Disclaimer:  The canon characters have sprung from the creative genius of J.R.R. Tolkien; the rest are of my own imaginings.  None of them profit me anything but enjoyment or, on occasion, frustration. 

Oh, yes.  I cannot claim Donweth or Anirathiel either.  Ani belongs to Lady Elleth, and thank you, mellon-nin, for letting me use her.  Donweth belongs to . . . well, he is a bit of an enigma and must remain anonymous at present.  ;)  His name was generated at the Barrowdowns name generator. Thank you to his creator as well.  The nickname of “Silver” was given to Tanglinna in Ptath’s story “To Live By Brush and Bow”: https://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1607049

This is another of Kerttu’s plot bunnies - “Once Upon A Time In Hollin” being her first.  It seems she felt sorry for the poor “ghost” and thought he needed some understanding friends.  I was happy to oblige.  Thank you for the idea, meldis!

Acharn’s Original story is here:  http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1570359

Author’s Note:  Acharn means vengeance.

            Acharn’s Yule Tale by TreeHugger

              The snow was soft and bright, filling the midnight wood with a magical glow.  A small holly tree, nestled in a quiet clearing, its red berries like glittering rubies amidst the dark waxy leaves, was awash with moonlight.  Stars sparkled overhead with a jewel-like intensity in the clear sky, and the tall elf smiled.

            Small clusters of dried berries and nuts, strung meticulously and laboriously together, decorated the snow-laden branches.  Small colorful beads, lost carelessly or discarded by others had become makeshift garlands, the brightly colored bone, stone, glass, and clay making the holly tree look very festive.

            “It looks beautiful, does it not, Breggaur?”

            His companion’s wide mouth split into a smile, his every movement showing his own Yuletide happiness; the dark eyes bright as polished amber.

            “Yuletide is a very special time, mellon-nin.  It is a time for friends and family, for giving and sharing, songs and tales, a fire blazing on the hearth.”  The elf chuckled at this last statement.  “Or a campfire beneath the stars,” he amended with a grin.  “You are my family and my friend, faithful Breggaur, and this is a special year.  We have something new to add to our Yule tree.”

            The elf reached into his tunic and pulled out a small square of faded grey silk.  He gently opened it, revealing the small curved object that lay protectively within.  Silver glinted as he held it aloft.

            “The perfect ornament, wouldn’t you say, Breggaur?  The silver and pearl reminiscent of the winter season, but the butterfly design holds the promise of new life in the spring.”

            He moved across the clearing, placing the hair clasp on an upper bough.  He stepped back to admire the effect of the moonlight on this new ornament, thinking that it looked quite lovely against the emerald and ruby backdrop of the tree.

            “It is a lovely tree.  I think this will be the nicest Yuletide yet.”

            A woof of approval, and the vigorous wagging of a large bushy tail, was all the answer that the elf needed.  Chuckling, he bent to ruffle the warg’s thick silver-washed fur. Then a voice once beautiful and skilled, but now merely low and barely to be called fair, lifted on the cold winter air in an old song of Yuletide, one not heard since the First Age of Arda.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

            “You let him go alone?  Oh, Tavor!  Now we will have to go and find him! Why didn’t you stop him?”

            Prince Legolas Greenleaf sighed in exasperation, and then glanced regretfully at the jolly preparations for Yuletide going on around them.  Baskets of greenery, pinecones and branches with clinging berries, all collected by the young ‘Green Hunters’, were scattered about, and the laughing, bright-eyed denizens of Mirkwood sang joyous songs of the season and jested playfully with one another.  The scent of freshly baked breads and cookies, pastries and pies filled the air with such tempting odors that Legolas felt his stomach rumble in anticipation.

            Uilos turned from her task of weaving bright silver and green ribbons into the fragrant garlands to smile at the youngest prince, her eyes bright with happiness and excitement.  Red ribbons gleamed in the cloud of her dark hair and Legolas smiled back, his heart’s tempo quickening slightly as they gazed at one another.  But then he sighed once more, his annoyance building.  He turned to see Tavor, the cause of his irritation, drifting toward Colmaidh and Baranri, a satisfied smirk on his handsome Noldorin face.  One hand was behind his back, a sprig of mistletoe twirling in his long fingers.

            “Oh no, you don’t!” Legolas admonished, grabbing his friend’s arm.  “You are coming with me!  You can do that,” he plucked the mistletoe from Tavor and tossed it toward the two maidens, “later.”

            “But -!”

            “But nothing.  It is your fault that you let Brethil go out there alone, looking for,” his voice dropped to a whisper as he glanced uneasily and slightly guiltily about them, “for that ghost.  We have to find him before anything happens to him.”

            “Let someone else find him,” Tavor insisted with a slight whine in his voice as Baranri picked up the mistletoe and held it up appraisingly, one elegant brow raised.  “I am busy!  VERY busy,” he amended, his cheeks flushing when she held it over her head and Colmaidh leaned so their heads were just touching and both maidens staring expectantly at him, full lips curved in invitation.

            Legolas scowled fiercely, tightening his grip on Tavor’s sleeve and tugged him across the Hall.  If he had to leave Uilos here, smelling of delicate perfume and the wild scent of greenery, then Tavor could was coming with him!

            “It is a good thing that the air is so chill this night,” the prince commented wryly.  “It will help to cool you off!”

            The two elves grabbed up their cloaks and disappeared into the darkness, Tavor glancing once more over his shoulder toward Baranri and Colmaidh whom, he was pleased and relieved to note, looked disappointed that he was leaving.

            “I’ll be back very soon!” he called to them as the magical doors slide silently closed behind him.  “Very soon, Legolas.  Did you hear me?”

~*~*~*~*~*

            Brethil was walking through the starlit woods; a small bird was perched on his outstretched hand, its black-capped head cocked to one side as it regarded him with bright eyes.  The young elf was speaking quietly yet earnestly; his pale grey eyes alight with happiness and satisfaction.

            “They will have to believe me now,” he was saying.  “I know that King Thranduil and Master Tanglinna claim that they didn’t see the ghost that night, but I know they did.  But he isn’t a ghost, of course; I didn’t really think that he was.  Well, perhaps I did once, but that was a long time ago. I didn’t believe he was a ghost that night and hadn’t for years.  No one did . . . except perhaps King Thranduil and Master Tanglinna. Now I know better.   Why would ghosts need to eat?  Or use a fire?  Legolas and Tavor will be rather surprised when I tell them.”  Suddenly he frowned, his eyes filling with sadness.  “It must be rather lonely out here all alone with n0 one to talk to. Not that you aren’t good company,” he said with an indulgent smile at the little bird, “but it isn’t the same.”  He gazed behind him into the dark trees.  “Wait here,” he murmured, stroking the bird’s small head with one gentle finger.  The bird twittered and flew to perch on the branch of a snowy oak tree and watched as his elf friend ran silently back the way they had come, no indentations in the snow gave a clue to his passing.

            A few minutes later Brethil returned minus his warm woolen cloak, a happy smile on his lips,.

            “I hope he finds it soon.  It will get a bit damp lying beneath that holly tree.”  He smiled as the bird perched once more on his hand and they continued their trek back toward the Hall of Thranduil.  “I shall have to bring a few more things to him.  I don’t know why I have never thought of this before.  Of course, I did believe that he was a ghost or simply not real at all once.  I think I should bring him a few trinkets for his tree as well.  He has done a very nice job with; I believe I even saw Uilos’ hair clip there near the top.  It looks very nice and I am sure she won’t mind.  We should bring something for the warg as well.  Galion is making a wonderful stew and probably has some bones lying about somewhere. That would be just the thing, don’t you think? I should wrap their gifts nicely too - perhaps not the bones, but the rest of them.  It makes it more festive and special.  I should put them in a basket, I suppose and hang it from a tree branch so they don’t get damp . . . .”

            Brethil was so intent on his cheerful conversation with the little bird that he did not see the hulking shape that was slowly stalking him, black fur glistening in the starlight, nose questing at the end of a large snout, huge gleaming teeth bared.  And it was slowly gaining on the young elf . . . .

~*~*~*~*~*

            Spirited horses trotted over the snowy landscape, their warm breath pluming in the cold air, magnificent heads tossing as they snorted happily.  Malthenhwest pranced happily in the lead, the long pale spill of his mane and flowing tail glimmering like the moonlight itself; his powerful body was as golden as his rider’s hair.   This rider was as proud and beautiful as his mount and he grinned back at his companions as his voice broke into joyous song.

            “Thilia-loss am i thar;

            Silalye dannen elenath. . . .”

            <“Snow glimmers upon the grass;

             Thou shinest as fallen stars. . . .”>

            Fair elven voices filled the air and the distant stars seemed to twinkle more brightly still and all the woodland hushed to hear them.  It was a merry party that rode back to the Hall that night, the fruits of their labor slung before them on their horses, just enough for the Yuletide feast.  Their hearts were filled with the joy of the season as they trotted toward their home, heads held high, faces filled with mirth and delight.

            Tanglinna reached out to scoop some snow from a branch overhead and pack it silently into an icy cold ball that he had been constructing for some time.  Celevon his mount shook his elegant head, which was as pale silver as Tanglinna’s hair, his dark eyes rolling expressively to Faronborn who trotted beside him. It seemed Celevon’s rider was about to do something somewhat dubious.   Donweth, who rode Faronborn, sensed the somewhat furtive movement, and turned without missing a note of the song, raising one dark eyebrow in question as he stroked his large red stallion’s neck comfortingly.  Faronborn whickered slightly and Celevon shook his head once more. 

            The archer smiled at Donweth, singing even more loudly than he had previously, silver eyes bright.  His brows rose as if asking Donweth’s permission for something, to which Donweth merely shook his head quite emphatically with a look that left the impression that he was not foolish enough to get involved in this and nothing he could do or say would stop this from happening so why ask.  Tanglinna’s smile widened and suddenly the small, cold missile flew accurately through the air to splat against the back of Thranduil’s elegant golden head. 

            There was only the smallest of pauses in the rich royal voice, and Malthenhwest’s hooves faltered only a little, the golden head turning to gaze at Celevon, who managed to look quite embarrassed.  The other elves weren’t quite as nonchalant as their king and shot the archer a quick glance, but when Oropher’s son seemed to be ignoring this blatant display, they continued the song, wondering what would happen now.

            Tanglinna frowned, having expected Thranduil to round on him with a glare and a few choice words; he had certainly not anticipated being ignored entirely.  He shaped his tongue about the words of the song, but he no longer heard them as he reached up to begin another snowball. 

            ~Let’s see you ignore this, Oropherion,~ he thought with fell glee.

            Suddenly Thranduil did turn and Tanglinna gasped as a wet, cold missile hit his forehead and the snowball dropped from his hand.  The expression of shock and indignation sent peals of mirth through his comrades, and Thranduil’s was the loudest.

            The Silvan drew himself up haughtily on Celevon’s back, wiping his wet face.

            “What makes you think that I am the one that threw the snowball at you, hir-nin?” he asked with a scowl.

            “Perhaps because the aim was slightly amiss.  You see, it didn’t quite hit the center of the back of my head.  It was just a bit to the left, so I knew it was you.”

            While the others laughed at this delightful absurdity, for Tanglinna’s aim was better than anyone’s and the king knew this as well as they, the Master Archer merely lifted one brow.

            “You did it because I brought down a bigger deer than you did,” he answered in a level voice, one slim hand moving to brush his long hair back into place.

            Donweth chuckled at this motion, causing Tanglinna to turn his inscrutable Silvan gaze on him, his hand dropping away from his moonlight hair.

            “Thy name is vanity,” Donweth mouthed, and then chuckled once more.  “I am sorry I don’t have a mirror for you to borrow,” he murmured with a grin, which was countered with a sneer and then a quick grin and a chuckle.

            “Is he playing with his hair again, Donweth?” the king asked with a shake of his head and then a chuckle as the others laughed.  “T’would seem, my swaggering friend,” Thranduil continued in even tones, “that you threw the first snowball because MY deer was larger than your own –mine was the largest taken today.”

            “I believe that honor belongs to me, aran-hir,” a delicate feminine voice piped in.

            The others turned toward the grinning maiden.  This quiet elfess beamed quite happily at them, her grey eyes sparkling.  Slender she was, and fair; her long hair as dark as the shadows beneath the beech trees.  Her voice, though seldom heard, was as bright and lively as a cheerful rill; and lying before her was indeed the largest deer taken that day.

            Tanglinna grinned over at her and was rewarded with a wink and a quirking of her brows.  She had been a very close friend with his beloved wife, and the two still shared a warm friendship since Celair’s death.

            “I do concede, Lady Anirathiel,” Thranduil said, tipping his golden head in acknowledgement to her, a smile gracing his lips.  “You do take that prize this day.”

            This small hunting party consisted of seven members and each had brought a deer down, though it had been a fierce competition to see who could take the largest. 

               Nephredil had jestingly suggested earlier that it was an unfair contest as she was hampered by the added weight and bulk of her unborn child, and that the others had been overly protective of her and ‘gotten in the way’.  She smiled now at Ani with affection, one hand resting over her swollen stomach, her eyes lighting with pleasure as the babe kicked and turned.  Her husband Erioduin edged his horse along side hers and covered her hand with his own. 

            The last member of the party chuckled and winked at Ani, his grey eyes filled with amusement.

            “*I* think,” Arasceleg began with an exaggerated sigh, “that I should have been allowed to get the largest deer.  After all, I am the eldest and therefore should have been regarded with a bit more respect from you pups!”

            They all laughed at this for none of them could rightly be called “pups” any longer.  The old warrior threw back his raven head and began a new song, “Lim Aran” , one about a golden-haired elf king whose wife had wanted a special Yuletide supper of fresh fish, and he was determined to oblige her though the river had frozen over that year.

            They all joined in on the chorus, even Donweth who had not lived long in Mirkwood but had picked up the tune and words quite quickly.  Tanglinna and Thranduil were singing quite loudly and grinning widely as they recalled that particular Yuletide very well, their eyes meeting for a moment of shared remembrance.  Oropher was only too obliging when it had come to what his beloved Auriell had wanted - not to mention the challenge that this offered.  It had been with shock and dismay that the “golden-haired elf king” had learned that the river was not quite as frozen as he had thought at first; and it was with great amusement that his young golden-haired son and his silver-haired friend had fished a king from the river that day.  Only, amazingly, Oropher had managed to grab a fish in his chilled fingers before they hauled him from the river much to the surprise and delight of all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

            “I think perhaps I could get the king to give me permission to take some of the Yule feast to him as well,” Brethil continued in a low voice as he walked down the snowy pathway, his conversation with the little bird nonstop.  “I even think-” He paused suddenly, noticing how quiet the woods about him had grown.  He turned slowly, frowning slightly.  It was then that he saw the huge bear.

            It was covered with thick black fur, huge teeth bared, small eyes glittering darkly.  Brethil might have been frightened, and indeed he was for one quick moment, but then he cocked his head to one side and contemplated the great bruin.  Oddly enough it was carrying a basket clamped between its jaws.

            “Why aren’t you asleep, honey-eater?” Brethil asked as the little bird flitted to his shoulder, taking refuge beneath the pale screen of his long hair.  “It is nearly Yuletide and you should be snug and warm in your den, dreaming the winter away.  Why are you carrying a basket?  I have never seen a bear carry a basket before.  What is in it?  Oh.  That was rather rude of me.  Forgive me.  It is none of my business, only it is so strange to come upon a bear in the woods carrying a basket.”

            Suddenly the bear growled low in its throat, placing the basket on the ground; and then something odd happened.  Brethil stared in wonder and awe, for where once a bear had stood there was now a Man with a thick black beard and hair.

            “I know who you are!” the elf exclaimed, his cheeks flushed pink with excitement, a smile on his face.  “You are Beorn!”

            “And who might you be?” the skin-changer asked gruffly, holding his basket in his hands and eying Brethil suspiciously.

            “Brethil Bronaduion,” Bronadui’s son answered. “At your service,” he added with a grin recalling the dwarves and their rather funny way of introducing themselves, not to mention the furry- footed Hobbit.  Having met Bilbo Baggins and some of the Dwarves that had been so recently held prisoners in Thranduil’s dungeons at the Battle of Five Armies just over one year before, he had been charmed by them, though that was an unexpected surprise considering that they were Dwarves.

            “I don’t have need of your service,” Beorn answered with a frown.  “Now if you will move aside I must deliver this to the elf king’s Hall.”

            “You are going to the Hall?  Really?  I didn’t know that you came into Mirkwood to deliver things.”

            “I don’t except as a favor for one elf that I find is not too bad a fellow.”  Beorn moved past Brethil and walked away, his long legs taking giant strides away from the young elf.  “He makes an excellent mead.”

            Brethil, not to be deterred this easily, hurried after him.

            “Who  might the excellent mead-maker be?” he asked, moving to walk beside the huge Man.

            Beorn stared down at him from beneath bristling dark brows.

            “He is the elf king’s butler, not that it is any of your business.”

            “Galion?  He is not too bad a fellow at all.  What are you bringing him?”

            Beorn rumbled a bit then halted in his tracks, and rounded on Brethil.

            “If you will shut up, I will show you, but then you must let me go on my way . . . alone.”

            Brethil smiled in agreement and was shown three large bottles of rich, dark honey.

            “That is most impressive,” he said.  “You must have a great many bees.”

            “Hmph,” Beorn snorted, covering the honey once more and moving swiftly away down the path.

            “Oh!  Wait!”  Brethil trotted after him.  “I will leave you in peace, only might I have one jar of the honey?”

            “Impetuous pointy-eared child!”  Beorn growled fiercely.  But before he could continue, Brethil stared up at him imploringly.

            “It is not for myself, but for someone that . . . well, he will certainly appreciate it greatly.  Though I am not certain that his warg would like it.  Do you know if wargs like honey?”

            “Warg?”  Beorn snarled, his teeth bared.

            “He is not one of the bad wargs,” Brethil assured him.  “He must be rather a nice one, I suspect.  Acharn certainly seems to like him.  Or so I suppose -”

            “Acharn?  You know about Acharn living here?”

            “Of course,” Brethil said, shaking his head.  “We found that out a year ago, or nearly so.  It is quite an amusing story.  You see -!”

            “Silence!”  the skin-changer hissed, staring down at the elf, his eyes filled with annoyance.  “You talk entirely too much and don’t manage to say anything.  As to Acharn, you wicked elves are telling horrible lies about him, so why would you want to take him any of my honey?”

            “Lies?  What do you mean?”

            “That ridiculous tale about him murdering his love and her husband.  Now stand aside before I knock you down!”

            Brethil frowned, not hearing this last statement as he pondered the first.

            “I did wonder if that story was true.  Tales do have a way of being exaggerated over time.  There was one story,” he began with a bemused smile, but Beorn rumbled dangerously and Brethil stopped his words and grinned.  “I am sorry. I am sure you don’t have time to hear this.  Galion must be waiting for you.  Perhaps I can tell you later.”

            The skin-changer turned away then, muttering low in his throat.  Brethil watched him go with a smile.  He did make a rather comical figure being so large and gruff carrying a lovely basket filled with honey.  Suddenly Beorn stopped and huffed.

            “Here,” he said turning and holding out one of the jars of honey.  Brethil gasped in delight and moved to take it. 

              “Thank you!  I know Acharn will truly appreciate this!”

               “His name is not Acharn, you silly fool of an elf,” Beorn muttered, brows bristling.  “It is Glirel.”

            Brethil’s brows rose at this pronouncement. 

            “Oh.  That is a lovely name.  I wondered why anyone would want to be named Acharn.*”

            Beorn had turned away and was striding rapidly through the snow, feeling oddly pleased.

            “Wait!”  Brethil trotted after him.  “What did happen to his faithless lover and her husband?  Or,” he frowned thoughtfully, “perhaps there was no faithless lover and her husband.”

            “Maybe you have more sense than I gave you credit for,” Beorn answered with a strange bark of laughter without pausing.  With that he was gone, leaving Brethil staring after him, lost in speculation.

            “Thank you!” the elf called after a moment, lifting one hand in a farewell wave.  The little bird fluttered his wings, chirping slightly.

            “I suppose we should leave this with the cloak.  I do wish I had some warm bread to go with it, but I guess that cannot be helped.” 

            Having made his decision, Brethil headed back toward Acharn’s tree.

            ~No, ~ he amended,  ~Glirel’s tree. ~

            He felt quite pleased to have gotten something else to leave for the mysterious and surely lonely elf.

            “I can’t wait to tell everyone what I have learned.  I do wish Legolas and Tavor were here for I fear that they won’t quite believe me.  It will make a good tale anyway.  And Yuletide is definitely the time for tales, don’t you agree?  Did I ever tell you about the time that. . . .”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

            “We are being followed,” Legolas whispered, forcing himself to continue down the snowy pathway without turning about.

            “What?”  Tavor turned to look behind them, but saw nothing.  “What are you talking about, Legolas?  There is no one there.”

            “There is.  I have heard them for some time now.”

            Tavor’s eyes widened and he glanced back once more.

            “You are just saying that, aren’t you?”

            “Why would I do that?”

            “Because you want to frighten me,” Tavor answered with a pout and another surreptitious glance down the dark pathway.  “I was *not* frightened of that ghost and well you know it, Legolas.  So don’t try to tell me that -!  Did you hear that?!  There IS something behind us!”

            Tavor leapt soundlessly off the pathway and into the snow-laden bushes.  It was then that he heard the girlish laughter and the slight tinkling sound of small bells.  A moment later Baranri, Colmaidh, and Uilos came into view, Baranri bearing a large basket covered with a festive red cloth.  Tavor’s ladies took one look at their young lover and began to laugh.

            “Did we frighten the big, brave warrior?” Baranri chuckled, her white teeth flashing in a delighted smile.

            “Of course not,” Tavor protested, moving back to the pathway.  “I was merely . . . well, I was . . . Legolas knows what I was doing.  Tell them, Legolas.”  He gazed at his friend, dark grey eyes filled with desperation.

            Legolas laughed and took the heavy and fragrant basket from Baranri, who moved to stroke Tavor’s flushed cheek.  Colmaidh had already fastened herself to one of his arms and was cooing into one delicately pointed ear.

            “I am certain I do not know *what* you were doing just now in the bushes,” he chuckled, leaning down so Uilos could brush his cool cheek with her lips.  “I can hazard a guess, but I don’t know if you would want me to.”

            Tavor glared over at the prince for a moment, which only served to amuse Legolas even more.

            “What are you ladies doing out here?” Tavor asked, deciding that changing the topic might be advantageous.  He slipped one arm about Baranri’s waist and one about Colmaidh’s.  Yes, it had been advantageous as both of the lovely maidens snuggled closer.  He grinned at Legolas and raised one brow in triumph.

            “We thought you might like some company, so we decided to join you,” Colmaidh said, smiling up into Tavor’s eyes, and cuddling against his side.

            “AND,” Baranri said, gently turning Tavor’s head so he was facing her, “we wanted to protect you from the ghost.”

            “Now you sound like Brethil,” Legolas laughed, placing his free arm about Uilos shoulders, which were swathed in a lovely green velvet cloak edged with white fur.  He thought she looked quite festive, not to mention delectable.  “That is where we are going.  Shall we?”

            As the merry group continued down the starlit pathway, Legolas leaned down to ask Uilos what was in the basket.

            “Just a few goodies,” she smiled, “and some sweets.  *And*,” she reached into the basket and pulled out a sprig of mistletoe, “this.”

            “You seem quite prepared for an evening in the woods,” he murmured, taking it and holding it above her head and smiling.  Just as he was leaning in to kiss her full, moist lips the mistletoe was plucked from his grasp and Tavor ran off laughing lightly to rejoin Baranri and Colmaidh twirling his prize in his fingers.

~*~*~*~*~*

            It was the golden glow of firelight that drew Brethil toward the clearing.  He clasped the jar of honey to his chest and advanced silently. 

            ~He is there!~ he thought.  ~Acharn is here!  What am I to do!?~

            A slight shiver of fear coursed through him, but he pushed onward, the little bird tucked beneath his hair, twittering in a worried tone.

            It had been so easy to be brave when merely speaking of this moment, but now when the actuality had presented itself . . . well, he was feeling just a bit . . . cowardly.

            “What if I have been wrong all along?  What if he really *is* a murderous ghost!?  What if he does kill me?  That would be most horrible!  And with a hook! My poor mother!  What would she do if I were to die?  And over something as foolish as wanting a ghost to have a happy Yule!”

            Suddenly the still, cold air was filled with a song, a lovely song in an ancient tongue that spoke to the young elf’s heart.  He leaned forward, listening intently and joyfully.  When the song was done, Brethil smiled and murmured, “Anyone who can sing like that cannot be all bad.”  Slowly he moved forward once more.

            He eased soundlessly behind an oak tree and peered into Acharn’s clearing.  Seated with his back to Brethil was a tall slender form, wrapped, not in Brethil’s warm cloak, but a ragged one, very tattered and torn.

            Brethil frowned slightly at this then moved into the clearing after taking a deep, steadying breath.  Though he knew this person couldn’t be “all bad”, he was still uncertain as to his reception and he was prepared to launch the jar of honey if this elf –ghost or not – made any suspicious moves and then run for his life.

            “If you don’t like green, I can bring you a nice red cloak,” he said cheerfully, but still moving with great caution.  “Perhaps Master Tanglinna can give you his nice blue cloak if you prefer that color.  Or Legolas has a darker green one and it is trimmed with silver.  He is a prince so his is a bit fancier than this one.  Of course, if you prefer a new one that no one has owned before . . . .”

            Acharn stared in amazement as a young blond elf strode into the clearing, talking away, a small bird perched on one shoulder.

            “Is this,” the ancient elf asked, gesturing with his left hand toward the green cloak that Brethil had left earlier, “yours?”

            “Oh, yes.  It is mine . . . or it was.  I wanted you to have it . . . at least until I could get you one of your very own.  I don’t think my mother will mind.  She is very understanding really.”

            “You wanted me to have it,” Acharn echoed incredulously and just a little suspiciously.  How many years had it been since he had held an actual conversation with an elf?  He had spoken with Radagast the Brown on occasion, but it had been a very long time since he had spoken to one of his own kind.

            “Yes,” Brethil’s gaze moved to the warg, who stood and was watching him intently.  “I do hope that he is one of the good wargs as I told Beorn,” he continued.  “At least I believe there must be good wargs. . . not that I have ever met one.  I . . . I heard you singing earlier.  That *was* you, was it not?  I have never heard that song before, but it was quite lovely.  And,” he glanced at the jar of honey in his hands, “this if for you.  I was going to throw it at you if you were indeed a murderous ghost.”  Suddenly he cocked his head on one side.  “Of course, if you *were* a ghost then it would go right through you, wouldn’t it?  Well,” he laughed, holding the jar out to Acharn, his hands only trembling a little, “this wouldn’t make a good weapon against a ghost, so I will just give it to you anyway and not throw it at you.  It is from Beorn.  He is a skin-changer that lives west of here.  Have you heard of him?  He is quite a mysterious fellow really. . . .”

            Acharn stared dumbfounded at the talkative elf.  He took the honey, exchanging amazed glances with Breggaur, who looked highly amused and was wagging his tail, red tongue lolling.  Brethil continued to speak nonstop about Beorn and then Galion – it helped to keep his trepidation at bay if he kept speaking – and then passed quickly to the king, then to the Master Archer and onto Thranduil’s children.  Just as he was moving onto Legolas and then to Tavor, Acharn held up his left hand.

            “I am sorry, but . . . but who *are* you?” he asked, feeling mystified and overwhelmed.  Perhaps he had forgotten how the exchange of words with another person was supposed to proceed.

            “Oh!  That was rather rude of me.  I am Brethil Bronaduion, at your service.”  He giggled then and bowed.  “I like that, don’t you?  I learned that from the dwarves.  Bilbo said that as well.  Now he is a Hobbit, or that is what they call themselves.  We call them Periannath.   Now THAT is a story!  Shall I tell you?”

            Acharn shook his head in bewilderment and Brethil halted even as he drew a breath to continue.

            “I am sorry. I do talk entirely too much.  It is a fault that I should truly try to correct, but I can’t seem to remember that I am supposed to be correcting it until it is too late and I have already said too much.  Forgive me.  Perhaps you would care to tell me about yourself.  There are some rather unflattering stories about you, you know.  I sincerely hope that they aren’t true, for if they are,” Brethil looked a bit worried once more as he spoke, but he had said so much already that there was no turning back now, “then I suppose I will die very soon . . .at the end of your hook.”  He swallowed uncomfortably, gazing at Acharn’s right arm, which was covered by his ragged cloak.  “I do hope that you are not a murderous ghost.”

            The dark-haired elf frowned, gazing from Brethil to Breggaur and then to the honey.

            “Um,” he said eloquently.  “No, I am not a ghost.  I have never murdered anyone either, though I have heard those horrible things that people are saying about me.  Would you . . .would you care to join us?  Breggaur and I were about to sing some Yule songs, and we would be very happy if you would like to stay and sing with us.  It has been a long time since we had any company.”  Slowly, he drew out his right arm, revealing that the wrist did not end in a hook, but a leather cap.  “I am Glirel,” he said, with a stately bow.

            Brethil smiled widely in great relief and nodded.

            “I am most pleased to meet you, Glirel.  Thank you so very much for inviting me to stay.  I would truly love to, but please,” he moved to scoop up his cloak,  “let me put this on you.  I think green is a good color for you.”  As he helped to place the cloak about Glirel’s shoulders, Brethil turned to regard the warg.  “You said his name is Breggaur?”  He stared at the warg, who stared back, amber eyes glowing.  “Greetings, Breggaur.  I am Brethil Bronaduion.”  He bowed, and then grinned.  “At your service, Master Warg.”

            He was quite delighted when Breggaur barked happily at him, great tail wagging in welcome.

~*~*~*~*~*

            A short time later, Legolas, Tavor, and their young maidens drew closer to the clearing, each filled with wonder and trepidation.  They had heard the voices, one of them being Brethil’s, the other was that of a stranger. Surely, he hadn’t found the ghost!? They crept toward the soft glow of the firelight, and then stared in amazement at the sight before them. 

            Seated about the small campfire were Brethil, a dark-haired elf draped in what surely was Brethil’s new cloak, and . . . a warg? The dark-haired elf was speaking in a low tone, Brethil listening intently, only interrupting to ask a question now and then.

            “What is he doing?!” Tavor gasped, grabbing Legolas’ arm.  “What is he doing?!  You know who that is, don’t you!?”

            “I do not know,” Legolas answered with a frown. “Not for certain any way.”

            Uilos gasped, eyes widening in horror.

            “It’s Acharn the Hook-handed!” she hissed, clasping Legolas’ other arm.

            Colmaidh gasped then, and grabbed Tavor’s arm, and was surprised to find him trembling.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Baranri muttered, peering from the cover of the snow encrusted bushes they were kneeling behind.  “If that were Acharn the Hook-handed, then Brethil would be dead.”

            “What should we do!?”  Tavor yelped, then cleared his throat as his voice had sounded entirely too high pitched for comfort.  “I mean . . . what should we do?” he asked once more, an octave lower than his normal tone.

            Brethil had glanced up, hearing the mild commotion, and turned toward them.

            “Is that you, Tavor?” he asked, standing and moving swiftly toward the bushes.  “Legolas too!  You are all here!” he exclaimed happily.  “This is wonderful. Come out!  You simply must meet Glirel!  Is that bread that I smell?  You brought food with you?  How wonderful!  I was thinking earlier that fresh, warm bread would be just the thing to go with Beorn’s honey!”  Eyes sparkling with delight as his friends stood - feeling somewhat sheepish about hiding behind a bush - Brethil beckoned them forward.  “Come join us!  Have I got a story to tell you!”

~*~*~*~*~*

The joyous hunters were speaking quietly together when Thranduil eased Malthenhwest to a halt and held up one hand.  The others stopped immediately, hands moving to the bows slung on their backs.

“Do you hear that?” the king asked in a low voice, leaning forward slightly.

            “Yes,” Arasceleg answered with a frown.  “It is singing.”  His hand fell away from his weapon.  “Someone is out here celebrating before the feast is all.” 

            Tanglinna chuckled.

            “I recognize those voices,” he said with a wink at Ani, who grinned back.

            “I do as well,” Arasceleg laughed gazing at the king.  “Now, what are those innocent younglings doing out here tonight?”

            Nephredil and Erioduin smiled at one another, their gazes filled with fondness.

            “Singing,” they answered together, their hands touching, eyes bright with affection.

            This elicited chuckles from the others, and then Donweth turned to Tanglinna.

            “I believe that I heard Brethil say something about searching for . . . a ghost.”  One dark brow arched.  “Now, I have heard a few of your Mirkwood tales of ghosts and monsters and such, but pray, which ‘ghost’ would this one be?” he inquired, his face oh-so-innocent as he looked to the king and then back at the archer.

            Arasceleg snorted with amusement at this seemingly innocuous query, and turned to Thranduil as Tanglinna glared at Donweth.

            “I suppose it was the poor ghost that got shrieked at so loudly earlier this year by two of our bravest.  I am sure the ghost was quite distraught by such rough treatment,” Nephredil added, a strange oh-so-innocent look upon her face.

            “Two of our *fastest*, I would say, from accounts of those who saw them running fleet as hunted deer through the trees,” Erioduin laughed, avoiding both the king’s eyes and Tanglinna’s.

            “What was the story we were told when you both returned that night looking like scared rabbits and so out of breath?  Or was it that you *were* so out of breath that you couldn’t speak? Or-!”

            “Enough!” Thranduil finally growled with a glare at Tanglinna who had made up some ridiculous tale that no one would ever believe, for even Brethil had looked skeptical at the time.

            “You need to learn to . . . exaggerate a little better, Silver,” Ani laughed merrily, using the nickname Celair had given to the archer so long ago, a name no one but Ani now called him.

            “The next time I will try harder,” Tanglinna chuckled at last, deciding to find it humorous instead of embarrassing.  “It was all the king’s fault really. . . .”

            “Let’s not start that again,” Thranduil warned, urging Malthenhwest forward.  “Let us go pay my son and his friends a visit.  I feel like singing about a fire for a while too.”

            “You just want to make certain that the prince doesn’t earn an unfortunate nickname like ‘Frisky’,” Tanglinna chuckled, and ducked smoothly as another well-thrown snowball sailed his way.

~*~*~*~*~*

            The sight that met their eyes was . . . unexpected. True enough, Legolas, Tavor, and Brethil were seated about the fire with three young maidens.  They were all smiling and laughing, looking quite cheerful.  But it was the seventh figure seated with them, and the rather large warg at his feet, that gave the hunters pause.

            “Who is that?”  Nephredil whispered, one hand held beneath her large stomach as she leaned forward to get a better look.  Erioduin placed one arm about her protectively, frowning.

            Thranduil frowned also and glanced over at Tanglinna who met his eyes and then shrugged, shaking his head.

            “Is that your ghost?” Donweth asked with a quick wink at Ani.  “He looks rather solid to me.  Not that I have ever seen any ghosts or anything,” he added with a grin as Tanglinna turned to glare at him.

            “He does look too solid to be a ghost,” Arasceleg agreed with a contemplative frown.  “You don’t think that really *is* Acharn, do you?  What did he look like?” he asked, his eyes merry as he turned to the king with a grin.

            “There is only one way to find out,” Thranduil declared and straightened.  With that he strode into the clearing, head held high, features impassive.

            “Good evening, nin ion (my son),” he greeted them, his eyes moving directly to the tale dark haired elf.  “I thought you were at the Hall preparing for Yule.”

            Glirel, who had more visitors in this one night than he had seen since the First Age, spun toward the new voice.  He stood, silently assessing the tall Sinda that stood so regally before him, all gold and forest green.  He could see the resemblance between the young elf prince and this one.  The face of the newcomer was more angular, the bone structure strong, not still soften with youth as was Legolas’.

            “King Thranduil Oropherion,” he murmured, bowing to the monarch of Mirkwood.  “I am pleased to finally make you acquaintance . . . formally.”

            Thranduil frowned in surprise, his gaze sliding from the dark-haired elf to his son, who was also standing now.  He could see the hesitance and uncertainty in Legolas’ blue eyes, but then the prince stepped forward and grinned.

            “This is Glirel, adar.  He has invited us to share his jar of honey, a gift from Beorn – or so Brethil assures us.”

            Brethil nodded enthusiastically and standing, grey eyes bright.

            “It was the most marvelous thing, Your Majesty,” he began, already warming to the telling of this tale once more.  “You see -”

            “Not,” Thranduil interrupted quickly, “just now, Brethil.  There will be time enough for that later.”

            “Not likely,” Tanglinna whispered to Donweth with a grin.  “There is not enough time left in this Age for Brethil to tell a tale that is likely to be long.”

            Donweth was studying the strange elf, an odd look on his face.

            “Glirel?” Thranduil repeated, turning suspiciously back to the stranger.  He noted that the right arm was hidden beneath the folds of a green cloak, one that looked quite a bit like Brethil’s, and Brethil was not wearing one at the moment.  “Glirel, is it?”

            “That is his real name, Your Majesty,” Brethil answered, smiling over at Glirel.  He bent and ruffled Breggaur’s silvery fur.  “Though perhaps you know him better as,” his voice dropped an octave and his brows rose ominously, “Acharn the Hook-handed!  I believe you and Master Tanglinna met him earlier this year, though perhaps you were so frightened at the time that you didn’t realize it.  Or,” he glanced at Tavor, who had made a slight strangling noise at the word ‘frightened’, “that is. . . you were running so quickly that you never stopped to exchange pleasantries.  What, Legolas?  It is true, so you needn’t get that odd look on your face.  We all heard them scream, and then we all saw the king and Master Tanglinna running toward the Hall as though Lord Tauron were behind them, hunting them down.”

            The members of the hunting party all laughed at this, and Donweth, clapped Tanglinna -who was scowling quite fiercely and not finding this humorous at all - on the back.

            “I *knew* I liked Brethil for some reason.  He is the most honest elf I have ever met, yourself excluded of course,” he added with a grin.

            Tanglinna growled at him, but said nothing.  They all moved silently into the clearing, making certain to stand some distance behind Thranduil, who did not look pleased at all.

            “*You* are Acharn the Hook-handed?” he asked, raising his brows and folding his arms across his chest. 

            Glirel nodded, his eyes moving to the ground.

            “I am, but I assure you that this tale that you have heard of me is not true.  I do not know where it started.  I did awaken beneath Elbereth’s stars at the Cuivienen, yes, and I was a prisoner of Melko, but I certainly never murdered anyone.  I hope that Your Majesty believes me.  I would never do that.”  He looked so stricken that many looked upon him with pity and kindness, their hearts moved by his earnestness and what he must have suffered all these long, lonely years.

            “I am certain that he will,” Legolas said, moving to stand beside his father.  “He has told us his tale, adar, and I believe him.  I thought, well, *we* thought,” he said, glancing at Brethil, who nodded vigorously, and Tavor who merely looked ill at ease, “that perhaps he could join us at the Hall for Yule.  And . . . perhaps find a place among us, as one of us.”

            “What?!  Legolas, that is rather a bold thing to say,” Thranduil said in a low voice.

            “Tis bold, Your Majesty,” Donweth countered, moving forward a few steps.  “Yet I believe that a lot of the spirit of your people lies in this sort of acceptance of one another, finding worth in those who wish to live here, to be one of us.  We are all different, and we come from many places and backgrounds.  You were kind and generous enough to accept me as I was; just as the Silvan’s of this great Greenwood accepted your father and you, and your followers when you arrived.  This is part of our strength, part of what makes Greenwood so great.  I don’t think that you can turn him away so callously because of a child’s ghost story that has lost all truth in the passing Ages of our world.  Who knows what stories will be told of us by future generations?  If Glirel is willing, then I believe that he should be allowed to come with us for Yule, and stay as long as he wishes.”

            Anirathiel nodded, moving forward to smile up at Glirel, who stared in amazement at Donweth.  She placed one hand on his arm and turned to look earnestly at the king.

            Thranduil stared from one to another of his people as they moved to greet Glirel, names were given, bows exchanged, and smiles of greeting and welcome touched every face.  He watched this interaction silently, thoughtfully.  Finally he moved to stand before Glirel himself.

            “May I ask what your intentions were toward Tanglinna and myself when we . . . met before?” he queried, gazing intently into the other’s grey eyes.

            “I was merely trying to return the young maiden’s hair clip,” Glirel said with a smile at Uilos, who grinned and pointed to where the silver hair clasp adorned the holly tree.  “I thought that was what I heard Tanglinna,” and here he looked at the silver-haired archer with a wry, almost apologetic grin, “say that he was looking for that night.  I merely wanted to give it to you as I had found it earlier on the pathway.”

            Tanglinna smiled slightly, looking more embarrassed than anything else.

            “You had the clip?” he murmured.  “That was why you tapped me on the shoulder with your. . . .”  His eyes moved to where Glirel’s right arm was still hidden beneath Brethil’s cloak.  “Your hook,” he finished.

            “Ah, that.”  Now it was Glirel’s turn to look embarrassed.  “I know I should merely have been wearing the small leather cap on my wrist that night as I am now. I do apologize.  Occasionally the hook comes in handy.” 

            Breggaur butted against his legs comfortingly and gazed up at the king with his great amber eyes.

            “I suppose the warg must come too,” Thranduil said with a sigh.

            “Oh yes, Your Majesty!”  Brethil answered, placing his arm about the great shoulders.  “He is an excellent warg, and quite a good hunting companion from what Glirel has told us.  He even said that he has, on occasion, ridden Breggaur – that is his name – though I wasn’t certain if I believed that.  Whoever heard of an elf riding on a warg before?”

            This elicited many chuckles from the gathering and Glirel smiled, feeling very pleased and quite lucky to be surrounded by his own kind again, to be treated as one of them.

            Thranduil sighed once more, still eyeing the warg who met his gaze quite fearlessly.

            “Well, he may come as well,” he said, “but only if Malthenhwest agrees.  We can’t have a warg chasing our horses about or taunting the hounds simply because he is so much bigger than they are.”

            Malthenhwest, hearing his name, whickered and trotted into the clearing, trailed by the other horses.  The great horse stood eyeing the warg imperiously.  Breggaur woofed then seemed to bow slightly to the golden stallion, who nodded his head in return, snowy mane just touching the ground.

            “You see?”  Brethil exclaimed quite happily, patting Malthenhwest with one hand and Breggaur with the other.  “They like one another already.”

            So it was settled.   Before they returned to the Hall for the beginning of the Yule celebration, they had their own little feast in Glirel’s clearing.  There was much laughter and song, and a few tales were told.  Glirel sat watching the faces of his new friends, wondering how something so wonderful could happen to him after all this time alone.  He silently thanked the Valar for any part they may have played in this Yule miracle, a smile playing on his lips as happiness washed over him.

            Thranduil sat watching those gathered as well.  They were all different, all unique and wonderful and he felt blessed to have them with him.  Donweth had proved to be an excellent addition to his realm, bringing unforeseen skills and unlooked for humor and a wry wit.  He had seen Nephredil and Erioduin born here in this woods, and seen them grow up to become good friends, and soon they would be good parents.  Arasceleg had been one of the first to greet he and his father when they arrived in Greenwood, greeting them with curiosity and surprising kindness and acceptance.  Tanglinna had always been there and he smiled at the archer, who, feeling his gaze, turned to smile back at him.  And the young ones . . . .  Thranduil gazed fondly at his son and his friends, who were all glowing with happiness and good cheer.  Lastly he turned to the newest addition to his realm.  Glirel was grinning as Uilos filled his goblet of wine from a bottle she had been carrying in her basket.  She then turned to the king and filled his as well.

            Thranduil raised his goblet.

            “To friends old and new,” he said, gazing at them each in turn.

            “To friends old and new,” they all repeated, hearts filled with the warmth and joy of the season.

            After a few moments, as everyone was feeling very comfortable and relaxed, Glirel turned to the king.

            “I am sorry that I frightened you so, Your Majesty.”

            Thranduil raised one brow and shot a look at the others, for he had heard the chuckles that accompanied this apology.

            “Think nothing of it,” he said, his eyes moving to sweep over them all.  “I *mean* think *nothing* of it,” he finished in a warning tone.

            “It is forgotten, Majesty,” Tanglinna laughed, grinning at the others.  “Just as we have forgotten many things over the years that you have urged us not to think on.”  Then with a wicked gleam in his eye, he turned to Glirel.  “Though there is one forgotten tale that I simply *must* tell you!  You see -!”

            A snowball, quickly crafted in royal hands hit the archer on the mouth, exploding into many cold, white crystals.

            “There is enough time for tales later,” Thranduil said with a grin as Tanglinna sputtered and wiped the snow from his face.  “Remind *me* to tell a few,” he finished with a wink at his son.  “Happy Yule!” he said, raising his goblet.

            “Happy Yule!”

THE END

Happy Yule to all of you as well!  :)