years from now.  Moreover, without your example, Legolas might not have gone to that place.”  Legolas moved as if to protest, but Thranduil silenced him with a look.  Eilian felt heat flood his face, but he said nothing. He feared that his father’s accusation was only too true.  “You may go,” Thranduil finally said.  And giving Legolas a last sympathetic glance, Eilian left the room.

5.  Using Weapons

Two days later, Eilian leaned idly against a tree chatting with Ithilden and watching Legolas training with a pair of long knives.  The training fields were busy this morning. Off to Eilian’s right, Penntalion, the archery master, was leading a class that was shooting at moving targets being loosed by an archer behind a shield at the far end of the fields.  On his left, younger elves were working in pairs under the watchful eye of a sword master.  Directly in front of him, a weapons master was pushing Legolas as hard as he could in his use of the long knives.

Thranduil had given Legolas a set of knives on his last begetting day. Like most Elven objects, those knives were things of beauty with white bone handles and blades that were etched with curving tree shapes.  These sharp instruments were deemed too dangerous for the kind of training that was now taking place, however, and Legolas was using a set of blunted practice blades while the weapons master came at him with a training sword.  Additionally, both of them were wearing light leather armor and helmets with face and neck guards. Life in Mirkwood was dangerous enough without courting careless injury during weapons training.

As Eilian watched, the trainer charged Legolas, swinging his sword in from the right. Legolas came in close underneath the sword with the knives crossed before him, their curved edges skimming along the leather at the trainer’s throat as Legolas drew his arms outward. The trainer was shoved backward, and Legolas whirled completely around, brought the knives up over his head, and used the momentum from his spin to drive them downward into the sides of his opponent’s neck.

“You were right,” Eilian marveled to Ithilden.  “He is really remarkably good, especially given the short time that he has been working with them.”

Ithilden nodded absently, although he was actually watching the sword training to their left with the appraising eye of one who was responsible for Mirkwood’s preparedness for battle.  Evidently satisfied by Legolas’s actions, the weapons master declared a short rest at the same time that the archery class to their right also broke for a brief respite.  Legolas’s friend Annael, who had been in the archery class, trotted over to talk to him.  Legolas listened to his first few words, then glanced over at Eilian and Ithilden, grasped Annael’s arm, and turned him away so that both of their backs were to his older brothers.

Eilan groaned.  “I hope that that does not mean what I think it does,” he complained to Ithilden, who now looked at the whispering pair.  “Legolas needs to walk a straight and narrow path for a while until Adar cools down.  He is lucky he is only confined to his chamber for a week and gets let out for lessons.”

Ithilden shook his head.  “I would not bet on good sense winning the day there.”

“He is so serious on the training field,” Eilian lamented. “You would never believe that he could act like such an idiot off it.”

Ithilden turned and grinned at him. “It is the age,” he offered. “You were much the same when you were forty.”

“And you? What were you like at forty?”

“Since you were not there to observe, I will tell you that I was a paragon of wise behavior.”

Eilian laughed.  He could not deny the justice of Ithilden’s claim about his own youthful folly. He had passed the years just before he came of age growing increasingly restless in the protective walls of his father’s fortress.  He had spent hours daily training for battle but restricted from ever putting the training to use.  The resulting disjuncture had left him endlessly wishing to engage in actions that were forbidden to him.  It was a sure recipe for trouble, and he could see its effect in Legolas now. But in Legolas, there also seemed to be something else at work, some need to be perfect in a battle that he was always awaiting.  Eilian secretly believed that in some inexplicable way, Legolas was making up for failing to protect his mother from the Orcs who killed her.  It made no sense, but that did not mean it was not true.

Turning from watching Legolas, he found Ithilden staring at a spot behind Eilian’s left shoulder.  He glanced back to see Alfirin, the healer’s daughter, talking to her brother who had been in the archery class and to the archery master, who was listening to her with every sign of rapt attention.  Eilian tried to remember what he knew about the girl and recalled that she was a weaver of some skill.  Her work was highly valued and hung on the walls of many Mirkwood homes, including that of the king. “Are you courting her, Ithilden?” he asked, frankly curious.

Ithilden snapped out of his reverie.  “Of course not,” he huffed.

“Why not? She is of good family and seems sensible. Adar would probably rejoice if you exchanged silver rings with her.”

“Look at her,” Ithilden said exasperatedly.  “She is plainly interested in Penntalion.” That the supremely self-confident Ithilden doubted his power to attract the maiden spoke volumes about the seriousness of his feelings.

Eilian looked at the maiden again. “I do not know,” he said, encouragingly.  “Perhaps she is just being polite. And at any rate, you surely are not going to allow yourself to be bested by Penntalion.”

Ithilden waved his hand in dismissal of the topic. At that moment, one of their father’s messengers approached them in breathless haste. “My lords, the king wishes to see you both immediately in his study.” The brothers glanced at one another. Ithilden shrugged and then they began to walk briskly toward the palace where Thranduil waited for them in evident impatience. He scarcely waited for Eilian to close the door before he began.

“One of the scouts that we sent west returned this morning,” he told them.  “A large party of Orcs is concealed there, waiting in ambush.”  He smiled savagely.  “I sent warriors to deal with them, but their appearance is welcome as I never thought that the appearance of Orcs would be. One of our stories has produced results.”  He turned to Eilian. “That story is one you were charged with, Eilian. To whom did you tell it?”

“To Carondo, who dispenses wine in the glade. He works unloading the barges on the river.”

Ithilden moved immediately to the door and Eilian could hear him giving orders that the Elf should be arrested and brought to the king. They waited. Carondo could be heard protesting loudly well before the guards flung the door open and dragged him into the room. They forced him to his knees before Thranduil, although Eilian did not believe much force was necessary. Carondo’s knees seemed to be refusing to hold him upright. Eilian did not blame him for being afraid. The sight of Thranduil Oropherion at his most wrathful was a terrifying one.

“I will ask you a question once, worm, and it would be best for you to answer it truthfully.  If you do, I may allow you an easy death.”

Carondo’s terror was transparent. “My lord, if you are merciful to me, I swear to you that I will not do it again.”

Thranduil stalked to where the trembling Carondo knelt.  He pulled a jeweled dagger from a sheath on his belt, placed the dagger’s tip under Carondo’s chin, and raised it so that the Elf was forced to look into his hard gray eyes.  Almost casually, Thranduil asked his question: “To whom did you pass the information?”

Carondo seemed frozen, locked in Thranduil’s gaze. Deliberately, Thranduil prodded him under the chin with the dagger. A drop of blood trickled down Carondo’s outstretched throat and disappeared into the top of his tunic.  Carondo squealed faintly.

“Information?”  he asked.

Thranduil’s voice was tight with fury at this defiance. “Yes.  Two nights ago, Lord Eilian told you that he and his men would be scouting to the west. To whom did you pass this information?” 

“I passed it to no one,” Carondo croaked. “I forgot it the moment after he told me and did not recall it until just now when you spoke of it.”

“Do you take me for a fool?  If you did not pass the information to the enemy, then what is it that you are swearing that you will never do again?” Thranduil snapped.

“The wine,” squeaked Carondo.  “I took the wine.  I swear to you that it was unfit for your table.  I never would have taken it else.”

Thranduil stared at him.  “So you are the cause of the disappearing wine barrels.  I very much doubt the truth of what you say about the wine, but at the moment, it is not my concern.” To an uneasy Eilian, Carondo now looked puzzled. In a flash of unwelcome intuition, he believed that the wretched fool knew nothing of the spy they sought. Before he could consider, he had stepped forward and laid his hand on Thranduil’s wrist.

“We should speak of this, my lord,” he said evenly.

Thranduil caught Eilian in his fierce gaze. For a moment, they stood locked in silent disagreement. Then, to Eilian’s relief and somewhat to his surprise, Thranduil removed his dagger from Carondo’s chin.  “Lock him in the dungeon,” he instructed the guards, and they dragged Carondo away, almost unconscious in his relief.

With an oath, Thranduil flung his dagger onto the desk and turned again to Eilian. “Well?” he demanded.

Eilian took a deep breath. “I believe him when he says that he never thought about what I told him,” he said simply.

“On what basis?” Thranduil frowned.

Eilian shrugged helplessly. “His speech felt truthful to me.” Thranduil scanned his face with narrowed eyes and then turned abruptly away.

“I cannot risk Mirkwood’s safety on the basis of feelings, Eilian.”  He paused and then grudgingly said, “We will hold him in the dungeon for a day or two and see what results.  People will believe that we have arrested him for stealing wine.  If he is innocent,” continued Thranduil, “then the ambushes will continue. If he is guilty, then they will cease.  And,” he added grimly, “if that happens, I will know how to deal with him.”

He waved his hand in dismissal and the two brothers left promptly.  Neither had any desire to stay with their father in his present savage mood.  “It is fortunate that you were here, Eilian,” said Ithilden, as they exited the palace.  “Adar listens to you as he does not to me when judgments of people are involved.”

Eilian looked at him astonished.  Before he could respond, Ithilden had departed to the practice fields to finish supervising the day’s training. Eilian found himself at loose ends and decided to seek out Gelmir, whom he had not seen since they parted in the glade.  He paused to consider how best to locate him.  Ordinarily, he would have expected him to be at the practice fields, but he was not there today or at least had not been there earlier when Eilian had been watching Legolas. After a moment’s thought, he grinned and then set off down a path that threaded its way through the near part of the woods to end in a meadow where the wild flowers were unusually plentiful throughout the warm months.  As he approached the meadow, he deliberately made his step heavier so that any Elf in the area would hear him approaching.  When they were younger, both he and Gelmir had brought maidens here to while away some pleasant afternoons in flirting and soft kisses.  It was this shared past that had led him to suspect that Gelmir might be here now, and he did not wish to surprise his friend and any companion too thoroughly.

When he emerged from the trees, he found Gelmir sitting innocently next to Arramiel, Galenadiual’s maid servant.  “Good afternoon,” he greeted them. He had seen Arramiel in the palace in the last few days, but this was the first time he had spoken to her.  She was young and outstandingly pretty, with curly brown hair and a saucy smile.

They returned his greeting pleasantly enough, but Arramiel rose and brushed bits of grass off the back of her skirt. “I fear I must leave you,” she said politely.  “I’ve been away from the palace for long enough and my mistress will be looking for me.” She looked at Gelmir. “And I will see you later, unless Lord Eilian has come to take you away?”  She shifted her glance questioningly to Eilian.

Eilian shook his head. “We will be here at ease for a while yet.” Arramiel curtsied to him and then slipped back off along the path by which Eilian had come.

“I am sorry if I interrupted anything interesting,” Eilian told Gelmir.

“That is quite all right,” Gelmir returned. “Actually, I find her a little frightening.  She is so forward that my mother has taken against her completely, even though my mother has been after me for years to bond and produce grandchildren.”

Eilian laughed. “Come ride with me,” he invited. “Our horses could use the exercise, and I need to be doing something away from my father’s hall.”

“Problems?” Gelmir asked sympathetically. Eilian knew that his friend was deeply grateful to be the son of Thranduil’s warriors and not the king himself.

Eilian clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing serious. It is just that I am always sobered when I remember how fierce my father can be.”

“Me too,” said Gelmir fervently, and they were off to the stables.

The next afternoon, a group of foresters who were checking for the spread of spiders through the trees in a nearby grove were set upon by wargs who surprised them entirely.  One of the foresters was killed and two others were seriously injured before they managed to drive the beasts away long enough to retreat to safer territory.  Ithilden was beside himself with fury that the wargs had gotten past his guards to approach so near to the palace.

Eilian was appalled by the loss but grateful that his intuition about Carondo seemed to be holding true.  “Who knew about the foresters’ plans?” he asked.

“No one,” Ithilden was adamant. “Adar and I discussed it early yesterday, and I carried the orders to them myself before I went to the training fields.”

Eilian was looking at the papers on Thranduil’s desk. An unpleasant prickle was stirring in his brain. “Adar,” he asked, “when you write those orders, do you keep a copy?”

Thranduil pointed to the papers. “I keep a record. I send too many dispatches to keep track of everything otherwise.”

“And the arrangement of the guards, Ithilden,” Eilian prodded, “is that written down?”

“You know it is,” said Ithilden irritably.  “You have heard me complain about the paperwork often enough.”

Thranduil was looking at Eilian with comprehension dawning on his face. “You suspect that someone has been in here, looking through the papers on my desk.” The three of them stared at one another.

“That would explain much,” said Ithilden doubtfully, “but it would mean that we are being betrayed by someone in the household.  No one else could get into the king’s study.”

“There are guards,” Eilian pointed out, “and servants.”

“I do not see how it could be done,” said Ithilden, shaking his head. “Whoever it is would have to leave the palace to pass the information on.  When we first thought of the possibility of a spy, I checked the guards’ records to see if anyone was regularly out of the palace when the information was probably sent, and I could see no one.”

Eilian thought of what Legolas had told him. “Legolas says that the guards only record the comings and goings of outsiders.  He said that was how he could go in and out at night without your knowing, Adar.  When you were waiting in his room the other night, I thought that meant he was wrong,” he added apologetically. He should have said something.

“He is wrong,” Ithilden insisted.  “The guards record the movements of everyone who lives in the palace except those of us in the family wing.  Naneth stopped them doing that because she felt that it invaded our privacy.”

In their efforts to find the traitor among them, the three seemed to have reached a dead end. Eilian could only hope that the impasse was temporary.  He remembered the words of the song that had been sung the night of his homecoming: “Those I love are choking in the darkness.”  He shuddered.

6. Betrayal

That evening, Gelmir wanted Eilian to come with him to join in the dancing that would take place in the woods in honor of the spring, but Eilian was not in the mood for such light-hearted play.  “Take Arramiel,” he said.  “I am sure that she would be more than happy to have you ask her.”

“She is busy with Lady Galenadiual,” Gelmir answered. “Besides, I told you.  She scares me.”

Eilian laughed and sent his friend on his way alone.  He decided he would get a book from the library and take it into the Great Hall to read near the fire.  There would be no one in the Hall tonight; everyone would be at the dancing.  Mirkwood’s library was not nearly so large as the fabled one he had heard of at Rivendell, but it was adequate for his needs.  He found a volume of tales of the First Age and carried it into the Great Hall. The room was darker than usual, for its lamps had not been lit and the only illumination came from the fire in the hearth.  So it took him a moment to realize that the room was occupied.  On a couch near the hearth sat Thranduil and Galenadiual, their heads bent close together.  As Eilian watched, Thranduil ran a finger tip delicately along the edge of Galenadiual’s left ear.  Embarrassed to have witnessed so intimate a caress, Eilian hastily withdrew, fervently hoping that neither his father nor Galenadiual had heard him.

He paused for a moment in the hallway, recalling how he had told Legolas that it was not their place to judge their father.  Confronted by evidence that Thranduil’s relationship with Galenadiual was more intimate than he had hoped, Eilian found that while one part of his mind believed his own advice, another part was evidently unrestrained by it. He was both shocked and angry.  He pulled his feelings firmly under control and reminded himself that whatever was happening was beyond his direction. Then he took the only course that seemed left to him and retired to his chamber with his book.

An hour later, he contemplated closing the book and retiring for the night. He was so preoccupied with Mirkwood’s problems and with his thoughts about his father that he had almost no idea of what had occurred in the pages his eyes had passed over and had not turned a page in fifteen minutes.  Trying to sleep seemed equally futile, however.  He was roused from his reverie by a commotion in the hall. Alarmed, he jerked open the door to his chamber, only to hear the voices of Legolas and a guard coming through the open door of his father’s suite. He hastened through the door into Thranduil’s private sitting room to find a rather wild-eyed Legolas struggling with a guard and protesting his need to talk to his father.  The guard looked at Eilian in desperate appeal. “Lord Eilian,” he pleaded, “the king is not alone.”

Before Eilian could act, Thranduil’s voice silenced them all. “What is the meaning of this commotion?”

Tying the sash of a night robe, Thranduil stepped into his sitting room and closed the door to his bed chamber behind him. Evidently deciding that they did not need a witness to what would undoubtedly be an unpleasant family scene, Thranduil signaled the guard to release Legolas and then to leave them.  Then Thranduil turned to his youngest son and resignedly waited to hear whatever he had to say.

“Adar, I was standing in the shadows on the other side of the bridge-“

“You were where?”  Thranduil’s voice was ominously low.  Eilian flinched. So far as Eilian knew, Legolas was not only not supposed to be out of the palace at night without permission, but was actually still confined to his chamber except when he was at various lessons.  Elves seldom strike their young, but Legolas had been more than usually troublesome of late and tonight his timing had evidently been most unfortunate.   Thranduil looked as if he were experiencing a strong urge to take a quiver strap to his youngest son’s backside.

Legolas swallowed at his father’s tone and grim expression. “I was waiting for Annael. We were going to watch the spring dancing.  Adar, you can punish me for that, but please, listen to what I have to tell you!”

Thranduil’s face turned red as he struggled with his temper.  Evidently taking the silence as a signal to continue, Legolas plunged into his story.  He had been waiting for Annael near the bridge when he had seen Arramiel come from the palace, and go into the woods, taking a path that ran in the opposite direction from where the dancing was.  He had thought that she might be lost, and if she were not, he found her excursion strange enough that he had followed her.  She had led him to a small clearing and stood with her hands raised, chanting some sort of incantation in a language that Legolas did not recognize. According to Legolas, the very trees had shuddered at her words and a large, black bird had appeared. Arramiel had offered a tube-like container that the bird took in its claws and flew away with.  Arramiel had then returned the way that she had come.

“Are you sure that she entered the palace?” Thranduil asked urgently.  Legolas nodded. Thranduil moved to the door and summoned a guard.  “Look in Lady Galenadiual’s quarters and see if her maidservant is there.  If she is, arrest her.”

As soon as Legolas had begun his tale, Eilian knew they had their spy.  As Galenadiual’s maid, Arramiel lived in the family quarters.  She could choose her time and slip into Thranduil’s study to read dispatches. She could come and go from the palace without her movements being noted.  And, Eilian thought, she had been aggressively friendly with Gelmir who had been standing next to Eilian when he fed the false story to Carondo. Gelmir had no idea that there might be a spy in Thranduil’s halls and would have seen no reason to refrain from talking about a possible scouting trip to the west. The only question, he thought, was whether she had spied alone.

A soft voice spoke from behind him.  “How can this be possible?”  In the door to Thranduil’s bedchamber stood Galenadiual. She was fully dressed, although the lacings on her green gown had obviously been done up in some haste. Legolas glared at her.

“What have you to do with this, madam?” he spat at her.

Thranduil turned to regard her thoughtfully. Was it possible that Galenadiual was a traitor?  Had she been charged with distracting him while Arramiel passed information to the enemy? She looked back at him steadily.

“Given that Arramiel is my servant, I know that you have no reason to trust me, but I swear to you that I was not involved in this.  Indeed, when I consider, the Orc attacks that eventually killed my husband and destroyed my home began in earnest after Arramiel entered my service.”

At that moment, the guard returned to report that Arramiel had not been found. Thranduil had not defended Mirkwood for centuries by being overly trustful.  “Escort Lady Galenadiual to her chamber, and stay with her there,” he instructed.  “If Arramiel should appear, detain her.  Let no harm come to Lady Galenadiual, but do not let her out of your sight either.”  The guard plainly comprehended the line he was being asked to tread and turned toward Galenadiual.

“Eilian,” Thranduil ordered, “fetch Ithilden.  Tell him to close the gates and then set his guards to search for Arramiel. I want her found.”

Legolas jumped eagerly forward. “I will go with you, Eilian.”

“No,” Thranduil caught at Legolas’s sleeve as he hastened past.  He hesitated.  He obviously had no intention of allowing Legolas to search for this dangerous woman, but what was he to do with him?  Confining him to his chamber would leave him alone and possibly vulnerable and had proven spectacularly ineffective in any case.  “You go with the guard and help keep an eye on Lady Galenadiual,” he said finally.  Eilian, who was on his way out the door to alert Ithilden, had a moment’s admiring thought: Thranduil was a master tactician in his struggle with his youngest son. 

All flew to do the king’s bidding as he went to dress. The next hour was filled with frantic activity as, under Ithilden’s command, they searched every inch of the palace, to no avail. Ithilden finally sent Eilian to tell Thranduil of their lack of success and see if he wanted the search extended beyond the gates.

Eilian was hurrying along the hallway of the family quarters when he heard something that sounded like a choked scream. He turned searchingly and then decided that the sound had come from the side corridor along which lay the guest chambers currently occupied by Galenadiual. Cautiously, he approached the door, which was ajar.  He peered through the opening to see a scene that froze his blood. Arramiel had somehow made her way to the room.  Perhaps she had been hiding somewhere in the family quarters all along.  Now she stood behind Galenadiual with one hand gripping her hair and pulling her head back. The other hand held a bloody knife pointed at her mistress’s neck.  The guard lay in a wounded heap while Legolas was watching Arramiel with a look of utter concentration.

“Elfling,” the maidservant commanded him, “get the guard’s belt and give it to this whore.”  She pulled harder on Galenadiual’s hair, and the woman gave a little cry.  “She will use it to bind your hands.”  She smiled wickedly.  “You and I are going on a little trip, and we do not want to be at odds while we do so.”  Chillingly, she said nothing of her plans for Galenadiual.

What happened next took place both in slow motion and too quickly to be consciously seen. Arramiel stretched out one foot to kick the guard’s sword away so that it would be sure to be out of Legolas’s reach when he fetched the guard’s belt.  As she was off balance, Legolas leapt, pushing Galenadiual to one side and drawing a dagger from his boot. Caught by surprise, Arramiel spun toward him, flicking the knife in a smooth arc that just caught Legolas across the chest, slicing his tunic and drawing a thin line of blood drops.  Legolas drew his right elbow back behind his waist and then drove the dagger up under her ribs.  With a look of astonishment, Arramiel uttered a single wordless cry and then crumpled slowly to the ground at his feet.

Released from the paralysis that had gripped him, Eilian ran into the room, grabbing Legolas’s shoulder with one hand and running the other frantically over his chest. “Are you all right?” he cried.  Legolas nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Eilian probed his chest. Legolas winced but the wound seemed to be a scratch only.  Galenadiual was bent over the guard who at least was still alive, which was more than Eilian could say for Arramiel, whom he now turned face up on the floor.

Legolas stared at his bloody hand and then at the dead thing that lay before him, at the person who no longer existed because he had driven home a dagger. It was the first time he had killed a creature he did not intend to use as food, the first time he had taken a life without offering a prayer that the creature he hunted would forgive him. And it was an Elven woman.  His body rebelled at the knowledge.  He stumbled to the washstand and vomited helplessly. Galenadiual moved to his side, caught back his hair, and murmured words too soft for even Eilian to hear.

Eilian stayed for one more frozen moment staring in shock at the dead Arramiel. It was so rare for an Elf to kill another Elf!  He swallowed the distress he felt that it should be Legolas who had done so.  Then he forced himself to his feet and, gaining the door, he shouted down the hall for help.  He knew that Thranduil was in his office and that there would be Elves with him.  He was crouching near the wounded guard when Thranduil and four more guards scrambled through the doorway, swords drawn.  His father took in the situation at a glance.  “Get him to the infirmary,” he ordered, gesturing toward the wounded Elf, and, sheathing their swords, two of the guards leapt to obey.  “Then tell Lord Ithilden what has happened and send him to me.”

Thranduil now crossed the room and placed one arm around Legolas’s still heaving shoulders, standing between him and Galenadiual, whom he pushed aside not altogether gently.  The other two guards stood behind her, not touching her but close enough to seize her easily should it become necessary.  With his other hand, Thranduil probed the wound on Legolas’s chest as best he could under the circumstances. “What happened?” he demanded of Eilian.

“I am not completely sure,” Eilian answered.  “When I got here, Arramiel had evidently stabbed the guard and had a knife pointed at Lady Galenadiual.”  He paused, and his father looked at him, hearing the anguish in his voice.  “Legolas caught her off guard,” he said.

Thranduil looked at the young woman’s body, and saw the hilt of the dagger, engraved all about with twining leaf designs. He knew to whom the dagger belonged.  His arm tightened around his youngest son’s shoulders, and he briefly closed his eyes.  Legolas had at last stopped vomiting, and Thranduil turned him into his embrace.  “You did well,” he said steadily.  Legolas stood with his face buried in his father’s chest, and Eilian could see that he was trembling slightly. “It was fortunate that you were here,” Thranduil continued, stroking the blond head gently. “You have saved us all from much danger and anguish.”

Ithilden appeared in the doorway, breathless in his haste.  Thranduil pulled away from Legolas slightly and spoke to Ithilden.  “Take Legolas to the infirmary and see they treat the cut on his chest and whatever other hurts he might have.”  He looked at Ithilden meaningfully.  “Stay with him.  Do not leave him until I come.”

Ithilden had commanded troops for many years and knew a young warrior in shock when he saw one.  He grasped his little brother’s arm and led him away, speaking calmly and cheerfully.  Eilian started after them, but Thranduil stopped him. “I need you here, Eilian,” he said firmly.

Thranduil now turned to look at Galenadiual, who was white faced but held his eye steadily enough. Thranduil evidently reached some sort of decision and spoke to the remaining guards, “Take the body away.”  One of them removed the dagger, wiped it on the skirt of Arramiel’s gown, and handed it to Thranduil, who grimaced, hesitated, and then placed it in his pocket.  When they had left with their burden, he looked at Galenadiual again.  “Tell me what you know of Arramiel,” he commanded. “I need to know if there are others with whom she was in league.”

“I know very little,” her voice was ragged.  “She walked into the courtyard of our manor about two months before the Orc attack that destroyed it.  She beseeched our aid, for she said that her own home had been burned and her family lost.  I had never seen her before, but you know that there are many such poor souls wandering now.” 

Eilian fought the impulse to go this woman and lend her his arm for support.  She was increasingly distraught, but Thranduil did not seem to notice.

“She sometimes complained that you had not done enough for those of us in the south, my lord,” Galenadiual went on, hesitantly.  “My husband wanted to dismiss her.  He said that she was unwise in her choice of friends and enemies, that she was like the Elves of old who believed the lies and promises of the evil one.  But I felt sorry for her, and I would not let him send her away.”  Her voice rose now almost to a wail.  “Think you that my credulity led to his death?”  She began to sob.

Eilian could bear it no longer.  Could his father not see that this woman was near the end of her strength?  He moved quickly to her side and guided her to a chair, determined that she should sit even if his father had not given leave.  “You could not have known what she was,” he murmured.  “You acted from kindness.  No one could doubt your motives.”

Glancing up, he saw that his father was looking at him intently.  An expression that could only be described as “satisfied” crossed Thranduil’s face, and then he looked at Galenadiual.  “My lady,” he said, “I regret the grief that this woman brought upon you.  I sorrow for your loss of husband and home. I believe that you have had no part in her betrayal.”  Eilian was not quite certain what had just occurred, but he knew that whatever it was had been between Thranduil and himself as much as between Thranduil and Galenadiual.  He felt as if he had just passed some sort of test that he had not even known he was taking.

7.  Mending Fences

A week later, Galenadiual sat in the Mirkwood royal family’s private garden, inhaling the scent of the first daffodils that the day’s warmth had coaxed from their bed next to her.  Soon she must go, for she had work to do if the move was to be completed by nightfall, as she was determined it should be.  She had lingered long enough in the twilight existence that had followed her husband’s death and led her to allow others to shape her direction for her. The discovery that she had harbored an agent of the enemy in her own home and then unwittingly introduced her into the palace had shaken Galenadiual.  It was time to take up her life again, but first there were things she needed to say, so she waited a bit longer.

She had spoken to Thranduil earlier in the day, boldly telling him a legend that she had once heard her mother tell a neighbor with a daughter who was about the age that Legolas was now:  “When a child reaches a certain age—and this age differs from race to race, but for Elves is somewhere between thirty and thirty-five—a monster comes and takes the child away and leaves its own monster child in the child’s place.”  Thranduil had stiffened.  He usually tolerated no interference in his management of his sons, and she had never before spoken of it.  Before he could stop her, she had hurried on with the rest of the legend.  “The thing that mothers and fathers must remember is that their child will come home to them again only after they have learned to love the monster child.”

Thranduil had obviously not welcomed her words, but after a moment, he had spoken mildly enough.  “As it happens, I have learned to love two monster children already.  One of my sons has come back to me and the other, I think, is on his way.  So I do not believe that I was wholly ignorant of what you say. Still,” he had grudgingly added, “it is good to be reminded.”

Galenadiual smiled wryly to herself as she remembered the conversation.  Now she waited to speak to the others to whom she owed speech.  This bench should be in the path of all those she awaited.

After a brief time, she heard someone whistling lightheartedly and Ithilden appeared around the corner that came from the stables. He broke off his tune when saw her and greeted her with his customary cheer.  “Good afternoon, my lady. How goes the move to the cottage?”

She smiled at him.  He really was very engaging.  “It goes well. Come and sit by me for a moment or two.”  Ithilden contentedly settled next to her on the bench, raising his face to the late afternoon spring sunshine. “I have been wishing to ask you two questions, my lord, but have not had the chance until now.”

He lowered his gaze to hers in surprise.  “And what are the questions?” he asked somewhat cautiously.

“First, when to you plan to ask the healer’s daughter to bond with you?” Galenadiual asked sweetly.  Ithilden gaped at her. Whether he was astonished by the question itself or by her intrusion on his privacy, she could not have said and didn’t particularly care. She had harmed Thranduil’s family not only by exposing them to Arramiel, but also by the strains her own careless presence had introduced.  She intended to make amends and if they found the means she chose intrusive, then so be it.

“I ask,” Galenadiual went on, “because judging by the way she looks at you, she is hoping that it will be soon.”  Ithilden continued to stare at her in silence, but a flush was creeping up his neck. Galenadiual went on, “And of course, Thranduil would be pleased. He would like to see you bonded.  He is a traditionalist in these matters.”

Ithilden finally found his tongue to say with some asperity, “A traditionalist for others perhaps.”  He had apparently resented her friendship with his father more than he had let on, Galenadiual thought.  It was understandable that he would now choose to retaliate for her intrusion on his own heart’s secrets.

She smiled gently at him.  “And also a traditionalist in his own heart, although that is not always obvious.”  Although he had been politely regretful at her leaving the palace, Galenadiual thought that Thranduil was secretly relieved at her departure.  Guilt may have been too strong a word to apply to his attitude toward his relationship with her, but remorse there certainly was.

Ithilden studied her and then smiled back somewhat wryly.  “I fear to ask what the second question is, my lady.”

”Ah, yes, my second question. Do you ever plan to tell anyone that it was you who wrote the song the minstrel sang at the feast on the evening that Eilian came home?”

Now Ithilden was truly dumbstruck.  “How did you know?” he choked out.

She laughed. “You had earlier spoken about pools of moonlight on the forest floor. I thought at the time that the words were unusually poetic for you, but when I heard them again in the song, I realized that I had simply mistaken your nature.  Of course, my mistake was one that many people have made and indeed one that you encourage. I wonder why?”

Ithilden opened his mouth and then closed it again.  Enough was enough. He rose and with a polite bow said, “I give you good day, my lady.”

She caught at his tunic long enough to say, “Do not be afraid of yourself, my lord,” and then let him go.  She was leaving the palace, but not Mirkwood. There would be time.

Settling herself again, she waited patiently and was soon rewarded by the sight of Legolas returning home from his day’s unwelcome task. As punishment for slipping out of the palace on the night he had seen Arramiel send the message, Thranduil had required him to spend two weeks assisting Beleg, one of Mirkwood’s armorers.  Even Galenadiual, a newcomer to Mirkwood, knew of Beleg’s bad tempered reputation.  Laboring in the armorer’s forge was filthy work, and Legolas had inherited enough of his father’s fastidiousness about his appearance that he would probably have disliked the task in any case. Beleg’s temper would have rendered it close to intolerable to this rebellious youngling.

This afternoon, Legolas looked thoroughly tired and disgruntled. Galenadiual thought that perhaps Thranduil had at last found a way to curb his son’s night wandering, especially given that he had also ordered a change in the guard’s reporting.  She doubted, however, that the king could hold onto this one for as long as he might wish.  Indeed, she would probably speed the break if she could get Legolas to hear what she had to say.

When Legolas saw her, he slowed his step and greeted her with somewhat less warmth than his oldest brother had shown. Galenadiual smiled to herself. He would resent her to the last, she thought, and the scene that had taken place in her chamber would make things worse, not better.  Being comforted while he vomited had probably finished any chance of a truce between them.  No matter.  “Come sit with me for a moment, Legolas.”

He remained where he was. “I regret that I cannot tarry,” he lied. “I must bathe before evening meal, and I do not wish to be late.”

“Come, there is time,” she insisted. “I have something that I wish to tell you, and after today, I will have much less opportunity to do so.”  He sat, his face carefully arranged to avoid betraying the relief that he undoubtedly felt over that fact.

“First, I wish to thank you for saving my life.”

He nodded without speaking. Thranduil had told her that Legolas would not speak to him or his brothers about killing Arramiel.  Like them, she knew that young warriors sometimes reacted badly to killing a person close up. A warg or an Orc was one thing, as was an arrow loosed at a distance. But an enemy in your hands was a different matter. And Legolas had undoubtedly never expected that his first kill would be a pretty young woman.  What warrior would ever have anticipated such a thing?  Since that night, Legolas had not once attended weapons training, using first his wound and then his sentence in the armory as excuses. Galenadiual knew that Thranduil was worried.

She chose her words carefully.  “I had seen you at weapons training, and I knew that you were skilled. That is fortunate.  These are evil times, and Mirkwood needs warriors who can protect the innocent from the shadow that threatens us.  You have a gift.”

He sat stone still but she knew that he was listening. “Gifts are frightening things, for they sometimes come to us without our asking, and then they shape our destiny and the destinies of the people who rely on us.”  She paused again. “You killed Arramiel,” she said and watched him wince, “not because you longed for her death but because she longed for the death of those you are responsible for, prince of Mirkwood.  It was the right thing to do.”

He still did not speak.  She sighed.  Perhaps he would think of her words later even if he could not hear them now.  “I am sorry that I brought Arramiel into your home and led you to this moment, Legolas.  I would undo it if I could.”  There was nothing more she could say.  “I have detained you long enough.”

He rose slowly and started toward the gate. Then he paused and looked at her. “I wish that the times were different, my lady.  But since the times are what they are, I do not regret my actions.  I know that my father is worried. Tell him that he need not be.  I am gathering myself.  I will be ready to take up weapons again when I am done at the armorer’s.”  He turned to go and then turned back again, with an impudent smile.  “You might also tell him that I would be ready sooner if he were to decide that one week with Beleg was enough.”  With a flurry of blond hair, he whirled and was gone.

Galenadiual shook her head but could not help laughing.  Thranduil was going to have his hands full for a while yet with this particular monster child.  Reasonably pleased with the outcomes of her first two conversations, she settled again to wait for Eilian.  She waited longer than she anticipated and afternoon was fading into evening by the time he appeared, singing softly to himself as he strolled along.

“Lord Eilian,” she greeted him. “I had hoped that you would come this way. Sit with me for a brief while, if you please. I have something that I wish to give you.”

Eilian’s smile was puzzled, but he sat down readily enough.  “Something to give me?”

“Yes.  I understand that you are returning south tomorrow.”

“Yes, I have been away from my duty long enough.”

“I also understand that your hundredth begetting day is next week.”

Eilian merely nodded.  An Elf’s hundredth begetting day was significant because it was usually thought to mark the achievement of full maturity.

“Then I have a gift I wish to give you.” From her pocket, she drew a small, flat package wrapped in a stiff green paper that had been cleverly folded to close in on itself. Eilian took the package hesitantly and then probed with his fingers to find the spot where the paper could be tugged to spring open like a flower.  When the paper had been loosened, he sat for a silent minute starting at the object in his hand. It was a picture of his mother looking younger than he had ever seen her. The picture was sketched in colored pencil and framed in wood that had been carved with vines and flowers.  He looked at Galenadiual with questions in his eyes.

“I was very fond of your mother,” Galenadiual told him gently. “She spent a summer at our family home when she was about the age you are now.  We corresponded several times a year after that, right up until the time she died. The picture was drawn by one of my father’s warriors. I think that he was smitten with her, but she had met Thranduil by then, and I do not believe that she ever looked at anyone else after that.”

“This is a very great gift, my lady,” Eilian finally managed.  “There are no words to thank you enough.”

“Know you that you are very like her, Eilian?” Galenadiual asked.

He looked startled. Such a thought had evidently never occurred to him.

“You have her dark coloring, of course, and I see her smile in yours, but the resemblance goes deeper. She was intuitive like you are, and she shared your longing for adventure.  I believe that this longing contributed to her death, something that you might think about lest you break the hearts of your father and brothers.” Eilian stiffened at this interfering advice but did not reply, and Galenadiual went on.

“Even more than most Elves, your mother needed to be in nature.  Your father’s fortress was not always a comfortable home for her, I fear, any more than it is for you. That too led her to venture into danger sometimes.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I should not return to the southern patrol, my lady?” Eilian asked, as mildly as he could manage.

“No, I am not,” Galenadiual answered. “I do not believe that such a choice is open to you. If nothing else, Thranduil would object.  He feels strongly about the duty his sons have to Mirkwood.”

“As do I,” Eilian’s tone was frosty.

“Yes, I thought that you did.”  She contemplated him. “You agree with your father about most things, and yet the two of you get along much better when you are apart.  I suppose that is common enough with fathers and sons, even when the father is as proud of the son as Thranduil is of you.”

His eyes, so similar to his mother’s, widened slightly. His lips parted as if he would speak but he said nothing.  He glanced down at the picture in his hands.

“I have lingered long enough,” Galenadiual finally said and rose to her feet, drawing Eilian to his.  “I must go and make sure that the packing is complete.  I would sleep in my new home tonight. If I do not see you tomorrow, then I wish you safe journey.  May the stars shine on your path.”

She turned to leave. As she reached the gate that would lead her out of the garden, Eilian called to her and she glanced back.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“You are most welcome, my lord.”

Eilian stood in the gathering twilight fingering the picture and thinking about what Galenadiual had said. Then he looked up in the evening sky and saw the first stars emerge.