I borrow characters and setting from Tolkien. I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life I believe he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter and for brainstorming with me for ideas and ways to take it.

Several reviewers also suggested pieces of plot that will turn up in this story.  I would name them, but I am afraid of leaving someone out because I get ideas from so many wonderful people.

In addition, I mean this story to be a response to a challenge Karri issued to write a story about a practical joke gone wrong.

This story is set right after “Growing under Shadow,” but I hope you will not have to have read that to understand it.  If I am unclear, please tell me.  Legolas is 27, or about 11 or 12 in human terms.

*******

1. Father and Sons

“Ithilden, it is completely unrealistic to think that we can hold any of that territory south of the mountains,” Thranduil said exasperatedly.

“Adar, we are holding it,” Ithilden insisted.  “According to the dispatch I got from Eilian this morning, the Southern Patrol drove back the band of Orcs that had moved north of the road.”

“And how long will it be before they return?” Thranduil demanded, his voice sharpening.

“I do not know.” His oldest son’s voice was growing sharper too.  “But when they do, we will drive them back again.”

“We cannot keep doing this indefinitely!”

“But we can do it one day at a time and see where it takes us!” Ithilden exclaimed.  “I refuse to cede control of that area to the Shadow.  Every inch of territory we give up makes the Realm that much more dangerous.”

“Do you think I do not care about the Shadow that fouls the woods?” Thranduil exclaimed.  “I care beyond measure. But I will not allow warriors who place their trust in me to be sent into disaster!”

“Is that what you think I am doing?” Ithilden’s face was growing flushed.  “Sending my brother and his warriors into disaster?”

For a moment, silence reigned in Thranduil’s office, as the two of them stared at one another, breathing hard.  And as he looked into the frustrated face of his son, Thranduil suddenly pulled himself up short.  He knew perfectly well who he thought had led the warriors of the Woodland Realm into disaster, and Oropher was long dead.  This was Ithilden who stood before him, his oldest son who was cautious and responsible to a fault.  “No,” he conceded, leaning back in his chair. “Of course not.”  Across the desk from him, Ithilden too relaxed slightly.

“I will not keep troops in that area if I believe the fight is hopeless, Adar,” Ithilden assured him.  “But I can send more warriors now, and they will all be supplied with the weapons we have been buying from the dwarves, so there are no fears about their being ill-equipped.”

Thranduil grimaced.  He did not like having to depend on the dwarves for weaponry, but Ithilden had convinced him that until he had enough smiths of his own, he had no choice. He sighed.  He trusted Ithilden’s judgment. He really did.  But he found it very difficult to let his son make decisions that differed from those he would have made himself.  Thus he found himself looking over Ithilden’s shoulder sometimes, even when he knew his son resented the implied doubt about his ability to manage the Realm’s forces on his own.

“Very well,” he said.  “Send the additional warriors.  But I expect you to keep a cautious eye on the situation,” he warned, “and to act at once if the position becomes untenable.”

“Thank you, Adar,” said Ithilden, gathering up the papers he had spread on his father’s desk when their conference began.  “I will take care of the matter at once.  And I will be careful,” he added. “You need not worry.”

“I know that,” Thranduil said with a small smile.  “As I have told you before, I am well aware of how lucky I am to have you.”

Ithilden returned the smile.  “By your leave,” he said, and at Thranduil’s nod, he strode from the room, already intent on carrying out the plans on whose behalf he had just been arguing.

Thranduil rubbed his temples.  He hoped he had made the right decision in trusting Ithilden’s advice.  Ithilden was good at his job, but despite his confidence in his own opinions, he could make mistakes just as anyone else could.  Thranduil sighed.  The decision had been made, and there was no point in worrying about it now.  The Valar only knew no one would agonize more than Ithilden would if he had made an error. Thranduil stood and stretched.  He had been sitting all day.  He had time to ride before evening meal, and the exercise would make him feel better.

He had not held court that afternoon, so he was already dressed in tunic and leggings and could head immediately for the stables, trailed as soon as he left the palace by the two guards who Ithilden insisted should follow him everywhere.  The stablemaster greeted him with a bow and a grin and sent his assistants scrambling to fetch the king’s great stallion and the horses belonging to his guards.  “He is full of himself today, my lord,” he said, eyeing the stallion fondly as Thranduil leapt onto his back. “You will have your hands full.”

Thranduil laughed.  “Then he will fit in with others with whom I have been dealing,” he said and guided the horse out onto the path, as eager as the stallion was for the run that would leave both guards and their horses straining to keep up.

***

Ithilden strode into the building housing his office, drawing his aide to his feet.  “You can send the orders I had prepared, Calith.  I want those warriors on their way south in the morning.”  He tossed the papers onto his aide’s desk.

“Yes, my lord,” the aide responded, as Ithilden passed through the room and into his own office.  Calith followed him.  “A dispatch came from the Western Border Patrol.  I put it on your desk.  They found spiders inside their territory, but they think they have cleaned them all out.”

“Let us hope so,” Ithilden said, picking up the dispatch that lay in the middle of his desk and frowning over it. “Have the new supplies of venom antidote been sent yet?”

“Yes, and the healers say more will be ready by tomorrow.”

“Good.  You had better see to it that the Western Border Patrol has plenty.”  Ithilden sat down at his desk, and the aide withdrew.  The supplies of antidote had been low, but that shortage seemed to be easing now.  He read the dispatch again, making sure that he had understood correctly that nothing was being asked of him.

He wished he could see the situation for himself.  Until a few years ago, he had commanded the Realm’s troops from the field, but as the Shadow grew, so did the task of defending against it, and he had had to consent to his father’s suggestion that he manage the Realm’s defense from a central location.  The central command made sense, but he hated depending on others for an understanding of what was happening in areas that were his responsibility.

And there was another problem with commanding from home too, and that was that, as this afternoon’s discussion had demonstrated, he necessarily operated under much closer scrutiny from Thranduil.  He put the dispatch down and tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his desk, staring out his window at the waning summer day.

It was not that he resented his father’s suggestions.  Thranduil had millennia of experience in fighting the Shadow, and Ithilden valued that and drew on it.  Indeed, until recently, he had seldom disagreed with his father in the privacy of his own thoughts, let alone openly. But as the Shadow had spread further and Ithilden had immersed himself in his warriors’ struggles, he had begun to believe that he had a far clearer sense of what they were facing and what they needed than Thranduil did.

As a result, he had had to argue with his father over buying weapons from the Dwarves.  In Ithilden’s opinion, while Thranduil’s experience was usually valuable, it sometimes weighed him down, making him unable to let go of old grudges and old quarrels, even when, for instance, Elves and Dwarves were now on the same side.  Ithilden had won that argument, the first real one that he and Thranduil had had over military matters.  He was confident that the decision he had urged was the correct one, and he was secretly pleased with how well he had managed his father.  He hoped that, in the long run, Thranduil would see the sense in dealing with the Dwarves and recognize that Ithilden had insight to bring to their long struggle against the Shadow, insight that was valuable even if it differed from Thranduil’s.

Ithilden sighed and forced his attention to the reports on his desk.  He needed to be sure he understood everything that was happening with his warriors before his workday ended.  And he wanted to be done in time to meet Legolas and walk him home from his day’s penance at the infirmary.

He smiled at the thought.  His little brother was going to be beside himself with excitement today.  Their father had sentenced him to a month of doing menial tasks in the infirmary as punishment for creeping out of the palace at night to go hunting with his friend Turgon.  Even now, Ithilden shuddered at the thought of Legolas and the other child on their own in the woods at night.  The two of them had just barely grown large enough to begin using small adult bows, and they were far from ready to face the dangers that could have come upon them.  But today was the last day Legolas would have to spend in such penance, and Ithilden predicted that he would be giddy at the prospect of the freedom within his sight.

Moreover, if Ithilden was honest with himself, he knew there was another reason he had fallen into the habit of meeting Legolas at the infirmary.  For a second, he paused in his reading the next day’s duty roster, and between him and the dry document he was reading came the image of the healer’s daughter, the one who sometimes was waiting for her mother when he fetched Legolas, the one with the dimple and the thick braid.  His heart quickened at little, and he smiled softly to himself.  Then he bent back to his work.  He definitely wanted to be finished in time to meet Legolas.

***

Legolas swung the mop in wide arcs over the floor of the infirmary.  Damp curves showed his progress down the hallway, but he was not watching them. Rather he was keeping his eye on Gwaleniel, whom he could see through the open doorway, carefully portioning out the newly-made doses of spider venom antidote.  Surely she would soon turn around and tell him that he had done enough work for the day.  And when she did, he would be finished with his whole month’s servitude.  No more cleaning up vomit or emptying bed pans or running to fetch needed items the healers had forgotten!  By tomorrow, he would once again be spending his afternoons playing with his friends when he was done with his lessons, rather than working in the infirmary.

As if compelled by his thoughts, Gwaleniel glanced back, and seeing him looking in her direction, she smiled.  “Are you finished with the floor yet, Legolas?”

“Almost,” he said hopefully.  And indeed he had only the half-dozen feet between himself and the front door to finish mopping.

She put down the small packet in her hand and came toward him.  “You have been a big help to us this month,” she said.  “I will tell your adar how hard you have worked and how you have hurried to do whatever we asked of you.”

He flushed with pleasure.  He had not liked a great deal of what he had been asked to do in the infirmary, but he had usually tried his best to do it anyway because he did not want his father to be any more angry with him than he already was.  And besides, he liked the healers and even felt that he had sometimes helped the injured Elves for whom the healers cared.  Still, he was ready to be done with working for a while. He missed riding his horse and hunting in the summer woods and doing the dozens of other things his friends were out doing.

The door to the infirmary opened, and Legolas spun around in alarm.  “Do not track dirt on the wet spots,” he ordered a surprised looking Ithilden, who stood in the doorway. “I just washed them.”

Ithilden grinned.  “I will be careful,” he promised, sidling around the edges of the newly washed places.  “Mae govannen, Gwaleniel.”

“Mae govannen, my lord,” the healer responded, with a smile of her own.  “Legolas will be ready to go as soon as he has finished with the floor.”  Legolas dipped his mop in the bucket of water and began hastily swiping it over the remaining stretch of floor.

“I will wait for him,” Ithilden said, glancing along the length of the hallway lined with benches.

“You do not have to wait because I am finished!” Legolas said triumphantly, picking up the heavy bucket and lugging it out the door to empty it in the flower bed next to the step.  He came back in and shoved the mop and bucket in the cupboard on one side of the hall.  Then he stood, wiping his wet hands on his tunic and bouncing on his toes a little in his impatience to be gone.  Ithilden, however, was still talking to the healer and looking past her into the room where she had been working.

“I am told you have more spider venom antidote for us,” he said.

“Yes, it will be ready by the end of the day,” she answered.

“Good,” he nodded, and Legolas reached for the doorknob.  Ithilden hesitated for a second as if trying to find something else to say.  Then, finally, he nodded farewell to Gwaleniel and started toward the door too.

“Yes!” Legolas shouted as he jumped off the step. He turned and ran backward, facing his brother. “I am finished!”

Ithilden grinned at him.  “Behave yourself now, and you will not have to do that again,” he admonished.

Legolas shrugged. Sometimes Ithilden sounded just like their father, as if he thought that Legolas was still an elfling.  Legolas turned and walked facing front again, lingering enough that Ithilden caught up with him.  He would not admit it to Ithilden, of course, but he had been glad every time Ithilden came for him at the end of the afternoon.  He liked walking with Ithilden when his brother was not being bossy.  It made him feel grown up.  Any warriors they passed saluted Ithilden and other Elves spoke to him respectfully, but when he and Legolas walked together, he talked to Legolas, and other people must have seen that Legolas was going to be a warrior too.

They rounded some bushes where the path turned and came face to face with Gwaleniel’s daughter, Alfirin.  Legolas skipped to one side of the path and kept walking, but Ithilden stopped dead in his tracks. “Mae govannen, mistress,” he said, and Legolas turned to look at him.  His voice sounded funny.

“Mae govannen, my lord,” she responded.  She had stopped walking too.  There was a moment’s silence as they stood looking at one another.

“Are you coming?” Legolas asked impatiently, and Ithilden scowled at him.

“Do not be rude,” his brother snapped.  Legolas could feel himself flushing.  He had not been rude. Ithilden was the rude one to scold him in front of someone else.

Alfirin had now edged her way around Ithilden, who was big enough to block the path and was rudely doing so, in Legolas’s opinion.  “I will not keep you,” she said, and with a nod of her head, she walked off and disappeared around the corner.  Ithilden stood staring after her, looking as if he had forgotten Legolas completely.

Legolas turned and stomped off toward home, but he had not gone more than a few steps before Ithilden’s hand was on his shoulder.  “It would not have hurt you to wait a little more patiently,” his brother said.

Legolas glanced at his frowning face.  “You do not have to walk with me, you know. I can walk home by myself.”

Ithilden paused for a second then and took a deep breath.  “I know you can,” he said, his frown fading, “but I enjoy walking with you.”

Legolas blinked in surprise. “Really?” he asked with a little thrill of pleasure.

“Really,” Ithilden assured him. “At least when you are being polite, I do.”

Legolas grimaced, pulled his shoulder free of Ithilden’s hand, and resumed walking with his brother next to him.  His friend Turgon said that adults were all alike, and sometimes Legolas thought Turgon was right.

***

Ithilden entered the family sitting room, where Thranduil already sat with a cup of wine in his hand.  He poured himself some wine and then, at his father’s invitation, sat down. “The extra warriors for Eilian will be on their way by morning,” he said.  Thranduil nodded, but before he could speak, the door burst open, and Legolas bounded into the room.

“Good evening, Adar,” he cried happily.

“Good evening, my heart,” Thranduil smiled at him.  “Would you like a little wine?”

“Yes, please,” Legolas nodded and came close to watch as Thranduil poured a few drops of wine into a cup and then filled it with water.  He accepted it from Thranduil’s hand and then carried it carefully to the chair his father had indicated.  “Today was my last day in the infirmary, Adar,” he declared as he took a sip of his drink. “Do you remember that?”

“Yes, I remember,” Thranduil said. “Now you need to remember that I make rules for you to keep you safe, and I expect you to follow them.”

Legolas scowled a little at his cup of wine tinted water.  “Yes, Adar,” he said, not altogether graciously.  A thought seemed to occur to him, and he looked up again.  “Adar, Turgon and Annael have been building a flet behind Annael’s cottage. I am going to help them work on it tomorrow. When it is finished, they are going to sleep in it. Can I do that too?”

Ithilden glanced at Thranduil and, as he expected, he saw irritation flare in his father’s face. “Legolas,” Thranduil said, “you and I just had a discussion about how dangerous the woods are at night.  No, you may not sleep outside without an adult.”

“This is not in the woods,” Legolas argued. “It is in the trees right behind Annael’s cottage.  And Annael and Turgon are going to do it. And you said that if I behaved well in the infirmary, you would try to find chances for me to walk safely under the stars.”

“Do not argue with me,” Thranduil said sharply.  “I said no, and I mean no.”  Legolas bit his lip and looked down, but not in time to hide the rebellion in his face.

Ithilden grimaced.  He predicted that this matter of the flet was going to be subject of repeated arguments, probably until the pieces of it fell out of the tree in which it was built.  Thranduil was unlikely to bend, however.  For one thing, he thought that Turgon was a bad influence on Legolas, and Ithilden had to agree with him on that one.  Indeed, he thought that Thranduil might do well to forbid Legolas to play with the other child any longer and could not really imagine why his father seemed so hesitant to do it.  But then Thranduil allowed Legolas much more latitude than he had ever allowed Ithilden or Eilian, one of the advantages of being the family baby, presumably.

When Eilian had been home on leave the previous month, he had casually mentioned to Ithilden that he thought Legolas needed more attention from their father, and that it was a pity that Thranduil was too busy to provide it.  Eilian was usually right about matters having to do with Legolas, for the two of them were close, and Ithilden knew that Legolas told Eilian things he did not tell him or their father.

Thranduil sighed.  “We will not talk about this any longer tonight, Legolas,” he announced. “We will have a pleasant family meal, and then you will do your lessons for tomorrow and then, if you like, I will read to you before bedtime.  Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Legolas muttered and Ithilden groaned inwardly.  Their evening meal would be tense if Legolas sulked all the way through it.

“How was archery class today?” Thranduil asked, and it was suddenly clear that he had spoken the magic words.  Legolas looked up at him and grinned.

“It was fun!” he declared and started on a long story about learning to shoot while moving.  Ithilden relaxed.  You had to hand it to their father.  He certainly knew how to bring Legolas out of a bad temper.  If only he could see that Legolas needed his attention even when he was not in a foul mood.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain only the enriched imaginative life I assume he hoped I would gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

2.  Struggling with Weapons

“Watch your bow hand, Legolas,” said the archery master.  “Move your little finger out further.”  Obediently, Legolas adjusted the grip of his bow hand.  “Go!” called Penntalion, and Legolas ran the twenty feet to where the other students in his class were standing, firing down the training field at the target as he went.

“Good!” Penntalion approved, and Legolas could see for himself that his arrow had hit the target’s center ring.  He frowned a little, moving his bow hand experimentally and trying to think if he had been letting its angle drop lately.

“That is enough for today,” Penntalion told them.  “Retrieve your arrows before you go. You can leave the target there for the next class.”  He left his own gear where it lay and walked off toward the water bucket that stood on the edge of the training field.  Legolas started toward the target, walking between Annael and Turgon.

“When are you coming to work on the flet?” Annael asked.

“As soon as my lessons are over,” Legolas answered.  Annael nodded. He and Turgon had lessons this afternoon too, although theirs were usually over before Legolas’s were.

“What did your adar say about sleeping on it?” Turgon asked, pulling his arrow from the target’s outer ring. He frowned at it, as if it had failed him deliberately.

Legolas scowled, jerking his own arrow from the center ring.  “He has not said yes yet, but I will ask him again.”  He could not believe that his father would forbid him to sleep on a flet only thirty feet from Annael’s cottage.  He would explain all that as soon as he had the chance, and surely Thranduil would change his mind.

“You could probably do it even if your adar says no,” Turgon said practically.  “You could just tell him you were sleeping in Annael’s cottage.”

“No,” said Legolas firmly. “I cannot lie to him.  He does not like it, and I do not like it either.”

Turgon shrugged. “I was only saying that you could do it.  I would if I were you and my adar was so unreasonable.”

Annael rolled his eyes. “Your adar never stops you from doing anything, Turgon, so it is easy for you to say what you would do.  I want a drink before we go,” he added, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. The day was hot, and Legolas found that he was thirsty too.

The three of them started toward where Penntalion stood near the water bucket, drinking from the dipper and talking to a maiden who was the sister of one of their classmates, an amiable Elf named Tonduil.  Legolas recognized her. She was the healer’s daughter, the one he and Ithilden had met on their way home yesterday.  He had seen her often at the infirmary and knew that her name was Alfirin.

Legolas stopped a short distance from the water bucket, feeling it would impolite to interrupt the archery master, and Annael hovered at his elbow.   Turgon moved in close, however, and Penntalion saw him, handed over the dipper with a smile, and then moved off a short distance to talk to Alfirin some more.

Tonduil was shifting from one foot to the other as he waited for her. He smiled tentatively at Legolas and his friends, and Legolas smiled back. He did not know Tonduil very well, but he seemed nice enough, and Legolas liked having friends his own age.  They were interested in the same things he was, and unlike his family, they talked to him as if they thought he had opinions that were as good as theirs.  Turgon passed the dipper to Annael, who took a long drink and then gave it to Legolas, who decided that lukewarm water was better than nothing and helped himself.

“What is happening over there?” Turgon asked, looking behind Legolas toward the other end of the training field.  Few things penetrated Legolas’s concentration when he had a bow in his hand, but he realized that since their class had ended, he had been half conscious that a stir had been underway for some time there.

He turned to look where Turgon was pointing and felt a sudden thrill.  Some of the senior warriors stood in a group there, and judging by the clang of swords and the presence of Ithilden’s master combat officer, they must be practicing their sword work.  With one accord, Turgon and Annael started trotting down the field toward the display, and Legolas dropped the dipper back into the bucket and ran after them.

As they drew near enough to see through the gaps in the small crowd that had gathering to watch the exercise, Legolas’s attention quickened, for he saw that one of the pair of warriors who were now battling was Ithilden.  Legolas did not know who the other warrior was, and he did not really care. He had eyes only for his brother, who, like his opponent, was dressed in light leather armor meant to protect him, for even a blunted practice sword could do damage when wielded with the speed and strength of Ithilden’s best troops.

At the moment, Ithilden and other warrior were circling one another warily, their blades in horizontal guard position, although both of them were also moving their swords up and down and side to side all the time, probing for an opening each other’s defenses.  They must have been fighting for a while, Legolas thought, because sweat was running freely down both their faces beneath their helmets.

Then, almost quicker than Legolas’s eye could follow, Ithilden thrust toward the other warrior’s mid-section, and when his opponent twisted sideways, he drew the blade back, trying to slash the other warrior’s side.  The other warrior was fast enough that he managed to get out of the way, and Ithilden barely got his sword back in position in time to parry the chop that the other aimed at his shoulder.  He shoved the other warrior’s sword to the side, and they broke apart again.

This time they did not circle, however, because Ithilden attacked again in a whirl of vertical and diagonal slashes that had the other warrior backing up and parrying, with no chance to launch an attack of his own before Ithilden suddenly varied his pattern and thrust under the other warrior’s guard to tap his sword against the other’s chest.  Both of them froze for a second, and then they lowered their swords with mutual grins and clouts on the shoulder, and the onlookers broke into a ragged round of applause.  Legolas let out an exultant cheer.

“Your brother is really good,” Annael said admiringly.

“He is indeed,” said Penntalion, who had come up behind them, still accompanied by Alfirin and Tonduil, who were both looking wide-eyed at Ithilden.  “Ithilden is not someone I would ever want to have to face on a battlefield.”  Legolas turned to grin at the archery master and then began edging his way through the crowd to where his brother stood, pulling off his helmet and leather armor.

***

Ithilden handed the armor to one of the watching warriors, and then dragged the sleeve of his tunic across his sweaty face.  The tunic itself was also soaked, for the leather armor had been stiflingly hot.  Accepting congratulations as he went, he walked toward the water bucket, where he scooped up water to pour over his head.  Then he unbuckled his belt and dragged off his tunic and his thin undertunic, wiping himself off with them as best he could. Calith appeared at his elbow.  He handed his aide the sweaty clothes, and Calith disappeared to exchange them for a spare tunic that Ithilden kept in his office for just such situations.

“You were wonderful, Ithilden!” cried a familiar voice, and he looked around to find Legolas beaming at him.

“Thank you.”  He smiled at his little brother, surprisingly gratified by his obvious admiration.  Legolas’s friend Annael stood shyly just behind him with an equally appreciative look on his face.  On the other hand, his friend Turgon was fiddling with the practice swords that were slotted into the nearby rack.  “Leave those alone, Turgon,” Ithilden said sharply, and the child jumped and jerked his hand away from them.

“I was only looking,” he protested.  Legolas frowned at Ithilden, who sincerely wished that Legolas and Turgon would have some sort of quarrel that would drive them apart forever.

Unexpectedly, he caught a glimpse of a long, thick braid, and he realized that Alfirin stood not ten feet away, talking to Penntalion with her back to Ithilden.  It was uncommon, although not unheard of, to see maidens at the training fields, and he had never seen Alfirin here before.  The archery master was smiling down into her upturned face.  With a fierceness that startled him, Ithilden felt an overwhelming stab of jealousy.  Without pause for thought, he walked toward the pair.  Penntalion looked up, and Alfirin turned to him.

“Good match, my lord,” said the archery master.

“Thank you,” Ithilden said stiffly. “I believe you have a class waiting for you.”

Penntalion flushed slightly and glanced back down the training field to where a group of novices awaited him.  “Yes, my lord,” he said, and with a nod to Alfirin, he started back toward them.  Ithilden was immediately ashamed of himself.  Penntalion was one of his warriors, and Ithilden had just come very close to bullying him.

Alfirin looked puzzled and a little startled by the exchange. She turned to look Ithilden full in the face, and then her eyes traveled downward and he became aware that he was stripped to the waist and was wearing only snuggly fitted leggings. He felt himself blushing, an event so rare he could not remember the last time it had happened.  The youngling who had been standing nearby took Alfirin’s hand and tugged it.  “Come on,” he begged. “I want to have time to swim before mid-day meal.”

Alfirin raised her eyes to Ithilden’s, and it seemed to him that her face too was reddened, although perhaps that was only due to the heat.  “I bid you good day, my lord,” she said, and before he could respond, she had turned and walked off with the child who evidently was her brother.

Calith reappeared and handed him a clean tunic, which he absently pulled over his head, still staring after the maiden.  “Are you coming home for mid-day meal?” Legolas asked, handing him his belt, holding it a little awkwardly because it was wrapped around his sheathed sword, which was too long for Legolas to handle easily.  Ithilden was surprised to realize that he was still nearby, looking a little hurt at the loss of his older brother’s attention.

“Yes, but it is not quite time yet,” Ithilden told him, reaching out to caress the blond head.  “You should go swimming too.  You have time, and you look hot.”

“I am,” Legolas admitted. Then he grinned. “I hit the center of the target every time today even though I was running while I fired. Penntalion says that I am doing very well, and he is helping me change how I hold my bow.”

Ithilden grimaced slightly.  Even his little brother seemed to be admiring the archery master today.  “Good,” he said, with what seemed to him to be heroic effort.

“Are you coming, Legolas?” called Turgon, and Ithilden looked up to see Legolas’s two friends waiting for him with obvious impatience.

“Go on,” he said. “I will see you at home in a little while.”  Legolas flashed him a grin and ran off with Turgon and Annael.

“My lord?” said Calith in a low voice, and Ithilden turned to him.

“Yes?”

“The master armorer is waiting in your office.  He wants to talk about the shipment of Dwarven weapons that has just arrived.”

Ithilden frowned and started walking back toward his office, dragging his mind back to his responsibilities. “Is something the matter?”

“Probably,” Calith answered.  “He looked worried.”

Ithilden strode through the door to find the armorer waiting and led him into his own office.  “You wanted to speak to me about the Dwarven weapons?” he asked, settling behind his desk and motioning the armorer into the chair.

Without speaking, the armorer unsheathed the sword he had been holding and laid it on Ithilden’s desk.  Ithilden slowly reached out and ran his finger along the narrow groove than ran the length of the blade.  “What is this?” he asked in dismay.  He had never seen such a groove in a sword before.

“The Men who brought it say that the Dwarves claim that the groove will make the sword lighter but will not weaken it,” the armorer said.

Ithilden looked up at him. “Do you believe that?”

The armorer lifted his hands helplessly. “I do not know. I can test it, but that will take time, and the Men want payment for the next shipment now or they say the Dwarves will not send it.”

Ithilden blew out his breath in exasperation. “I swear there are times when I think my father is right and dealing with the Dwarves is just too much trouble.”  He eyed the offending sword distastefully, trying to decide what to do.  His warriors needed the Dwarven weapons but there was no point in supplying them with weak swords.  He considered the question of what his father was going to say about the matter and flinched at the thought.  “Very well,” he finally said reluctantly.  “Test the swords of this design, and in the meantime we will have to withhold payment.  Be as quick as you can. See if the Men will wait here for however long you think it will take you to do it.”

“Yes, my lord.” The armorer reached for the sword, but Ithilden stopped him.

“I had better take this one to show to the king,” he said unhappily.

“Better you than me, my lord,” the armorer observed, and Ithilden smiled weakly at him.  The two of them had talked to Thranduil about buying Dwarven weapons, and the armorer knew how the king was likely to react to the sword on Ithilden’s desk. “I will get started testing the blades immediately,” the armorer said and left the room.

Ithilden looked at the grooved sword again.  If the Dwarves were being truthful, a lighter sword would allow his warriors to fight for a longer time without tiring.  He could feel himself beginning to hope and grimaced.  He would need to persuade his father to patience and that was always a difficult task.  He stood and picked up the sword, hefting it to test its weight.  The difference was not great, but it was certainly noticeable.  He slid it into its sheath, drew a deep breath, and started out of his office, carrying the sword.

“I will be back this afternoon, Calith,” he told his aide.

“My lord,” Calith said hesitantly, “there is something else I need to speak to you about before I can finish making up the list of warriors on leave this coming week.”

“What is it?” Ithilden asked impatiently. Now that he was on his way to speak to Thranduil, he did not like being delayed. The sooner he began this task, the sooner it would be over.

“You will recall that you decided that warriors would have to take leave whether they wanted to or not,” Calith said. He looked apprehensive but also faintly amused.

Ithilden nodded.  Warriors who did not take regular leaves eventually suffered for it, and he had decided that he could no longer tolerate their lack of care for their own well-being.

“I have been going over the lists,” Calith went on, “and I have found an officer who has not taken a leave in four years.”

“He will have to do it,” Ithilden declared, “and I do not care what excuse he has. Who is it?”

“You, my lord,” Calith said.

Ithilden stared at him open-mouthed and was irritated to realize that the aide actually seemed to be suppressing a grin.  “I cannot take a leave now,” he protested weakly.  Calith held his tongue and simply let his grin become open. Ithilden scowled at him. “You are enjoying this,” he accused.

Calith laughed outright.  “You need a leave,” he said.  “Let Deler run the day-to-day things for a week.  We can find you if we have to. For that matter, we can speak to the king. He did run the troops himself for years, you know.”

“I know,” said Ithilden in instant alarm.  He had worked too hard to gain control of what went on with the Realm’s forces to let Thranduil have it back now.  “Deler can manage, and I will keep you informed of where I am.” Deler captained the Home Guard and would be only too glad to go back to doing so after a week in Ithilden’s office.

“I will send word to Deler immediately,” Calith said cheerfully.  “Your leave will start in two days.”

“Thank you,” said Ithilden and was not surprised when Calith ignored the note of sarcasm in his voice.  As he left the building and started toward the palace, Ithilden was aware that his day had gone steadily downhill from the moment he had won the sword fight.  Given that he now had to speak to his father about the grooved sword, the idea did not cheer him. As strode along, he thought briefly about Alfirin and was vexed with himself for having stood gawping at her, tongue tied.  The unpleasant truth was that her presence reduced him to being slightly older than Legolas, and he did not like the feeling at all.  He spent an unhappy moment in picturing her talking to Penntalion, but then he crossed the bridge into the palace and put his personal concerns aside. He had responsibilities to attend to.

To his relief, he found his father just leaving the Great Hall.  Discussing the swords in the public space of the Hall would have been unpleasant.  “I need to speak to you before mid-day meal, Adar,” he said.  Thranduil gestured him into his office, and Ithilden laid the still-sheathed sword on his father’s desk. “The Dwarves have sent us swords of a different design,” he said, and then hastened on when his father’s brows drew together into a frown.  “They are lighter but are supposedly just as strong.  The armorer is testing the weapons before we pay the Men who delivered them.”

Thranduil reached impatiently for the sword, drew it, and then froze, staring at the grooved blade.  Then, color rising up his neck, he turned hard grey eyes on Ithilden. “Just what is it the Dwarves are playing at?”

“The armorer is testing the swords, Adar,” Ithilden repeated, forcing himself to sound calm in the hopes that his father would stay that way too.  “If they are not as strong as the others we have bought, we will send them back and demand that they be replaced with the swords to which we are accustomed. These are lighter though,” he added.

Thranduil tossed the weapon onto his desk with a clang.  “Of course they are lighter!  The Dwarves have skimped on the metal!”

“If they will not serve, we will insist on getting what we have asked for,” Ithilden said again. His own irritation was beginning to increase too.  In his opinion, Thranduil was much too quick to leap to the conclusion that the Dwarves were deceiving them.  Surely he could see that old grudges needed to be laid aside in the interests of the Realm’s warriors!

As if hearing something in Ithilden’s tone, his father sat for a moment, regarding Ithilden steadily, with his own angry face gradually becoming impenetrable.  Then he looked away briefly before focusing on Ithilden again. “We pay the greedy creatures in advance, as I recall.  We will get what we have already paid for and will buy no more until the armorer says we have received sound weapons,” he said, his voice still tight.

“Of course,” Ithilden assured him, relief flooding his system.  For the moment at least, the way remained open for the Dwarven weapons.  “Thank you, Adar,” he added.  He strongly suspected that his father was not at all convinced that dealing with the Dwarves was a wise idea, but had only made a difficult concession because Ithilden was asking him to. Despite his gratitude for the effort his father was making, Ithilden could not help but be exasperated at how stubborn Thranduil was.  He found that he wanted his father to do more than simply humor him; he wanted Thranduil to have to acknowledge that Ithilden had been right.

Thranduil rose, drawing Ithilden to his feet too.  “Legolas will be waiting for us,” he said and led the way to the dining room, where Legolas was, indeed, already seated.

He scrambled to his feet briefly until his father indicated he could sit again.  “You should have seen Ithilden sword fighting today!” he told Thranduil happily, taking a forkful of the roast duck that Thranduil had put on his plate.

Thranduil smiled and glanced at Ithilden.  “You were on the practice fields today?”

“Yes,” Ithilden said, amused at his little brother’s enthusiastic praise.  “I thought it was time to try my hand again and show the rest of them that I have not forgotten anything while I am sitting behind my desk.” He winked at Legolas, who smiled back.  “Perhaps I will spend next week training for a change.  My aide tells me I am due for a leave and am required to take it.”

Thranduil looked startled.  “Of course you are due for a leave. You are undoubtedly overdue. But surely you can think of something more relaxing to do than train.  That hardly sounds like a leave to me.”

Ithilden laughed.  “Perhaps I will go camping,” he said thoughtfully. The idea of time in the woods suddenly filled him with yearning. It had been a long time since he had been able to sleep quietly under the stars without watching for some creature of darkness. He would get away from everything: from maidens who reduced him to idiocy, from arguments with his father, from decisions to hold territory at the possible cost of injury and death to his warriors.

“That is an excellent idea,” said Thranduil approvingly.  “You need the time away.”

Across the table, Legolas’s eyes had grown huge. “Can I go?” he suddenly asked.  “Please, Ithilden, will you take me with you?”

“Legolas, Ithilden needs to relax,” Thranduil said reprovingly.

“I will not be any trouble, I promise!” Legolas begged.  “Please take me!  We could sleep outside. We could hunt.  I still have not killed my first deer.  Please, Ithilden?”

Ithilden looked at the eager young face.  Why not? he suddenly thought. Legolas needed attention, and maybe he could provide it.  He would get his little brother away from Turgon and perhaps be able to give him some of the guidance he so sorely needed.  “Of course you can come,” he said, watching with delight as Legolas’s face lit up. “I would be happy to have you along.”

“Are you sure?” asked Thranduil, who was looking a bit skeptical.

Ithilden grinned at his little brother, who looked ready to leap across the table and hug him. “Of course I am sure.  We will go the day after tomorrow.”  That would give him enough time to learn how the new swords had fared in the armorer’s tests, he thought.  He did not want to leave until that matter was settled.

“Thank you!” Legolas cried.   A sudden thought seemed to strike him. “I suppose you would not want Turgon and Annael to come,” he said tentatively.

“You suppose correctly!”

Legolas paused for only a moment and then smiled. “It will be more fun if it is just us anyway,” he said, and settled happily to his mid-day meal.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.

*******

3.  Brothers

Legolas trotted down the path to Annael’s cottage and then skirted around it to the small woods in back.  He had not been here in a month because his free time had been given over to working in the infirmary, and the prospect of playing with his friends again left him almost giddy.  He could hear hammering before he got all the way around the cottage, and as soon as he entered the clearing behind it, he could see Turgon and Annael at work, high in a beech tree.

“Come up,” Annael called, spotting him immediately, and Legolas slipped lightly up the tree, coming to a halt on a branch that formed part of the base to which his friends were nailing the flet.  He eyed the construction appraisingly.  It was considerably smaller than the flets that some of Thranduil’s people lived on during the summer.  Those often held small houses, while this was a simple platform measuring perhaps eight feet on a side. Annael and Turgon were in the process of nailing boards to a framework that was wedged among the branches.

“Where did you get the boards?” Legolas asked.

“My ada got them for us,” Annael answered.  Legolas noted that today Annael was calling his father ‘ada.’  Turgon and Legolas both used the more grown-up ‘adar’ now, but Annael still slipped back and forth between the two terms.  Legolas did not think that meant that Annael was a baby. It was just that his parents were more like an ada and a nana than an adar and a naneth.  Legolas thought of them that way, and even Turgon had never commented on the matter.

“He got them from Thréthiel,” Annael went on. “She is going to live with her daughter, so she is pulling down her cottage so the forest can grow there again.  My ada is helping her.”

Legolas nodded.  He knew who Thréthiel was.  Her husband had been one of his brother Eilian’s warriors in the south, but he had been killed.  The thought of Eilian’s dead warrior made Legolas’s stomach hurt, so he determinedly pushed the memory out of his head.

“My ada helped us build the frame too,” Annael added.

“And a good thing that was,” Turgon said practically. “When we tried to put one in the tree, it fell out.”  Legolas laughed but decided he would not tell his father about the ill-fated frame.

“We brought a hammer for you today,” Annael said, pointing to where the tool lay.  “We need to nail these boards on well, and then my ada will look at it tonight when he gets home to see if we can sleep on it.”  Deeply contented to be with his friends, Legolas picked up the hammer and began pounding nails into boards that already seemed to have a good many nails in them.

“Will you be able to sleep out with us?” Turgon asked, banging a bent nail to flatten it into the surface of the flet.

“Not yet,” Legolas admitted.  He brightened. “I am going camping with Ithilden though.”

The other two turned to look at him.  “That will be fun,” Annael said, a little doubtfully.

Turgon snorted.  “Ithilden is much too bossy.  He will not let you do anything fun at all.”

“We are going to hunt,” Legolas said defensively.  “Ithilden is a very good hunter, and I will probably kill at least two deer. And we will sleep outside just as you are going to do.”

“When you went camping with your adar, you had guards with you, and your adar would not let you out of his sight,” Turgon pointed out.  “Ithilden will be even worse because he gives orders all the time.”

“We are not taking any guards,” Legolas protested.  Turgon raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing.  Legolas was immediately anxious.  Were they taking guards?  He could not imagine Ithilden needing guards.

“Ithilden is a good archer,” Annael said. “If you hunt with him, you will be sure to be successful.” Legolas shot his friend a grateful look.

He had to admit to himself that he was becoming a little worried, though.  He admired Ithilden, who was, after all, in charge of all of their father’s warriors.  His oldest brother always seemed to know what to do and always seemed to succeed in doing whatever he attempted.  Legolas wanted Ithilden’s approval more than he would ever have admitted to anyone else.  He wanted Ithilden to see him as someone who would be a good warrior some day, and indeed had a private fantasy that Ithilden was counting the days until Legolas was old enough to join the Realm’s forces.  But it was only too true that Ithilden gave orders, and he did not hesitate to reprimand Legolas when he failed to follow them.  Legolas did not like it when Thranduil scolded him, but he accepted his father’s right to do it.  He could not help resenting it a little, however, when Ithilden scolded him.

The back door of Annael’s cottage opened, and his mother came out.  “Would you three like some cold cider?” she called.  “You have been working so hard, you must be warm.”

Legolas put his hammer down immediately.  He had missed Annael’s mother in the last month too. She was much the nicest female that he knew.  “We are coming, Nana!” Annael said, dropping his own hammer.  The three of them scrambled down the tree and ran toward her.

She smiled at Legolas.  “It is good to see you, Legolas.”  He blushed, ducked his head, and happily followed Annael and Turgon into the cottage.

***

The following day, Ithilden found his father and Legolas both in the dining room when he arrived rather late for evening meal.  Deliberately taking his time and husbanding his news, he sat down and served himself some fish and bread.  “I have a report from the armorer, Adar,” he said, cutting a bite of fish.

Thranduil raised an impatient eyebrow. “And?”

Ithilden chewed and swallowed, prolonging the moment.  “He says that as far as he can tell the grooved swords are as strong as those we have been using.”  He hoped he was keeping the note of triumph from his voice, but he could not be sure.

Thranduil sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes.  “As far as he can tell?”

“He has run every test he can think of.”

“I am not sure I believe it,” Thranduil said.

“The armorer has run every test he can think of,” Ithilden repeated exasperatedly. Surely his father was not going to be so unreasonable!

Thranduil pursed his lips. “Very well,” he finally said with obvious reluctance.  “I will authorize payment for the next shipment.”

“The Men have left already,” Ithilden told him. “Someone will have to go to Dale with the payment.”

Thranduil nodded grimly. “I will see to it.”

Ithilden could feel himself beginning to smile and swiftly looked down at his plate to hide his face.  He did not really take satisfaction in his father being wrong, but he took a great deal in being right himself.  His warriors would be better armed because he had been willing to stand up to Thranduil’s unreasoned prejudices.  And he knew he could do it again if he had to.

There was a moment’s silence and then Thranduil turned to Legolas. “What did you do today, Legolas?” he asked.  He was evidently determined to let the matter drop and Ithilden was willing enough to go along with him.  He had had his moment of victory and that was enough.

“We finished the flet,” Legolas said.  “Annael and Turgon are sleeping on it tonight.”  He looked at Thranduil. “You can see if from the back door of Annael’s cottage,” he said plaintively.  “Please can I sleep on it too, Adar?”

Thranduil put down his fork.  “Legolas, on at least two occasions recently, you have not been where you were supposed to be at night. You cannot expect me to allow you to sleep outside with no adult present until you have shown me that you can be trusted to stay where you are told to.”

Legolas poked at his fish with his fork and scowled at his plate but wisely said nothing.

“We are leaving on our camping trip in the morning anyway,” Ithilden comforted him, “so you could not have slept on the flet tonight in any case.”

A sudden thought seemed to strike Legolas, and he looked up.  “Are we taking guards with us tomorrow?”

“No,” Ithilden said.  Once he had asked Legolas to go with him, he had considered taking guards, but he had decided against it.

Legolas smiled. “I told Turgon and Annael we would not have guards,” he said in satisfaction.

Thranduil turned to Ithilden. “You are not taking guards?”  He sounded surprised.

“No. We are only going three leagues west and are staying near the Elf Path, because I want Deler to be able to reach me if he has to.  And I have asked that the Home Guard patrols check on us when they go that way twice a day.”

Thranduil made an exasperated noise. “You insist that two guards accompany me when I go for my afternoon ride.”

Ithilden raised an eyebrow. “You are the king.  Your safety is crucial to the Realm.”

Thranduil grimaced.  “And your safety and Legolas’s are crucial to me.”

Ithilden glanced across the table at a worried looking Legolas. “We will be fine, Adar,” he said.  “This is supposed to be time away for both Legolas and me, remember?”

Thranduil hesitated and then conceded.  “When you return, we will discuss the matter of my guards again.”

“Whenever you like,” Ithilden grinned at him.  He had no more intention of calling off the guards he had set on his father than he had of taking guards on this camping trip.  Legolas was beaming at him, and to his little brother’s evident delight, Ithilden winked at him.

At the meal’s completion, they rose to move to the sitting room.  “Legolas, you need to go and do your lessons,” Thranduil said as they started toward the door.

“But I do not have lessons tomorrow,” Legolas protested in astonished outrage, and Ithilden felt some sympathy for him.

“Do them now and you will not have to do them when you return from the trip,” Thranduil insisted. “You can join your brother and me when you have finished.”

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, looked at his father, and evidently thought better of it.  “None of my friends has as many lessons as I do,” he grumbled, as he started toward the library instead of the sitting room.

“You are lucky,” Thranduil said, unperturbed, and then ignored the reproachful look Legolas threw him.

Ithilden accepted the cup of wine his father offered him and sat down when his father waved him toward a chair. “I wanted to talk to you about Legolas,” Thranduil began without preface.

Ithilden nodded, suddenly seeing why his father had insisted on Legolas’s lessons being done tonight.

Thranduil paused, as if trying to find words for what he had to say.  “Your brother is at an age when obedience does not come easily,” he finally said.

Ithilden could not help laughing. “I had noticed that, Adar.”

Thranduil smiled wryly.  “I am pointing this out to you because you will have to watch him on this trip, particularly since you are not taking guards and you will be the only one with him.  He may do exactly as you tell him, but he may decide that he is wiser than you are and do something foolish.”

Ithilden smiled.  “I can command obedience from a troop of Wood-elf warriors, Adar. I think I can exact it from one elfling.”

Thranduil blinked and then laughed.  “I have always looked forward to Eilian becoming a parent,” he said, “preferably to sons who will jump off the bridge over the Forest River to see if they can fly.  But I begin to think you may offer me some amusement too, iôn-nín.”

Ithilden could not help laughing in response.  He had not been home when Eilian had jumped off the bridge, but he had heard about it from the guard who had been in front of the Great Doors and had jumped into the river after him. “I will make sure Legolas understands what I expect of him,” he assured his father.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.  “I believe I have made sure that Legolas understands what I expect of him too.  Nonetheless I intend to check if he is in his bed tonight and has not slipped off to sleep in a flet.”

Ithilden laughed again.  He was not particularly worried.  Legolas was so obviously grateful that Ithilden was taking him on this trip with him that Ithilden was sure he would behave.  He sat back and sipped his wine.  This had been a good day.

***

Ithilden folded the extra tunic and put it in his pack and then tucked his emergency healing kit in next to it.  A knock sounded at the door, and at his invitation, a servant entered.  “A messenger came from the infirmary with these for you, my lord,” he said.

“Good,” said Ithilden, taking the four small packets of spider venom antidote that the servant handed to him and placing them in his pack.  Four packets was an excessive number, but he was taking no chances, given that Legolas was going along on this trip.  In the past weeks, the shortage of the antidote had been so acute that he had asked those who were safe at home to take what they had from their emergency healing kits and give it to the warriors who were driving away the recent influx of spiders.  The shortage had eased now, however, thanks to the efforts of the healers.

He picked up his pack and his bow and went to the sitting room, where he found Thranduil and Legolas waiting for him.  Thranduil was seated but Legolas was on his feet and pacing.  “There you are!” he cried. “I have been ready forever.”

Ithilden grinned at him. “Are you sure you have everything?”

“Yes. Adar checked.”  Legolas bounced on his toes, obviously eager to be off.

“Then perhaps we should go,” Ithilden said and laughed when Legolas immediately bounded toward the door.

“One moment,” said Thranduil, rising.  Legolas turned his head to look at his father but remained standing with his hand on the doorknob.  “Come and let me bid you goodbye.”  Looking exasperated, Legolas obeyed. “I will miss you,” Thranduil said, enfolding him in his arms and kissing the top of his head. “Be good, and do what Ithilden tells you.”  Then, with what seemed to Ithilden to be an effort, Thranduil loosened his hold and stayed where he was as Legolas hastened to the door again.

“Enjoy your time in the woods,” Thranduil told Ithilden, embracing him too.  “Your naneth would be delighted by this trip.”

Ithilden smiled. His Wood-elf mother would have been horrified to know how long it had been since he had spent more than a few hours among the trees.  He turned to Legolas. “Shall we?”

Legolas yanked the door open and trotted down the hallway toward the Great Doors.  With a last small bow to their father, Ithilden followed.  Legolas jumped off the last three steps in front of the palace and ran across the bridge, with Ithilden following at a more sedate pace. He planned to hike along the path at an easy pace today and reach the campsite he had chosen by late afternoon.  Legolas would soon settle down. He was as energetic as any child his age, but the walk would be a long one for him.

They had not been in the forest for more than half an hour before he realized how much he had missed it.  He noticed first the piercing sweetness of birdsong, but then, beneath that, he heard the welcoming rustle of trees in full summer leaf and inhaled the earthy smell of soil, and rotting wood, and living things.  He could feel himself relaxing, as his blood began to flow in harmony with the green world around him.

Ithilden knew that all Wood-elves were tied to the forest, but he had also long felt that, as Thranduil’s heir, he was even more deeply connected to it.  It was a simple fact that he shared some of his father’s magic, for, like Thranduil, he could seal the Great Doors and open them again, which not even Eilian could do.  Now the trees were murmuring to him, telling him of their joy at the life that flowed through them and through him and the young one who was with him.

Legolas had slowed and fallen into step next to him.  “Can we hunt for deer as soon as we get there?”

“By ourselves, we would not be able to carry a deer all the way back from the campsite. We will hunt for smaller game.”

Legolas stopped dead in his distress. “But I want to hunt deer!  Annael has killed a deer and I have not!”  He looked stricken, and Ithilden found himself wanting to please the child if he could.

“We might be able to get the Home Guard warriors to help us carry a deer home,” he said slowly.

“Yes!” Legolas’s face lit up, and Ithilden could not help smiling at his joy.   They settled into companionable silence until Ithilden called a halt for food and a rest. The day was growing warm, and he did not want Legolas to become too tired.  They sat in the shade of an oak that was just off the path, drinking from their water skins and eating bits of the bread and cheese that they had brought with them.

“I am glad we did not bring guards,” Legolas said. “For a minute, I was afraid Adar would make us, but I suppose he knew you did not need them. He treats me like a baby, but he knows you are a warrior.”

Ithilden could not help smiling at his brother’s casually expressed admiration.  “Adar knows you are not a baby. He just does not think you are quite grown up yet.”

Legolas picked up a stick and began poking at the ground.  “I wish he would do more things with me like Annael’s ada does with him, but he is always so busy.  And anyway, he is not like Annael’s ada.  He mostly just tells me what to do.”

Ithilden grimaced. He could remember feeling that way about Thranduil too, although when he was Legolas’s age, their mother had still been alive, and she had been the one from whom he had most often sought understanding.  “Adar has been teaching you how to hunt,” he reminded his brother.

“But he never has time to go,” Legolas answered.  He turned to Ithilden. “Can we hunt deer tonight?  They will be sure to be active with the moon so full.”

Ithilden was startled. “Absolutely not!” he exclaimed.  “We will stay in our camp at night. The woods are much too dangerous for you to be roaming around in them after dark.”

“But--,” Legolas began.

“No,” Ithilden said firmly.  “Do not argue with me.”

Legolas flung the stick away hard.  “You are as bad as Adar sometimes, Ithilden!”

“Do you want to go on this trip or not?”  Ithilden had decided that now was the time to lay down the rules.  He had never allowed a warrior to question an order, and he was certainly not going to allow his little brother to do it.

“Yes,” said Legolas sullenly.

“Then you must do what I tell you and not argue.”

Legolas bit his lip but said nothing.

After a moment, Ithilden got to his feet.  “Come along,” he said. “We have some distance to go yet. There is a stream by the campsite I have in mind.  If we make good time, we may be able catch some fish for our evening meal.”

Legolas stood up and followed him, but it was some time before his peevishness eased.  Like Ithilden, he seemed to draw comfort from the trees.  The sun was beginning to drop into the west when Ithilden led him into the clearing he planned to use as their campsite.  Ithilden looked around in satisfaction.  The spot was just as he had remembered it from a camping trip taken years ago.  A stream bubbled along not far away, and they were within hailing distance of the path, meaning the site was safe and the Home Guard warriors would be able to find them easily.  Legolas dropped his pack and looked around too.

“Go and gather wood while I clear a spot for the fire,” Ithilden ordered. Legolas wandered toward the stream. “Legolas!” Ithilden said sharply.  “Did you hear me?”

“I will do it in a minute,” Legolas answered, sounding annoyed. “I am hot and want some cold water first.”

Ithilden frowned but started on his own task and was relieved when he heard Legolas move off to search the area near the campsite for firewood.  Legolas had been slow to obey, but he had finally done so.

They had no luck fishing and so settled for more of the food they had brought with them. Legolas was obviously tired, and Ithilden attributed some of his irritability to that.  They unrolled their blankets as soon as it began to grow dark.

Ithilden lay on his back watching the stars open one by one until they lay spread across the night in a thick array that dazzled him.  How could he have stayed away for so long? he wondered.

“I love the stars,” said Legolas suddenly, surprising Ithilden, who could have sworn that his brother would fall asleep as soon as he lay down.  And indeed, Legolas’s voice was dreamy even now and almost before he had finished speaking, his breath had grown slow and even.

Ithilden smiled to himself. He had done right to bring Legolas along.  His little brother needed to be out at night at least as much as Ithilden did.  A night under the stars would settle him, and they would be easier together on the morrow.  Their father really should spend more time with Legolas doing things like this.  Ithilden would see if he could find a way to tell Thranduil that when they got home.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.

*******

4.  Ups and Downs

Ithilden prodded Legolas gently.  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Legolas stirred, blinked, and then frowned in confusion at the green trees arching overhead in the misty morning light.  Suddenly, his gaze sharpened, and he turned his head to look at Ithilden, who was crouched beside him.  With a whoop, he tossed his blanket aside and hopped to his feet.  Ithilden noted with amusement that his brother had slept with his boots on. “Can we hunt?” Legolas demanded.

Ithilden laughed. “Later.  But now I think we should go after those fish again and see if we can catch our morning meal.”

Legolas reached willingly for the fishing gear he had tossed aside the previous evening, and the two of them made their way to the stream.  Despite the assurances that Ithilden had given Thranduil as to the safety of the area, he had found he was sufficiently worried about being responsible for Legolas’s safety that he had slept only lightly, but still he had awakened this morning more rested than he had been in a long time.  There was something unbelievably soothing about sleeping in the living forest.

“I have something!” Legolas cried, and indeed, a fish was tugging at the end of his line.

“Do you want help?”

“I can do it,” Legolas said determinedly, and as Ithilden watched, he coaxed the fish from the water with a patience that Ithilden would have sworn he did not have.  “Look!” His face glowing with pride, Legolas held up the fish, a good-sized trout.

“Now that is the start of a morning meal worth eating!  I am lucky to have you along,” Ithilden grinned. Legolas laughed.  “Given how much you have been eating lately, I think we need more than one though,” Ithilden said, and Legolas happily secured his fish in the cold water and dropped his line back into the stream.  The luck that had eluded them the night before was with them now, and they had two more fish within a very short time.

“That should be enough,” Ithilden said. “Do you know how to clean them?”

Legolas nodded eagerly, already reaching for the knife at his belt. “Annael’s adar showed us.”

“Good.  You take care of that, and I will see if the fire is ready to cook them.”  Ithilden started back to their campsite, aware of how pleased Legolas looked over being given this responsibility.  This trip really is what he needed, Ithilden thought in satisfaction and could not help being pleased with himself for having agreed to bring Legolas with him.  Their campfire had burned down nicely, so he set out their dishes and had just gathered several green willow sticks when Legolas appeared.

“One of the fish did not come out very well,” he apologized.

“They look good to me.” Ithilden handed a stick to Legolas.  “Thread one of the fish onto the stick,” he said, demonstrating what he meant.  “Hold it with the back down first, so the thickest part cooks. Then do the two sides.”  Legolas watched him and then carefully imitated his actions. “Keep it a little further away from the coals so the skin does not catch fire,” Ithilden instructed, and Legolas did as he was told, sliding his first fish onto a plate when he had finished and threading a second one.

When they had finished cooking, they settled back to enjoy their feast.  “This is the best fish I have ever eaten,” Legolas said around a mouthful of fish.  Still, he obviously had no wish to linger over the meal.  He gobbled his own fish and then watched impatiently while Ithilden finished his.  “Can we hunt now?” he asked as soon as the last forkful was in Ithilden’s mouth.

“As soon as we have cleaned up,” Ithilden said.  “Bring your dishes.”  He carried his own dishes back to the stream, with Legolas following him.  They crouched at the edge of the stream to wash the dishes.  Ithilden was increasingly pleased with Legolas today.  He was doing chores with no complaints, and the sullenness of the day before had vanished as if it had never been. When Ithilden had finished washing his dishes, he splashed water over his face too.  “I thought we would wait to bathe until the day has grown warm,” he told Legolas.  “There is a pond a mile or so south of here that would be a good place to swim.”

Legolas nodded in enthusiastic agreement, and then the two of them carried the dishes back to camp and picked up their bows and their packs.  Ithilden took a moment to write a message to leave for the Home Guard patrol that would check on them and then looked at his little brother. Legolas’s eyes were wide with excitement that at last he was going to have a chance to do as Annael had done and kill a deer. Ithilden understood his desire.  Venison made up a large share of the meat that Thranduil’s people ate, and the ability to provide it was a valued skill.  With a fervent hope that Legolas would succeed in his hunt on this trip, he led his very happy brother into the trees.

Ithilden had camped in this area once before, and his memory had been that deer lived there in some abundance because of the numerous open spaces that provided good grazing.  He moved silently through the trees toward where he thought one of the meadows lay, noting with approval that Legolas was just as silent and appeared to be watching for the same signs of deer that he was.

Suddenly, Ithilden spotted something half buried under fallen leaves.  He touched Legolas lightly on the arm and pointed, and his sharp-eyed little brother saw it immediately:  an antler that had undoubtedly been shed that winter.  Legolas’s eyes widened, and he looked excitedly at Ithilden.  Given that deer were creatures of habit, the buck that had shed the antler probably still lived in the area, and the number of points on the antler told Ithilden that the deer was big.

He motioned that Legolas should follow him and started moving forward again, concentrating on scanning for prints that would show him the path that the deer was taking now, as it moved from where it fed to wherever it usually spent the night.  Suddenly, terrifyingly, he became aware that Legolas was no longer behind him.  He whirled, his heart pounding and his breath quickening. “Legolas!” he shouted.  “Legolas! Where are you?”

No answer came.

“Legolas!”  Almost dizzy with fear, he started to trot back the way he had come, looking frantically for any sign of his little brother.

Leaves rustled overhead, and Legolas dropped to the ground in front of him, looking outraged.  “You are making so much noise that the deer has probably run halfway to the mountains!” he exclaimed.

Ithilden had nocked an arrow and now had to tighten his hand on his bow to keep from grabbing Legolas and shaking him.  “Where were you?” he demanded. “Why did you not answer me?”  His voice trembled still from the panic he had felt.

“I climbed into the trees so I could get a better look around. And I was being quiet so the deer would not hear us and flee.  But you were so loud that we will never find him now,” he said scornfully.

“You are not to wander away from me like that again!” Ithilden said sharply.  “Do you hear me?”

Legolas rolled his eyes.  “Everyone hears you.”

Ithilden forced himself to draw a deep breath and then another.  “We will continue looking for tracks or other signs that deer have been this way,” he said, “but you must stay with me.”

“Why can we not use the trees?” Legolas demanded.

“Because you cannot see the tracks or other small signs from the trees.  And you have to be very lucky to see the deer himself if you have not already learned the way the deer is likely to take.  Did Adar let you scout from the trees when you went hunting with him?”

“No,” Legolas admitted.

“And you will not do it with me either.  You will do as I say and stay by me.  We will use the trees once we know where deer will be passing.”

“You do not have to keep on about it!” Legolas exclaimed. “I understood what you said. I will stay.”

Ithilden decided to ignore the rudeness and studied Legolas’s face for a moment before he nodded, satisfied that Legolas meant what he said.  He turned and once again began seeking signs of deer, but he had to make a deliberate effort to slow his heart and breath to a normal speed.  At least Legolas knows how to move silently, he thought wryly.  He certainly slipped away from me easily enough. Adar is right. I will need to be more careful.

They continued to scout for deer, and Legolas was true to his word, keeping within a few yards of Ithilden, who gradually relaxed. They saw several trails that looked as if deer had used them, but the day had now grown so warm that the animals were almost certainly napping in shady spots somewhere.

Ithilden looked at Legolas’s damp, flushed face.  “What do you think?  Shall we take a break and swim for a while and then eat some of the food we brought with us?”  They were not far from the pond where he had planned that they would swim.

“Yes, please,” Legolas sounded relieved.  He had probably not wanted to admit he was getting tired, Ithilden thought, and softened at the idea that his brother had been quiet about his discomfort.  “This way,” he said and led Legolas a little to the south.  They emerged from the trees on the edge of a good sized, spring-fed pond.

Legolas gave a single whoop, dropped his bow, shed his pack, and began stripping off his clothes.  He was in the water before Ithilden had gotten his tunic off, but Ithilden soon waded after him, reveling in the chilly water.  He dove and then swam under water, emerging just behind Legolas to send a great splash over his head.  Legolas cried out and then laughed and turned to come after him as he swam backward across the pond.

“You will pay for that!” Legolas cried.  “You are going under!”

“Just try it,” Ithilden challenged.  “I look forward to teaching you how to swim upside down.”  For a while, they wrestled and swam and floated, and then they climbed out to lie on the grassy bank and let the sun dry them.

Ithilden glanced at the thin form lying next to him, marked with barely perceptible signs that his little brother was beginning to leave childhood, and he felt a sudden, almost painful surge of protectiveness together with a stab of despair at his inability to control so much of what was happening to the Woodland Realm.  I am going to have to let him be a warrior, just as I did Eilian, Ithilden thought unhappily, but not yet.  For now, I am going to keep him safe whether he likes it or not.

He stood up, drew his leggings on, and walked barefoot to where his pack lay.  “Shall we eat?”  Legolas sprang up too, still unselfconsciously naked, and Ithilden handed him some of the bread, cheese, and fruit they had brought from home.  They sat at the pond’s edge, dangling their feet in the water, not feeling the need to talk to one another as they both listened to the forest around them.

Finally, Ithilden stood again.  “Get dressed and we will go back to camp and rest for a while,” he said.  “I should be there to meet the Home Guard patrol when it comes by again, and then, after evening meal, if you like, we can come back for an hour or so and take up posts in a tree near one of the deer tracks we have seen.”

“Yes!” Legolas exclaimed, jumping up.

“We will be back in camp by dark,” Ithilden warned, but Legolas ignored him in his delight at the idea of hunting the evening dusk.  Ithilden could only hope his brother had heard him.  Not that it mattered.  He had decided they would be back in camp by nightfall and they would be.

He pulled on the rest of his clothes and then sat to put on his boots, adjusting the dagger he carried in a built in sheath in the right one so that the handle would not rub against his ankle.  Suddenly, he realized that Legolas too was fiddling with something in his right boot.

“Are you carrying a dagger?” he demanded in astonishment.

Legolas jumped, hesitated, and then reluctantly said, “Yes.”

“Legolas, you are too young for that!  Give it to me.”  Ithilden held out his hand, but Legolas backed away.

“Everyone carries a dagger,” he asserted.  “And you know I carry a knife. You gave it to me!  What is the difference?”

“The difference is that you carry a knife openly so that everyone knows you have it and also that a knife has many uses besides self-defense, which I sadly acknowledge that you need.  But no one knows you are carrying that dagger, and it has no conceivable purpose except to throw at someone.  And do not tell me that everyone carries one!  Children your age most assuredly do not carry hidden daggers.”

“I am not a child!  And Turgon carries a dagger!”

“Turgon is a problem waiting to happen!  If I were Adar, I would make sure you never went near Turgon again.  Now give me the dagger.”  Ithilden held out his hand again and took a determined step toward Legolas.

For a terrible moment, he thought his little brother was going to refuse and he was going to have to take the dagger from him by force.  But then, with a cry of frustration, Legolas pulled the dagger from his boot and flung it to the ground at Ithilden’s feet.  Without a word, Ithilden scooped it up and stuck it in his belt.  “Come,” he said grimly. He picked up his pack and then started back to camp, listening to be sure that Legolas was following.

They made the trek back to their campsite without exchanging a word, and when they got there, Legolas dropped his pack and bow, made for the nearest tree, and scrambled up and out of sight.  Ithilden had to admit, if only to himself, that he was relieved to be rid of his brother’s presence for a while.  Legolas would be safe enough in the tree.  In the meantime, Ithilden could use some time to himself.  He hoisted himself into a low branch of an oak tree and then leaned back against the trunk, trying to recapture some of the serenity he had felt earlier.  He could not believe how maddening Legolas was.  Why had none of the weapons masters ever told him that Legolas was so undisciplined?  None of them had ever had anything but praise for his little brother.  What could they have been thinking?

Gradually, his mood eased, and he slid into a light sleep. He was awakened by the sound of horses nearby and jumped to the ground to greet two Home Guard warriors.  “Mae govannen, my lord,” one of them greeted him.  “How are things with you?”

“Well enough,” he said. “Do you have messages for me?”

“Yes,” the warrior replied with a grin. “Deler said I was to tell you that you should enjoy yourself because the Realm will not go to pieces if you are away for few days.”

Ithilden laughed.  “Tell Deler I appreciate the thought, but he knows where to find me when he needs me.”

The warriors saluted and went on their way, and Ithilden turned back to the campsite.  The first thing he did was check on Legolas, but the tree up which his brother had climbed was humming with his presence, and Ithilden went on to other tasks.  He built up the fire and then took a fishing line to the stream, where he caught enough fish for their evening meal.  Then he gathered some wild mushrooms he had spotted earlier and poked around in the sunnier spots until he found blackberries.  Legolas liked the berries, and Ithilden intended them as a peace offering.  He had no doubt that Legolas had been deeply offended by having his dagger confiscated, but taking it had still been the right thing to do.

When he returned to the campsite, he found that Legolas had climbed down from his tree and was sitting against its trunk, with his face unreadable.  Ithilden showed him his haul, and Legolas eyed the food coolly.  “Come and help me cook,” Ithilden invited, and Legolas got slowly to his feet and followed Ithilden to the fire.  Ithilden got out a pan and began frying the fish and the mushrooms.  “You keep an eye on them while I get us some cold water,” he said and walked off to the stream again.  He was determined to be cheerful, believing that Legolas would eventually come around.

They ate in silence, but Legolas did seem to enjoy the berries, which Ithilden supposed was a small victory.  When they had cleaned up, he picked up his bow and his pack.  “Which trail do you want to watch?” he asked.

Legolas brightened a little at being offered this choice. “The second one we found,” he said, after some consideration. “It looked the most recent.”  Ithilden nodded, and they set off.  Now that they had reason to expect one or more deer might pass along the trail they had found, it was indeed time to lie in wait in a tree where the deer were less likely to spot them, and he and Legolas were soon settled about fifteen feet from the ground in a beech tree.

They did not have long to wait.  Ithilden suddenly spotted a flicker of movement followed closely by the appearance of a medium-sized buck coming toward them. Ithilden held his shot, both because he knew that it would be easier to take the deer down if he waited until the deer was walking away from him and because he wanted Legolas to be the one to kill the deer if he could.  Indeed he had no real desire to kill a deer at all. Getting it home would be a bother.

On a branch a short distance away from him, Legolas had come to attention.  Even from where Ithilden stood, he could see that his brother’s breath was quickening, but to his credit, he held his shot too.  The deer passed beneath them, and Legolas took careful aim and then loosed his arrow.  It flew straight toward its target and then, shockingly, it all at once bent aside, deflected by a small branch that Legolas had undoubtedly not seen while concentrating so wholly on the deer.

Legolas gave a small gasp, and before Ithilden could stop him, he jumped forward, reaching for a tree that was nearby but not near enough.  He missed his footing, making Ithilden cry out, but at the last minute, he grabbed for an overhanging branch and, after dangling for a few seconds, he swung himself to safety on a branch and then slipped to the ground. Ithilden was after him instantly.

“The deer is gone,” Legolas cried in frustration.

“What kind of a move was that?” Ithilden demanded, his fear now turning to anger.  “Surely you could see that the distance was too far to jump.  You could have fallen. What if you had broken your leg?  No deer is worth that.”

“Stop scolding me!  I did not miss my footing on purpose.”

“You took a stupid chance!  And what is wrong with your hand?”  Ithilden could see that Legolas was cradling one hand in the other.

“Nothing! I scraped it when I grabbed the branch.”

“Let me see.”  Ithilden seized the hurt hand and looked at the palm.  It was lightly scraped and oozing a little blood.  “You are lucky that was all that happened,” he declared.  “We will clean it when we get back to camp, but let me put something over it now so you do not get blood on your clothes.”

With his eyes still on Legolas hand, he reached into his pack for his healing kit.  Suddenly, something moved beneath his fingers.  With a yelp, he jerked his hand out of his pack.  Then, with his heart racing, he cautiously pulled it open and looked inside.  A harmless grass snake lay writhing on top of his extra tunic, flicking its tongue at him.

Next to him, Legolas let out a snort of laughter, and Ithilden abruptly realized exactly how the snake had gotten into his pack.  And all at once, all of the day’s frustrations bubbled up.  Before he had time to think, he seized Legolas’s arm, turned him sideways, and delivered a hard slap to his backside.

Legolas jerked his arm away and spun to face Ithilden, with one hand reaching involuntarily behind him.  Astonishment and then fury flooded his face.  “You hit me!” he accused.

“You deserved it!  You have behaved impossibly all day.”

Legolas’s mouth dropped open, and he flushed deeply. “I have not. You have been the impossible one.”  He was blinking rapidly, and he seemed to be close to tears, but Ithilden suspected they were tears of fury and humiliation rather than a response to the slap.  They certainly were not tears of regret over his behavior.  Abruptly, Legolas whirled and started marching away.

“Where are you going?” Ithilden demanded, tossing the snake from his pack before starting after his brother.

“To camp.  I do not want to hunt with you any more.”

“Good.  Maybe a night’s sleep will help you mend your manners.”

“Shut up!” Legolas cried.

“Watch your mouth!” Ithilden snapped and grimly followed Legolas.  A night’s sleep had better mend Legolas’s manners.  If it did not, they would start for home immediately in the morning.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.

~*~*~

5.  A Brother’s Help

Legolas slipped along the last stretch of the path of dreams he had been following and moved slowly into wakefulness.  He lay curled on his side, his eyes focused on the small stretch of woods that lay between the campsite and the path.  Birds twittered to one another with early dawn alertness.  He could hear Ithilden moving around quietly behind him and was careful not to move, unwilling just yet to let his brother know he was awake.

In his mind, he once again went over the events of the previous day.  And no matter how much he thought about it, he kept coming back to one thing: Ithilden had hit him, spanked him as if he were a naughty child.  Although the stinging in his bottom had faded quickly, he found the idea so humiliating that he still could not believe it.  Ithilden had scolded Legolas and taken his dagger, and then he had responded to a harmless joke by spanking him.  His indignation rose again at the thought.

How could he have looked forward to this trip so much?  He should have known that Turgon was right and Ithilden was too bossy to ever allow for a good time.  Ithilden thought he had to be in charge of everything!  Legolas had always found it comforting to have his oldest brother in command of their father’s warriors.  He firmly believed that nothing would go very wrong if Ithilden was in control.  But Ithilden was not in command over him!

He wished Eilian had been the one to take him on this trip. Eilian was fun to be with, and he liked Legolas, liked being with him even when Legolas sometimes did something Eilian had not expected.  Legolas supposed he had done things Ithilden had not expected the previous day.  Ithilden had looked far more frightened when he could not immediately find Legolas than he had looked when he found the snake.  Legolas contemplated that idea for a moment and then pushed it aside.  Ithilden should have more faith in him.  He was not a child.

The noise of several horses drew his attention.  A group of half-a-dozen Home Guard warriors approached from the path, and Ithilden walked from behind him into his field of vision.  Legolas’s interest suddenly sharpened.  There were far more warriors today than there had been yesterday, and they were early.  Ithilden was dressed only in his leggings and grey silk undertunic and his hair was not braided yet, a sign of how early it still was. The leader of the little group greeted Ithilden, who said something Legolas could not hear. They both glanced back at Legolas and then continued their conversation in lower tones.  Legolas watched as Ithilden ran his hand over his hair, looking worried even from behind.  Then the warrior saluted, and the group returned to the path.

Ithilden turned and came toward him.  He stopped inches from Legolas’s nose.  “I know you are awake,” he said.

Legolas turned his head to look up at him.  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

Ithilden sighed.  “Nothing that will bother us,” he said.  Then he crouched down next to Legolas.  “I am sorry I spanked you yesterday, Legolas.  You were being difficult, but I lost my temper, which I should not have done.”

Legolas looked at him in silence for a moment.  He was not sure he was ready to forgive Ithilden for the slap, and he had found Ithilden rather difficult too, but he had to admit that he felt a little guilty about some of his own behavior.  “I am sorry I told you to shut up,” he said finally.

“Are you ready to be careful today?” Ithilden asked. “No disappearing up a tree?  No flying leaps?”

Legolas frowned.  “I will not be careless,” he said.  He did not think he had been particularly careless on the day before either.  Did Ithilden really think that climbing a tree was careless?  If so, Legolas was careless nearly every day of his life.

Ithilden regarded him with serious grey eyes and then gave a little nod.  “Very well.  How would it be if we just ate some waybread this morning and then went scouting for deer paths?  I think we may have made too much noise yesterday to expect to see deer where we were.”  He smiled a little wryly.

Legolas sat up. “That sounds good,” he said cautiously.  He was not eager to do anything with Ithilden right now, but he did want to hunt and he certainly never wanted to go back to the place where they had quarreled the evening before.

Ithilden patted Legolas’s knee and then rose.  “We can go as soon as you are ready,” he said and walked off to pull on his tunic and boots and braid his hair.

Legolas shoved his blanket aside and began getting himself ready for the day.  He crammed the last bit of a piece of waybread in his mouth just as Ithilden returned from the stream with their refilled water skins.  He handed Legolas one of them. “There is another meadow a mile or so west of us,” he said.  “Shall we look there?”

Legolas nodded and picked up his bow.  He and his brother had had very little conversation this morning, but that was fine with him.  Ithilden led him in the direction he had indicated, and the two of them were soon sweeping silently through the woods along the meadow’s edge, with Ithilden in the lead and Legolas to his right and slightly behind.

Suddenly Legolas froze, and then, holding his breath, he inched a little to his right.  There, just as he had thought from the glimpse he had seen, he found a single, large hoof print.  Excitement flared within him.  This deer would be big, bigger than the one whose shed antler they had found yesterday. He looked up quickly, intending to tell Ithilden, but his brother had moved some distance ahead, and he did not like to speak above a whisper for fear of alarming their prey.

A pleasing thought occurred to him. He could prove to Ithilden that he was not the child his brother thought him.  He would scout this deer for just a minute or two on his own and then catch up with Ithilden and tell him about it.  There could be no harm in just following the tracks for a short distance.  After all, they had come here to scout and that was what he would be doing.  Yesterday, he had promised Ithilden that he would stay near him, and he would.  He would go no more than a short distance. He did not want to frighten Ithilden, just show him what he could do on his own.  And he would be careful.

Eyes cast downward, he concentrated on the track, trying to see where it led, and to his delight, he soon found a second print.  He moved quickly, conscious of the need for haste, studying broken tips of bushes and disturbed fallen leaves.  This was certainly a track that a deer was using regularly.  He would follow it just a bit further and then go back.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck lifted, and he came to a quick halt. It took him only a second to realize what the matter was:  The trees had fallen silent, as if they were holding their breath in the presence of an enemy.  Something hissed softly overhead: “Young and tender.”

Legolas froze.  Then, with his heart pounding wildly, he looked up, and as he did so, he felt something sticky brush against his face.  He slapped at it in alarm, and then, paralyzing him again, he caught sight of a large, black shape scuttling along a branch overhead.  He saw another, and another, and still another, all of them moving toward him. Spiders! he thought incredulously, seeing yet more of the beasts in the shadows overhead.

For a second, he had to fight for breath. Then he sucked in air and suddenly heard himself shrieking: “Keep away!”  Of course, he knew about the giant spiders that fouled his father’s woods, but he had never seen them before and somehow he had not realized how repulsive the things would be. He backed away and started to turn to run, but thick, sticky strands of web now dangled behind him, and when he looked up, he could see a spider on a strand as thick as his arm, floating down toward him.

“Small,” the creature mourned.

Belatedly, he seized his bow, nocked an arrow, and shot, aiming in unconscious obedience to the endless hours of training he had received.  His arrow pierced the underbelly of the spider, and stinking black fluid spurted down onto his upturned face, making him cry out again, before the creature lost its hold and tumbled to the ground at his feet.  Behind him, he could hear clacking, as the things scurried toward him, but he was now too tangled up in the strands of web either to shoot at them or to run.  He tried to turn to look, but his attention was caught by a black form on a limb directly over him, busily spinning and dropping more webs.

“Food for the babies,” it hissed. “Juicy food.”

They mean to eat me, he thought incredulously.  He was going to die in the forest, being eaten by these creatures of Shadow.  In his panic, his vision began to blur, and the trees swam in front of him.

Suddenly an arrow sailed over his head, and behind him he heard the sound of a heavy body thudding to the ground.  The spider overhead also tumbled to the ground with an arrow through its thick carapace.  In rapid succession, more arrows whistled around him.  And then Ithilden’s strong arm was around his waist, and he was hacking with his knife at the webbing holding Legolas.  If the webbing had not been holding him erect, he would have fallen in relief into his brother’s arms.

“Run as soon as I get you loose,” Ithilden commanded, sawing frantically at a strand.

“You come too!” Legolas cried, digging his fingers into the sleeve of his brother’s tunic.

Ithilden shook his head. “There are probably more of them that I have not seen yet. I need to make sure they are all dead.”

The idea of running off by himself struck Legolas as both terrifying and shameful.  He wanted to stay by Ithilden, and he knew that was because he wanted Ithilden’s protection. But also if he wanted to be a warrior like Ithilden was, then surely he should not abandon his brother if he could help him.  He knew in his bones that Ithilden would never abandon him.

To his horror, a spider dropped to the ground behind Ithilden and scuttled toward him. “Look out!” he cried.  In a single blur of motion, Ithilden drew his sword and whirled but not quickly enough.  Before he could do anything, the spider had darted forward and bitten him on the left calf.  He grunted, as if in surprise, and then drove his sword into one glowing red eye.  He yanked his sword free and spun, scanning the trees, looking for more spiders.

“Run!” he commanded.

“No!” Legolas cried, averting his gaze with a shudder from Ithilden’s sticky sword.  Suddenly realizing that he was now free of the webs, he jumped toward his brother, instinctively seeking safety in Ithilden’s large presence.  He turned to help Ithilden search the trees.  “I do not see any more,” he said and realized that he sounded as if he might be crying.

Grabbing Legolas’s arm and hauling him with him, Ithilden ran forward into the grove of trees where the spiders had been, searching as he went.  Suddenly, he faltered and his left leg buckled under him, sending him to his knees.  Legolas grabbed Ithilden’s right arm, trying to steady him.

“No! Get up!” he wailed. His brother’s weight was dragging ever more heavily on his hands, and the idea that Ithilden was about to fall over nearly stopped his breath.  And then, to his despair, Ithilden slid from his hands to lie on one side on the ground.

“Get the antidote from my pack,” Ithilden said, his voice calm.

Yes! The antidote!  Why had Legolas not thought of that?  He opened Ithilden’s pack, which was still on his back, rummaged for a moment, and then pulled out the emergency healing kit. His hands shook slightly, and he fumbled at the tie but finally managed it.  Then for a minute, he stared at the supplies in front of him. “I do not see it!” he cried.

“Not there,” Ithilden said, his voice a little blurry.  “In packets.”

Legolas pawed frantically through the pack again. “I still do not see it!”

“Four little packets.”

Suddenly, Legolas froze, and a vision of four small paper packets swam before his eyes.  In horror, his gaze met Ithilden’s.  “I took them out,” he whispered. Ithilden frowned.  “I took them out,” Legolas choked. “I was making room for the snake, and I took out the things on top.”

“Where are they?” Ithilden asked, and although his voice was still calm, Legolas could not help thinking there was an edge of desperation in it.

“In our camp, behind a log.”  Legolas had put the things he took from Ithilden’s pack carefully out of sight and had not thought of them since.

Ithilden looked at him for a long minute, and now anguish was clear in his face, even to Legolas’s eyes. “Go get them,” Ithilden finally said.

“And leave you?” Legolas was appalled.

Ithilden nodded. “Go,” he commanded. Legolas hesitated. Was he brave enough to do this on his own?  Then he looked at Ithilden’s pale, sweat-sheened face and suddenly felt nothing but resolve.  He had to be brave enough.  Ithilden needed him.

He tried to jump to his feet, but Ithilden managed to raise a hand and grasp his wrist. “Careful,” he warned. “Stay out of trees.” Legolas glanced at the web-draped tree overhead and shuddered.  Then he snatched up his bow and took off at a run.

He ran back toward camp with terror-driven speed, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the pain that bit at his side.  In his head, he saw Ithilden lying alone and helpless.  He saw great, black shapes creeping near him, reaching out to touch him, to bite him, to kill him.  Suddenly, his foot caught on a tree root, and he sprawled full length on his belly in the dirt, knocking what little breath he had right out of him. He lay in shock for a second, drawing in great ragged gulps of air.  Then he scrambled to his feet and ran on again.  Calm down, he told himself in Thranduil’s voice.  And now he pictured his father’s calm, strong presence.  It is normal to be afraid sometimes, said Thranduil’s voice in his head. But your fear should not control you.  My fear will not control me, Legolas vowed, ignoring the fact that he had begun to cry.  Ithilden needs me.

~*~*~

Trying not to think about Legolas, Ithilden lay quietly, husbanding his strength.  Once again, he tried to count the number of spiders he had killed and compare that with the number of spiders he thought there had been.  Had he gotten them all?  And once again, he realized that he was not sure.  He had not been as careful as he usually was to assess the number of spiders in the trees because he had been so panicked at seeing Legolas caught in the web.

He could no longer move his legs or even feel them, and he knew that only the fact that he was unusually large for an Elf had kept the spider venom from rendering him unconscious.  The antidote might get him mobile again if Legolas got back with it soon, but even with it, he would not be able to move very far or very fast. What was he going to do?

If he could get back to camp, he and Legolas might be able to wait for a Home Guard patrol to come and check on them. But even as he thought that, he knew there were problems with it as a solution.  The patrol that had stopped by their campsite early that morning had been on its way to check on a report of more spiders further west, inside the Home Guard’s territory.  Judging by what he and Legolas had just found, the chances were good that the reports were correct, and everyone would be busy searching for the spiders and driving them away.  No one would come to check on him and Legolas until very late tonight and possible not even then.

For a moment, he considered waiting for the Home Guard no matter how long they took to appear. If he were not placed in the healers’ hands soon, he would be very sick for far longer than he liked to contemplate, but he probably would not die.  He could just wait the Home Guard out, and if he had not had Legolas with him, that might have been an option. But he did have Legolas.  And antidote or no antidote, he was eventually going to be unconscious, and that would mean leaving Legolas on his own, a possibility that Ithilden rejected immediately.  He had seen warriors rendered unconscious by spider venom, and to all intents and purposes, they looked dead.  Legolas would be terrified, and Ithilden had enough doubts about his little brother’s judgment already to be unwilling to imagine how Legolas would act in a state of such fear.

Of course, Legolas was already afraid.  Ithilden had heard him shriek at the spiders’ approach, had seen him trembling even after Ithilden had arrived.  And then Ithilden had had to send him off alone into who knew what danger.  If he had not been struggling for breath, he would have laughed at the irony.  He had spent what seemed like every minute of this trip so far trying to protect his little brother, trying to control his erratic behavior so that Legolas would be safe.  And in the end, he had had no control at all over what had to be done.

It seemed to Ithilden that Legolas had been gone for a long time already.  What if something had happened to him? For an awful moment, he was reminded of how he had waited at home in increasing alarm on the day his mother had failed to return from a visit to her family. He closed his eyes as if to shut the memory out.  Had he failed once again to protect someone he loved?

Suddenly, a soft rustling sounded in the leaves overhead.  His heart began to pound and his eyes flew open again, searching frantically for what he hoped he would not find.  The noise came again: clickety-click, clickety-click.  His eyes darted over the trees, and there, directly overhead were two spiders, inching their way along the branch.  Even as he watched, one of them began lowering itself toward him on a thick thread.

“Tougher,” it hissed mournfully.

He groped feverishly for a weapon.  His hand closed on the hilt of his sword, but with a rush of despair, he knew almost immediately that he was too weak to lift it.  Involuntarily, he drew his hand back, trying to raise it as if to ward off the spider, and as he did so, his hand brushed something tucked into this belt.  Legolas’s dagger!  He had kept the well-sharpened little weapon with him out of fear that Legolas would find it and squirrel it away again.  Now, with a last flare of hope, he slid it from his belt and held it ready.  With self-control born of centuries of battle, he waited until the spider was within six feet of him. Then with a flick of his wrist, he sent the dagger into its belly.  The spider hesitated and then, to his relief, dropped, landing a foot to one side of him.

A hissing noise came from overhead, and he refocused his attention on the remaining spider, which now swung to the ground and skittered toward him, pausing in apparent fear that he had another weapon, which, to his despair, he did not.  For a second, he and the spider stared at one another, and then it ran forward and bit him on the right arm.  A shock of pain ran through him, making him shudder.

Almost simultaneously, an arrow struck the creature and bounced off its hard shell.  The spider turned to see what new danger had approached, and Legolas came running out of the trees, nocking another arrow.  Ithilden wanted to tell him to stay away, to run, but he had no chance.  Legolas stopped, came to a full draw, and loosed the shaft straight into the spider’s face, knocking it back a good three feet.  The spider staggered for a second and then its legs collapsed under it.

Legolas ran to Ithilden’s side.  “I am sorry to shoot so close to you, but it was after you! Did it bite you?”  Ithilden could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up at the way Legolas was apologizing.  As a matter of simple self-preservation if nothing else, the archery master had probably drilled it into the heads of the elflings he taught that they were never to loose an arrow anywhere near another person.  Legolas could have no idea how welcome his arrow had been, despite the fact that Ithilden had not wanted him near the spider.

His vision was blurring slightly.  “Mix it,” he gasped.  Legolas apparently understood what he meant well enough because he seized his water skin and then tore open one of the paper packets.  He tried to pour the antidote into the skin, but his hands were shaking so badly that most of it went onto the ground.  He gave Ithilden an agonized glance and tore open a second packet. This time, the powder seemed to go into the water skin.

He turned to offer a drink to Ithilden.  “More,” Ithilden said.  The extra antidote would probably make him sick, but he had been bitten twice.  He could not possibly get even as far as their camp without a powerful dose of the stuff.  Legolas opened his mouth as if to protest but then obeyed and opened a third packet of antidote.  He funneled it into the water and then put the skin to Ithilden’s lips.  Ithilden drank as much of the water as he could get down, paused, and then jerked his head for Legolas to give him the rest.  When he had drained it, he collapsed.

“It did bite you!” Legolas exclaimed, seeing the wound on his arm.  He reached out to touch it, but Ithilden pulled it sharply away.

“No!  Your hand is scraped.”  All they needed was for Legolas to get some of the spider venom in the scrape on his hand.  Legolas drew his hand back and sat huddled against Ithilden’s hip, where Ithilden could feel him shaking.  He focused on Legolas’s miserable face, which was streaked with spider blood, and he could see that his little brother had been crying.  Indeed from the way he was biting his lip, he was still ready to break into sobs.

What have I been thinking? Ithilden wondered.  Of course he does not follow orders.  He is a child.  A brave child, true.  He has just proven that. But a child nonetheless.  He does not understand a great deal of what he encounters, and he does not even know he does not understand.  Ithilden raised his hand and rested it on Legolas’s knee.  “You will have to help me get back to camp,” he said.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.  The rest of you cannot imagine what a difference she makes.

*******

6. Courage

“You will have to help me get back to camp,” Ithilden said.

“How?” Legolas asked doubtfully.  He dragged the sleeve of his tunic across his runny nose.  “You are too big for me to carry or even drag.”

To his own surprise, Ithilden laughed.  The antidote had begun to move through his system, and while the dose he had taken had unfortunately unsettled his stomach, it had also left him able to move his legs again.  His mobility was temporary, he knew. The second spider bite would inevitably prove too much for him, and then he would simply have to wait while his body dealt with the venom, with healers close by to ease his discomfort if he were lucky.

“Too big,” he agreed and then drew a deep breath. “And I do not want to be dragged through the woods anyway.”  He was having trouble speaking and struggled to make himself clear to Legolas.  “Find a stick I can use to help me walk.”

Legolas’s face brightened with hope.  He plainly liked the idea of the two of them leaving this grove, with its web-strewn trees and its litter of spider bodies lying in grotesque attitudes all around them.  Ithilden would have to tell the Home Guard to send someone to burn the bodies.  The spiders were cannibals, and leaving the carcasses here would draw more of the creatures.

Legolas jumped to his feet and began to search, giving the dead spiders a wide berth.  “Stay close,” Ithilden said and then realized that the warning had been unnecessary. Legolas plainly had no intention of letting Ithilden out of his sight.  At least he has learned a little prudence, Ithilden thought.  For now, he added wryly.

Cautiously, he levered himself into a sitting position and then closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that threatened to undo him.  He drew a deep breath and then opened his eyes again to keep watch over Legolas, who was poking at some underbrush.  Legolas gave a cry of triumph and came running back with a sturdy looking branch that was longer than he was.

“Good,” approved Ithilden.  He grasped the branch with both hands and pulled himself up on his knees, all the while gulping air against the nausea.  He could feel that his right hand and arm were weaker than usual, and he knew that putting weight on his left leg was going to be difficult.  He eyed his little brother, who was hovering around him. “Can you hold the stick?” he panted.

Legolas nodded and darted forward to brace the stick with both hands.  Ithilden carefully drew his right knee up and then used that leg to push himself erect.  He stood for a second, gasping and leaning heavily on the stick while his head swam and his stomach roiled.  Pain spurted through his bitten right arm, for he had instinctively used it to pull on the stick when he rose.

“Are you all right?” Legolas asked, his face puckered in anxiety.  He was straining against the stick to keep it from sliding out from under Ithilden.

Ithilden drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said grimly. He had to be.  He and Legolas certainly could not stay here in this spider-infested area of the forest.  He pulled himself up a little more, so that he was balanced on his good leg. Then he inched the stick forward and hopped along after it.  Legolas crept along beside him, his hands in readiness near the stick. Ithilden did not have the heart to tell him that if he began to fall, there was no way Legolas was going to be able to prevent it.

Their progress was agonizingly slow.  With every jolting step, pain flared in the two places he had been bitten, and within much too short a distance, he had to stop to vomit, leaning heavily on the stick and gasping for breath afterwards.

“Do you want some water?” Legolas asked timidly, from where he was bracing the stick.  Unwilling to open his mouth for fear he would be sick again, Ithilden shook his head and then glance at his little brother’s pale, resolute face.  “Sometimes people in the infirmary threw up too,” Legolas said, obviously trying to comfort him with this piece of information.  Ithilden smiled weakly at him and then clenched his teeth and began inching forward again.

“Ithilden,” said Legolas in a small voice, “I am sorry I went where the spiders were.” He put his grubby hand on top of one of Ithilden’s.  “I was tracking a big deer,” he confessed.

Ithilden sighed.  He had not even asked what Legolas was doing so far away from him. It had just seemed natural to find that his little brother had wandered.  He wondered now if he could have prevented it.  “The warriors who came this morning told me about the spiders. I should have warned you.”  He glanced down at the tear-streaked face.  “I did not want to frighten you, but I think you were frightened anyway.”

For a moment, Legolas looked as if he were going to deny being afraid, but then, slowly, he nodded.  “I am still scared,” he said soberly.

Ithilden wanted to hug him but was in no position to do so just then.  “You were brave to go for the antidote even though you were scared,” he said.  Legolas responded with a very small smile and curled his fingers around Ithilden’s.

Suddenly, Ithilden felt the stick catch on a tree root, and before he could stop himself, he was falling, with his arms out to catch himself.  The impact on his right arm was agonizing, and he could not help crying out.  He bit off the sound, but Legolas gave an answering cry of distress. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

Ithilden shook his head.  “Just surprised,” he lied and then reached for the stick.  Legolas jumped to hold it, and Ithilden dragged himself upright.  As he stood, swaying a little, he abruptly realized that his vision was beginning to blur, which was almost certainly why he had not seen the tree root that had tripped him.  And even his right leg was starting to go numb. The venom must be starting to take effect again.  We will never get to the camp at this rate, he thought in despair.  But there really was no choice, and he began inching forward.

He had managed to move only a dozen yards or so before he fell again, and this time, he knew he was not going to be able to get up. For a moment, he lay in despair, digging his fingers into the layer of leaves beneath his hands.

Legolas dropped to his knees next to him.  “Shall I try to lift you up?” he asked. The idea was so absurd that Ithilden nearly laughed, but his valiant little brother was too much in earnest.  Ithilden knew what he had to do. Indeed, he had known it since the first time he fell.  He and Legolas were never going to make it back to their camp.  They needed help and there was only one way to get it.

He rolled onto his back and lay staring at the trees overhead. They were murmuring sympathetically, concerned for him, but giving no hint of danger at all.  Perhaps he and Legolas both would be all right, he thought desperately.  He turned his head to look at Legolas’s worried face.  “No,” he said.  “Can not get up this time. Venom is taking effect again.”  He tried to maintain normal speech but found it harder and harder to speak the words.  He drew a deep breath. “You have to go for help.”

Legolas blinked uncertainly. “By myself? Again?”  He did not sound at all happy about the prospect.

Ithilden nodded.  He knew Legolas wanted to stay with him but there was no way to predict when help would find them if they waited here, away from their camp.  He was rapidly losing any ability to function, and he simply could not imagine leaving Legolas alone with spiders nearby while he himself lost all signs of life.

“But I do not want to leave you here alone!” Legolas cried, echoing Ithilden’s thoughts. “What if the spiders come back?”  His voice shook, and Ithilden knew his little brother was remembering the terror he had felt when the spiders attacked him.

“Listen to trees,” Ithilden urged.  “No spiders here.”  Not now, he thought but did not say. “Be all right until you get back.”

Legolas sat back on his heels, and Ithilden could see in his face the moment when he resolved to do as Ithilden was asking him to do.  “Where should I go?” Legolas asked, his tone suggesting that he was well aware of how far they were from anyone else.

“Go back to the path and then go home,” Ithilden said firmly.  Legolas would only be further upset if Ithilden sounded uncertain now.

“But that will take hours!” Legolas cried. “Even if I run, it will take hours!”  Suddenly he brightened. “I will go through the trees.  It will be much faster.”

“No!” Ithilden said sharply. “Path is safer. Stay out of trees.”

“I will listen for danger,” Legolas argued. “The trees will tell me if spiders are near.”

For a moment, Ithilden despaired. What could he say that would make his foolhardy little brother do as he was told?  Unbidden, a sudden memory flared of a time when he had been not much older than Legolas.  He had been teaching his horse to jump higher and higher obstacles, and his father had seen him and forbidden him to continue.  Ithilden had been outraged at what had felt like a slight to his horsemanship.

Storming into the royal family’s quarters, he had run into his mother, who had coaxed him into the sitting room and gotten the whole story out of him.  She had let him rage at his father’s unreasonableness for a while and then had asked him how he would know when he had finally reached his horse’s limit and chosen a jump that was too high.  The question had stopped him cold, and understanding had finally dawned.  “My horse would miss the jump,” he had said, marveling that such an inevitability had not occurred to him before.

His mother had smiled. “Neither your adar nor I would like to see you or the horse be injured, my heart.  But my mare needs some training at getting over jumps.  Perhaps you would be willing to ride with me tomorrow and help me with her?”  Pleased at the idea, he had nodded, and they had gone riding together, and that had been the end of the matter.

Now he looked at Legolas and made a last effort to speak clearly.  “Did you listen to trees when you found the spiders back there?”  He jerked his head in the direction from which they had come, and Legolas shuddered.

“Yes,” Legolas said.  He frowned.  “But it was too late.   I noticed they had fallen silent, but that was because the spiders were already there.”  He grimaced.  “Do you think that might happen again?” he asked reluctantly.

Ithilden nodded.  “I will be’ll right for a while,” he went on. He could hear his speech starting to slur.  “Better t’be certain that help comes than take chance to get it more quickly and have it not come’t all.  You’n I both safer’f you take path.  Unnerstan’?”  He reached up and caressed the side of his little brother’s neck.

With a sigh, Legolas nodded, and to Legolas’s obvious surprise, Ithilden drew his head down to kiss him on the forehead.  “Careful,” he admonished.

“I will,” Legolas said with determination. “And I will be fast too.” He rose to his feet, hesitated briefly, and crouched back down to throw his arms as far around Ithilden as he could reach.  Then he jumped up again and, without looking back, he ran in the direction of the path.

Ithilden looked up at the trees.  “Look aft’him,” he murmured and then allowed himself to slip gradually away into darkness.

***

Legolas trotted along the path, trying to keep himself to a steady pace, as he had heard the masters admonishing the novices to do when they ran near home every day.  “You have miles to go yet,” he had heard one of the masters calling one morning.  “Think about spreading your energy over that whole distance.”

Legolas tried to think about that now, but it was hard because thoughts of Ithilden lying alone in the forest kept intruding.  Legolas had always simply assumed that Ithilden was strong enough to conquer anything, and he had been deeply shaken by seeing him helpless.

Moreover, Ithilden had been forgiving, but Legolas could not help but feel that it was his fault that spiders had bitten his brother.  If he had not gone after the deer on his own, neither he nor Ithilden would have been near the creatures.  And if Ithilden had not had to cut Legolas free of the spiders’ webs, Legolas firmly believed that he would have killed every spider in sight with no trouble at all.  Legolas had done something that caused harm to his brother.  Now it was up to him to save him.

He glanced longingly at the trees alongside the path.  For a moment, he found himself wondering what it would hurt if he traveled through the trees near the path.  Then he brought his attention fiercely back to concentrating on running.  Ithilden was hurt. It would be foolish to take a chance with his brother’s safety in his hands.

The day was growing hotter, and sweat ran down his face.  He had realized too late that he had no water with him because he had used his waterskin to mix the antidote.  He supposed he could have taken Ithilden’s waterskin if he had thought of it, but he was glad he had not.  When he had been working in the infirmary, he had seen that people who threw up liked to have a little water to clean their mouths, although the healers had usually not let them drink much.  Ithilden might want the water he carried.  He averted his mind from the idea that when he had left Ithilden, his brother had not looked able to drink even if he had wanted to.

His legs started to hurt, and he was panting despite his best efforts not to outrun his breath. I cannot take time to rest, he thought desperately.  He was perhaps as much as halfway home, and that was not nearly far enough.

A sudden sound from ahead drew him out of his concentrated misery.  Horses!  He heard horses!  One of the Home Guard patrols must be coming!  He stopped where he was, shaking with relief and exhaustion.

From around the bend in front of him came three riders. And at their head was his father.

***

Thranduil laid a hand on his stallion’s neck and drew him to a quivering halt, as his guards too brought their horses to stop.  “Legolas!” he cried and leapt from his horse to catch his filthy-faced son in an embrace.  “What are you doing here?  Where is Ithilden?”  He scanned the child’s face and clothes, seeing what looked to his horror like dried black blood and strands of grey stuff that was only too frighteningly familiar to him.  Could it be webbing?  His heart stopped at the idea that Legolas had been tangled in a spider’s web.

Legolas was trying to choke out an answer, but he seemed to have no breath and, what was more, he was obviously close to tears.  “Hurt!” he finally gasped.  “He is hurt! Spiders bit him!”

Thranduil’s heart lurched.  “Where?” he demanded, grasping Legolas by the shoulders. From one corner of his eye, he could see the appalled looks on the guards’ faces.

“I will show you,” Legolas answered, trying to move toward Thranduil’s horse.

“No, tell me,” Thranduil demanded.  If there were spiders where Ithilden was, then Legolas was not going back there.

“I cannot,” Legolas wailed, and now he had lost the struggle not to cry.  “He is in the woods near our camp, but I have to show you.”

Having already raised two sons to adulthood, Thranduil knew that this young one was near the breaking point.  Without another word, he conceded the battle, lifted the child onto his horse, and swung up behind him.  He wrapped his arms tightly around his trembling son and felt the stickiness of the webbing on his clothes. “Very well,” he said soothingly, fighting to control the terror he felt. “Show us.”  Legolas pointed wordlessly down the path, and the three of them took off in a flurry of flying hooves.

So this was why he had been troubled all that morning, Thranduil thought, why he had had a growing sense that something was wrong, although he had been unable to identify just what it might be.  He had thought he might just be restless and had gone for his daily ride earlier than usual, choosing a path he did not usually follow, and riding farther than he usually rode.

Judging by the way Legolas trembled in his arms, there was need for haste, and he pressed his horse forward so that the guards had trouble keeping up.  As he rode, he tried to feel the bond that lay between him and Ithilden, and now that he knew where to look, he was astounded that he had not felt his oldest son’s distress before.  Ithilden’s fëa was wandering somewhere, lost in pain and confusion.  He willed his horse to go faster.

But the son who lay ahead was obviously not the only one in distress.  Without slowing, he bent to scoop his waterskin from where it hung at his horse’s side. “Here, my heart,” he said and put it to Legolas’s lips.  As much water ran down his son’s chin as into his mouth, but his face was dirty anyway.  He gulped a drink and then pushed the skin aside and returned his hands to where they had been clasping Thranduil’s left arm, circling his waist.

“Hurry, Ada,” he breathed, and Thranduil’s heart twisted at the childish form of address. What had been happening to his two sons?  He nuzzled his chin against Legolas’s sticky hair.

His horse fairly flew down the path, so much so that when Legolas cried “Turn here!” he had to backtrack for a few paces to leave the path and ride toward his sons’ campsite.  The guards caught up, for his horse necessarily moved more slowly now that they had left the path.  Legolas guided them through the campsite and into the woods on its west side, where the trees were thick enough that they had to dismount and hasten ahead on foot with the horses trailing obediently after them.  Legolas kept hold of Thranduil’s hand, drawing him hastily forward against Thranduil’s efforts to hold him back, out of possible danger.

“There!” he finally said and dropped Thranduil’s hand to rush to where Ithilden lay.

Thranduil’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of his oldest son, lying pale, inert, and completely unresponsive.  He hastily dropped to his knees and put his ear to Ithilden’s chest.  For a moment, he could hear nothing but the rushing of his own blood in his ears.  Then he felt as much as heard the very slow, thready beat of Ithilden’s heart.

A distraught Legolas was shaking Ithilden by one arm.  “Wake up!” he cried.

Thranduil put one hand over Legolas’s.  “He is alive,” he assured the child.  “The healers will take care of him.”

“We have antidote with us, my lord,” said one of the guards, who had already opened the emergency healing kit he carried and was pouring anti-venom into his water skin.  He nudged Legolas gently aside and then knelt next to Ithilden and tentatively stroked his throat, searching for a swallow reflex.  Seeing the muscles there contract, he put his arm around Ithilden’s shoulders, lifted him to a sitting position, and began the slow process of trickling a little water into his mouth and then stroking his throat to make him swallow it.

Thranduil watched the proceedings with growing impatience.  Legolas sat huddled on the ground, staring at Ithilden and sobbing, softly it was true, but loudly enough to tear Thranduil’s heart out.  He pulled the child to his feet and put his arm around him.  The guard was dribbling the liquid into Ithilden a few drops at a time while precious minutes slipped away, and suddenly the whole slow process did not seem to Thranduil to be worth the delay it was causing.

“Enough!” he cried.  “He needs the healers.”

He shoved the guard aside and started to slide his arms under Ithilden, but then he focused on Legolas’s stricken face, and he hesitated.  Only one of these sons could ride with him.  He looked again at the unconscious Ithilden and then stood and stepped away.  “Take him,” he ordered the guards, who, he remembered, were there to help only because Ithilden insisted he ride with them.  “Legolas, you will ride with me.”

The guards hurried forward, but Legolas turned to Thranduil.  “Can you not take him, Adar?” he begged.  “Your horse is faster.”

Thranduil hesitated for only a second and then smiled at his gallant baby. “Of course I can,” he said and bent to lift his heavy son in his arms, as he had done when Ithilden was small.   The guards helped him get Ithilden onto the stallion’s back, and then Thranduil leapt up behind him and steadied him, much as he had steadied Legolas only minutes before.

The guards immediately scrambled to be ready to follow him, undoubtedly conscious of the fact that the safety of both their king and his heir was in their hands.  And of his youngest son, too, of course. One of them lifted Legolas hastily to his horse’s back and mounted behind him.

Thranduil regarded his child, who now looked very small seated before the guard.  “You did well, Legolas,” he said and then turned and began to pick his way through the trees and back to the path, where he intended to make his stallion run his heart out.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.  The rest of you cannot imagine what a difference she makes.

*******

7.  In the Infirmary

Thranduil rode right to the steps of the infirmary, jumped down from his horse, pulled his son’s limp body into his arms, and then kicked the infirmary door open to carry him inside.  One of the healers’ apprentices was in the hall, and she whirled at the noise with her mouth open, ready to protest, but gasped instead when she saw who had just entered.

“Get me a healer!” Thranduil snapped, pushing into the first room to which he came and fortunately finding it empty.

“Yes, my lord,” the apprentice cried and disappeared.  

Thranduil usually insisted that his sons be cared for at home where their family could also attend them, but he had been unwilling to wait for a healer to come to the palace and so had come straight here.  It maddened him that no healer was in sight.  But as he laid Ithilden carefully on the bed, running footsteps sounded in the hall.  Gwaleniel hurried into the room with the apprentice right behind her.

“What happened?” she demanded, peering at the swollen spot on Ithilden’s right arm.

“Spiders bites,” Thranduil answered.  “There and on his left leg too.”  She began pulling off Ithilden’s clothes to expose the bites. The apprentice moved around her quickly, getting a basin of hot water and clean cloths ready. Thranduil reluctantly took a step away from the bed to get out of their way, and the two of them began to wash and examine the wounds.

A sudden clamor came from the entrance way, and Legolas ran into the room, looking even more disheveled than he had when Thranduil had left him.  One of the guards came right behind him.  He looked helplessly at Thranduil. “I am sorry, my lord. We tried to take him home because we thought you would not want him here, but he--” he paused, groping for a word.  “He protested,” the guard finished lamely.

Thranduil eyed the guard’s red face and rumpled tunic.  “Evidently,” he said dryly and put out his arms for Legolas, who rushed to his side and pressed up against him.  He probably should send the child away.  If Ithilden’s hurts were too great, Legolas should not hear it in the infirmary from the healer, but at home from his father.  But the child was obviously distraught beyond bearing.  Thranduil could hear him breathing hard as he dug his fingers into his father’s tunic.  “He can stay with me.  You may go.”

The guard nodded and then hesitated, looking at the pale, unmoving figure on the bed.  “I hope Lord Ithilden will be well, my lord.  His warriors will be thinking of him.”

“Thank you,” said Thranduil, with sudden gratitude for the sympathy.  Ithilden was an exacting commander, but Thranduil knew that his troops respected him and liked serving under him.  The guard nodded and withdrew.

“I am glad you are here, Legolas,” Gwaleniel said calmly, laying a hot cloth against the bite on Ithilden’s leg. “You went camping with your brother, did you not?  So you should be able to tell me what happened.”

Thranduil stroked his son’s dirty hair, worried that telling the healer what happened might be too much for Legolas, but the need to speak to the healer seemed to steady him.  “Two spiders bit him, first on the leg and then on the arm.  He threw up,” he said, drawing his brows together.  Even through his concern, Thranduil felt a spurt of amusement.  At home, Legolas had reported every occurrence of vomiting that he had witnessed while working in the infirmary.  He had been appalled by them, and then, of course, he had usually been the one to clean up after them.

Gwaleniel laid her hand lightly on Ithilden’s chest.   Thranduil was unable to see it rising and falling at all and felt as if he too were having trouble taking air into his body.  “Did he take any antidote?” Gwaleniel asked easily.  Despite his worry, Thranduil found that he was soothed by her tone, and Legolas was obviously quieting down in response to her.

“He took a lot,” Legolas said emphatically.  “Almost two packets and then the guards gave him a little more, I think.”

The healer glanced at her apprentice.  “Light the brazier and fetch the herbs for easing breathing,” she instructed. The apprentice retrieved a brazier from some shelves, put it on a stand near Ithilden’s head, and used flint and tinder to light it.  Then she set a pan of water to heat over it and selected several jars from the shelves.  Thranduil had to move further away from the bed to get out of the way, drawing a clinging Legolas with him.  He sat down in a chair against the wall, pulled Legolas between his knees, and wrapped his arms around the child.

Gwaleniel selected herbs from the jar and scattered them in the water, releasing a pleasant, woodsy aroma. Then she turned back to Legolas. “How long ago did all this happen?”

Legolas paused, trying to sort out what probably seemed to him now to be a jumble of horrifying events.  “One spider bit him on the leg early this morning,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.  “And then he drank some antidote about half an hour after that, and the second bite happened then too.”

Thranduil was startled.  “Why did he not take the antidote right away, Legolas?”  For a terrible moment, he wondered if Ithilden had actually spent half an hour in a battle with spiders with Legolas watching.  His arms tightened around his youngest son.

Legolas hesitated. “I had to go get it,” he said, sounding near to tears again. Thranduil frowned.  Ithilden should have had his healing kit with him. A story lay behind this particular piece of information, one that upset his youngest son.

Gwaleniel rested her hand on Ithilden’s chest again.  To Thranduil, his son seemed completely lifeless, but the healer seemed pleased with what she felt. “He is breathing a bit better, my lord,” she told Thranduil, “and that is a hopeful sign.”  She pulled a sheet up to Ithilden’s chin and looked at Thranduil sympathetically.  “We cannot expect him to awaken for a while, I think.  The poison in his body has to work itself out.  But if he were going to die from it, he probably would have done so by now.”

Thranduil flinched at the blunt words, and it took him a moment to realize that the healer had said something positive.  He let out a long, trembling sigh of relief.

“He will be all right?” Legolas cried, evidently wanting to be sure he had understood correctly.

“He will be sick for a while,” Galeniel told him seriously, “but he is strong, and I think he will recover.  She studied Legolas for a moment and then looked back to Thranduil.   “Legolas looks worn out, my lord.  Perhaps you should take him home to rest for a while and come back later.”

“It is still daytime, and I am not tired,” Legolas protested immediately.  Now that Gwaleniel had mentioned it, however, Thranduil’s fatherly eye told him that Legolas was on the edge of collapse.  Thranduil hesitated, torn between his desire to stay with his injured oldest son and the desire to tend to his exhausted and probably traumatized youngest, whose needs had been put aside for long enough.

“Can Ithilden be moved to the palace?” he asked, thinking that perhaps he could at least have both of his sons in one place.

“For now, he should stay here where we can watch his breathing,” she said.  “And when he awakens, I am afraid he will be in pain.  If he is at home, he might not confess it, but we will be able to tell and then to give him something to ease it.”

For a moment longer, Thranduil regarded the paralyzed figure in the bed.  Then he rose.  “Come, Legolas.  We will go home.”

“No, Adar!” Legolas wailed, and now the tears did come.  “I want to stay here. It is my fault he was bitten, and I want to help take care of him.” Thranduil looked at him sharply.

He and Legolas needed to talk, and they needed to do it soon.

“Of course you can help care for your brother,” Gwaleniel said. “You know how to do that now.  But you should rest a little first so that you are strong enough to do a good job.”

Legolas turned a desperate face to Thranduil.  “They have beds here. I can rest here.”

Thranduil put his hand gently on the back of the child’s head. “You need a bath, Legolas, and clean clothes and something to eat.”

“I can take a bath here,” Legolas insisted.  Thranduil had a sudden glimmer of how unpleasant it was going to be if Legolas chose to “protest” being removed from the infirmary.  He was steeling himself to be firm when Gwaleniel interposed.

“We could give you the room next door,” she said, her thoughtful eyes on Legolas. “Legolas could bathe and rest there, and you could send for his clothes. And I think we can find him some food.”  She smiled gently.  “Would that be all right, Legolas?”

“Please, Adar,” Legolas begged.

Thranduil looked at his child’s unhappy face and decided that his son did not need another battle right now.  “We will be happy to accept your offer,” he told Gwaleniel.

“Good,” she said briskly. “My apprentice will see to it.”

The apprentice immediately beckoned the two of them to follow her and led them to the room next door, where there was a bed.  “I will be back with a tub and hot water,” she told them.  “Shall I send for Legolas’s clothes too?” Thranduil nodded, and she left, returning in a very short time with attendants who set a tub in front of the fireplace and poured several buckets of hot water into it.  One of them lit the fire and set towels and a comb on a stool, and then they all melted away, leaving father and son together.

With fumbling fingers, Legolas began to unfasten his tunic, and Thranduil hesitated.  Legolas was well old enough to bathe himself and had begun to become possessive of his privacy, but Thranduil could see that his son was still on the edge of hysteria and did not want to leave him.  He brushed a sticky strand of hair from Legolas’s face.  “Shall I stay and wash your hair for you?” he asked.

With relief plain on his face, Legolas nodded and did not protest when Thranduil reached to help him undress.  Thranduil looked again at the strands of web on the clothes and felt his breath quicken, even though he knew that his child was now safe.  Legolas climbed into the tub and sank down into the warm water.  Thranduil knelt next to him, took a soft cloth from the tub’s edge, wetted it, and wiped at the appalling black streaks on his son’s face and neck.  “Get your hair wet,” he instructed, and Legolas obediently ducked down and surfaced again. Thranduil moved behind him, took a handful of soft soap, and began rubbing it into the dirty blond hair.  Closing his eyes, Legolas leaned into his father’s hands.  Thranduil cupped his hands to scoop water and rinsed the soap out of the hair and then picked up the comb and began gently working out the tangles.

“Legolas,” Thranduil ventured, “what did you mean when you said that it was your fault that Ithilden was hurt?”  The blue eyes flew open, but Legolas stayed silent for such a long time that Thranduil thought he was not going to answer and was trying to decide whether to press his point.

“I was supposed to stay with Ithilden,” Legolas finally said in a small voice, “but I followed a deer on my own to where the spiders were, and Ithilden was bitten saving me.”  He turned huge, fearful eyes toward Thranduil.  “I was caught in a web.  The spiders were going to eat me, Ada.”  He was shaking again, and when a single tear rolled down his cheek, Thranduil’s heart all but broke.  Heedless of the water sloshing over onto his own clothes, he gathered his would-be-grown-up son into his arms.

“There, there,” he crooned.  “You are safe now.”  He wrapped Legolas in a blanket he pulled from the bed and sat down near the fire, with his son on his lap, clutching at the front of his tunic and crying in great, wrenching sobs.

“I thought I was going to die like Nana did,” Legolas panted.  For a second, Thranduil’s hand froze in its stroking of the clean, damp hair. Then he kissed the top of his son’s head.

“But you did not,” he said simply. “And Ithilden did not either.  You are both home now, and you will both be fine.”  It would be some time before Ithilden was fine though, Thranduil knew.   Indeed, he thought, rocking Legolas gently, it would be some time before either of his sons was fine.

After a few minutes, Legolas’s crying lessened, and then he looked up into Thranduil’s face.  “I have not told you about not having the antidote with us, Adar.” He drew a deep breath and began his story. As he spoke, an attendant entered quietly and left clothes and a tray of food, but Legolas did not seem to notice him.  Thranduil listened in dismayed silence.  No wonder Legolas felt guilty!  He thought about the warning to keep an eye on Legolas that he had given Ithilden before his sons left on this disastrous trip and suspected that his oldest son too might awaken with some guilt over what had happened.

“I am so sorry,” Legolas finished miserably.  “I should not have gone off on my own, and I should not have touched Ithilden’s things. I should have been more careful.”

Thranduil drew him close again.  “True,” he said simply.  “And when Ithilden awakens, you can tell him that.  But you were very brave to get the antidote and then to go for help. You are both safe, and you will not do such a thing again.”  Legolas nodded, obviously exhausted now that confession had drained him of his earlier tension.

Thranduil left him on the chair while he went to get his clean clothes.  He handed Legolas the leggings and tunic and waited while he pulled them on. Then he pointed to the bed.  “Get in,” he said, and when Legolas had obeyed, he put the tray of bread, and cheese, and warm milk on the small bedside table.  Legolas’s eyes were growing vague.  “If you drink the milk now, you can sleep and eat the other things later,” Thranduil said.  Legolas drained the glass and then collapsed on the pillow.

“Stay,” he commanded sleepily.

“I will be here or next door with Ithilden,” Thranduil promised.  “In either case, I will hear you if you call.”

Legolas nodded once and was asleep before Thranduil could resume his chair.

***

Ithilden stumbled along the path.  Pain throbbed through him with every beat of his heart, and something was wrong with his legs, so that he had to strain to move them.  All at once, from somewhere ahead, Legolas began to scream.  With terrifying suddenness, a black shape dropped from above and landed on him, driving him to the ground and pinning him there. He struggled to slice at it with a dagger, but his arm refused to move either.  The creature bared its fangs at him and then bent to bite his neck.  And all the while, Legolas screamed.

“Ithilden!” cried his father.  “Ithilden!  You are dreaming!”

With a ragged gasp, Ithilden brought his eyes suddenly into focus, to find Thranduil bending over him.  For a confused moment, he stared at his father, whose anxious face alternately blurred and sharpened before him.  Then Thranduil vanished, and Ithilden could hear him shouting from somewhere nearby.  “He is awake!  Gwaleniel!”

The healer bent over him.  “Can you hear me, my lord?” she asked.

He stared at her. Of course he could hear her.  She was about a foot away from him. The problem was he did not seem to be able to answer her.  The pain that had flowed all through his body had now settled with agonizing intensity in his left leg and his right arm. And his nightmare seemed to have followed him into the waking world, for he was still unable to move his legs.  Nausea suddenly turned his stomach inside out.  Gwaleniel seemed to know what he was feeling without being told, and she rolled him rapidly to one side and held his head while he vomited into a basin that someone he could not see was holding.  When he had finished and the healer had laid him limply down on his side, she wiped his face with a cool cloth.

He forced his clumsy tongue and lips into speech.  “Adar?”

“What is it, iôn-nín?”  His father was immediately there, with his hand covering Ithilden’s.

“Legolas?”

The single word was enough for Thranduil to understand what he wanted to know. “He is unhurt. He is sleeping in the next room and will be very glad to see you when he wakens.”

Relief nearly reduced him to tears, but apparently vomiting his guts out was to be sufficient humiliation for now, because despite the pain, he quickly slid back into darkness.

A spider sank its fangs into his right arm, sending a stab of pain through it.  He tried to jerk his arm away but the spider was holding it down. Legolas screamed. The spider bit again.  With a gasp, he focused his eyes and once again saw the healer.  She had hold of his right arm and was dabbing with a hot cloth at the place where the spider had bitten him.  And then, making his heart leap, from somewhere nearby, Legolas screamed.  “Legolas?” he gasped.

Her eyes flicked to his face. “Do not worry, my lord. Your adar is with him. He is safe enough. He is simply dreaming badly.”  And now he could catch the sound of his father’s voice, speaking too low for him to make out the words.

He ran his tongue over his dry lips.  That makes two of us dreaming badly, he thought, trying to ignore the throbbing in his wounded arm and leg.  His little brother must have been terrified by all he had been through, Ithilden thought unhappily.  He should have protected the child better.

“Are you in pain?” the healer asked.  “I can give you something that will ease it and let you sleep better.”

His stomach twisted at the thought of drinking anything. He drew a deep breath.  On the whole, he thought he preferred being awake and in pain to walking the paths of his troubled dreams again anyway.  “No,” he said.

She eyed him appraisingly and then walked away for a moment and came back with a cup that obviously held the very medicine he had just refused.  “The medicine will help your nausea too, if you can keep it down,” she said.  She lifted his shoulders and put the cup to his closed lips. He frowned.  “Come, my lord,” she said.  “You are not in command here.”  Conceding defeat, he drank the bitter brew.

“Gwaleniel,” called someone from the doorway behind him, “a warrior has come in with a deep cut.”

The healer lowered Ithilden to the bed again.  “I am coming,” she said.  He could hear her crossing the small room and going into the hallway. “Alfirin,” came her slightly muffled voice, “would you mind sitting with Lord Ithilden while I am busy?  I will be back as soon as I can. Come and get one of us if he seems in distress.  If the king comes back to stay with him, you may go.”

“Of course, Naneth.”  Light footsteps entered the room, and then the healer’s daughter came around his bed and stood in front of him.  His heart quickened, and he knew that it had nothing to do with his nightmares or the spider venom.  “How are you?” she asked, seeing that he was awake.

I ache for you, he thought, to his own astonishment.  “Better,” he croaked.

“Not much, I think,” she smiled. “But you will be.  My naneth will take good care of you.”

He smiled weakly back at her. And then, suddenly, his treacherous stomach rebelled again, and he could feel cold sweat on his face.  She must have had enough experience with sick people that she saw what was happening, for she jumped forward and held his head over the basin that had been left on the edge of his bed.  To his utter mortification, he retched repeatedly.

When he had finished, she lowered his head back to the pillow.  And then, miraculously, she did not take her hands away.  Rather, she stroked his hair gently.  He tried to open his mouth to speak, to tell her she did not need to stay here while he was so disgustingly sick, or at least to thank her, but she hushed him.  “Do not worry, my lord,” she murmured gently. “You do not need to talk.”

He lay as still as could, not wanting her to move away.  And before he knew it, he had slid away into dreams again. This time, someone bent to kiss him softly on the forehead as he lay in an unfamiliar bed.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he expected me to gain.

Thank you to Nilmandra for beta reading this.  The rest of you cannot imagine what a difference she makes.

*******

8.  The Path Home

Alfirin leaned closer to Ithilden and kissed him.  For a long, dizzy moment, he simply savored the gentle pressure of her lips against his. Then he tried to put his arms around her and realized that he was somehow pinned down. But when he struggled to free his arms, Alfirin faded and suddenly his eyes snapped into focus, and he found himself staring at a very familiar carved chest with a row of books lined up on top of it.  He was in his own bed in the palace, he realized, and only then remembered his father insisting that he be moved here from the infirmary.  Ithilden had lain quietly, with Thranduil on one side of his bed and the healer on the other, knowing quite well who was likely to win the argument. He had not been at all surprised when the healer had finally flung up her hands in surrender.

Ithilden knew he was more relaxed in these familiar surroundings, but he could not help regretting the fact that the healer’s daughter was unlikely to walk into his sleeping chamber in the palace. In the infirmary, he had seen her only the once that he knew of, but he had hoped she would be present every time he had awakened for a brief interval from the drugged sleep in which the healer had kept him.  Of course, given the fact that he had disgraced himself thoroughly the one time he had seen Alfirin, he was not surprised that she had not come back.

“Are you awake?” an excited voice asked, and Legolas moved into view.

“I believe I am,” Ithilden said, smiling at him. He could not think of an occasion when he had been happier to see his little brother, for this was the first time he had laid eyes on him since he had sent him off on his own to get help.  Ithilden tried to reach a hand out to touch him but found that his arms were pinned by a very tightly tucked blanket.

“Do you want something?” Legolas asked, on seeing him try to move. “A drink maybe? You should tell me if you have to throw up.”

“My stomach feels better,” Ithilden told him. “I do not think I will be sick.” He laughed softly at the look of relief on Legolas’s face.  He was relieved enough himself at the easing of his nausea.

Ithilden slid his eyes as far around the room as he could see. “Are you taking care of me by yourself?” he asked in surprise.

Legolas nodded happily.  “I have done it before too, but you were asleep.”  His face sobered a little. “Adar let me because I knew how from working in the infirmary, but also because it was my fault you were hurt.  I am sorry I did not listen to you and mind you better, Ithilden.  Adar says I can learn a lot from you, and he is right.”

With what seemed to require much too much effort, Ithilden freed his left hand from the blanket and reached out to grasp Legolas’s shoulder.  “I do think you would have been safer if you had done as I told you, but I should have been more patient and explained the situation to you better.  You behave well when you understand why you are supposed to do some things and not others.  And, Legolas, I need to thank you.  You saved my life by shooting that last spider.  And then you were brave enough to fetch the antidote and run for help by yourself.”  Legolas flushed and looked shyly down at the floor, but Ithilden could see he was gratified by the praise.

The door opened, and Thranduil entered the room.  “Ah! It is good to see you awake.  How do you feel?”

Ithilden hesitated for a second before saying, “Much better.”  In truth, his right arm and left leg ached abominably, but he had no intention of admitting that. He hated being drugged into oblivion.  Even during the few minutes he had been awake talking to Legolas, he had begun to fret over what might be happening in his office.  If he could manage it without interference from the healer or his father, he thought, he would send for his chief aide and ask for a briefing.

Thranduil smiled at him indulgently, and not for the first time, Ithilden had the eerie feeling that his father knew exactly what he was planning. Thranduil turned to Legolas. “Did you say what you have been waiting to say to Ithilden?”

Legolas nodded.  “I told him I was sorry.”

“Good,” Thranduil approved.  “Your tutor just arrived, so you need to be on your way.  You can come back when your lessons are over.”

“Yes, Adar,” Legolas said and started toward the door, but Ithilden called him back, drew his head down, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Thank you,” he said simply.  Legolas grimaced at the kiss but was still smiling faintly when he left the room.

Ithilden turned to Thranduil. “How is he?” he asked soberly.

“He is doing well enough,” Thranduil said.  “The first night he was home, he woke up terrified several times, but last night he was up only once.  He has the resilience of youth.”

Ithilden frowned. “I should have heeded your warning and kept better track of him, Adar. I let him wander into danger. I am so sorry.”

“He told me that he left you even when you told him to stay,” Thranduil shrugged.  “Do not blame yourself too much.  I have lost track of him a time or two myself.”

“Did he tell you I actually slapped his bottom?” Ithilden asked. He had felt guilty about hitting Legolas almost from the moment he had done it.

Thranduil frowned. “No, he did not,” he said slowly.  “I would prefer that you not do that again.  I have never thought that Legolas was a child who would mind better for being spanked.”

Ithilden considered how resentful Legolas had been over the single slap and had to concede the point.  “I will certainly try not to, but he can be unbelievably maddening,” Ithilden admitted.  “I am afraid he needs to have the fear of the Valar put in him at regular intervals.”

Thranduil laughed.  “I usually found that with you and Eilian fear of me was enough.”

Ithilden laughed too and then hesitated. His father normally accepted no interference in his management of Legolas.  “He seemed to need to have orders explained to him in a way I had not anticipated,” he finally ventured.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.  “Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked a little acerbically.

Ithilden smiled wryly.  “If this trip has taught me nothing else, it has shown me how well you deal with Legolas, Adar.”  He drew a deep breath.  “Nonetheless, he does follow instructions better when he understands the reasons behind them.”

Thranduil sat for a moment, with his face impassive, and then he looked away. “Your naneth used to say the same thing about you and Eilian,” he said finally.  He looked back and smiled slightly.  “She was almost always right.”

A light knock sounded at the door, and Gwaleniel entered.  She greeted Thranduil and then came to lay a hand on Ithilden’s brow.  “How are you, my lord?” she asked.  “Your color is better today. Do your arm and leg ache?”

“No,” he lied emphatically.  His father snorted softly, and Gwaleniel eyed him and then smiled.

“You would do better to sleep a little longer,” she said and opened her bag and took out a packet of herbs.  Ithilden groaned.  His office was going to have to manage a little longer without him.

***

Ithilden paused in the shade of the oak grove next to one of the training fields and put a hand on a tree trunk to steady himself.  Perhaps he would rest here, he thought, and slid gratefully to the ground with his back against the tree.  He had decided this morning that enough was enough, had refused to drink the medicine that the healer’s apprentice offered him, and then, as soon as he was alone, had simply dressed and walked out of the palace intending to go to his office.  Fortunately, he had met no one on his way out, except the guards at the doors, whose reaction to his appearance had been to salute. He felt rather as if he were an elfling who was running away from home.

He decided to take the opportunity to read the letter he had received from Eilian that morning.  It would have come with dispatches but those had been withheld from him, a situation he intended to remedy.  He pulled the letter out of his tunic and used his dagger to slit it open, suddenly remembering as he did so that he needed to tell Thranduil that Legolas had been carrying a dagger.  Their father would want to be sure that he had ceased doing so. Ithilden found he had more confidence that Legolas would obey Thranduil than him.

He started on the letter.  Eilian was an entertaining correspondent, making the most of the odd events that occurred even in the midst of the grim task of patrolling the southern reaches of Thranduil’s realm, but enough of the problems his patrol was encountering came through to sharpen Ithilden’s resolve to see his dispatches.  As he read, Ithilden wondered if he were going to have to rethink his decision to try to hold the territory south of the Mountains of Mirkwood.  Perhaps his father had been right in arguing that the task was hopeless.

Near the letter’s end, he suddenly found himself breaking into a grin.  “Adar tells me you are planning to take Legolas camping with you,” Eilian wrote. “You are braver than I would be!  I love the brat, but he is a handful just now.  I hope you both survive the trip in one piece.”  Brother, if you only knew, he thought. He folded the letter and tucked it back in his tunic.

The shout of a familiar voice drew his attention to the field, and he saw Legolas and half-a-dozen of his age mates near the water bucket, ducking and laughing as an elfling Ithilden recognized as his brother’s friend Turgon flung dipperfuls of water at them. “The little imps,” said a nearby voice. “I will have to send two of them to get more water, or they will all be complaining about how thirsty they are.”

He turned his head up and saw Penntalion standing next to him.  He had not spoken to the archery master since the day he had snapped at him like a jealous hound because he had been too near Alfirin.  “It is good to see you out again, my lord,” Penntalion said a little stiffly.  He evidently remembered their last meeting too.

“Thank you.” Ithilden looked back at the elflings, who had flung themselves on the grass and were, for the time being, quiet.  He made an offering of peace that was all the more genuine for being the simple truth.  “You must have amazing patience to deal with them all the time.”

Penntalion laughed, relaxing a little.  “They are sometimes a challenge,” he admitted.  “I am lucky that one of them is Legolas.  He is unbelievably self-disciplined for his age.”

Ithilden became aware that his mouth had fallen open in amazement.  Legolas was self-disciplined?  After the trip Ithilden had just taken with his brother, he would never have been willing to make such a claim.  “I am happy to hear that,” he said weakly.  Penntalion saluted him and then made his way toward where his class was waiting for him.

“Hurry or you will be late,” said someone else, and this voice was one he had been hearing in his dreams.  He turned his head quickly to see Alfirin sending her younger brother running across the field to join the archery class.  As if feeling his eyes on her, she turned to meet his gaze, and he rose politely to his feet.

“I am surprised to see you out, my lord,” she said.  “I am pleased, of course, but I thought you were still confined to bed.”

He blinked. Had she been keeping track of his progress?  A smile spread slowly across his face.  “That is a mistaken notion that many people have,” he said bravely.

She laughed.  “You had better hope that my naneth is not one of them,” she advised.

He gave an answering laugh. “Will you not save me if she comes after me with a cupful of medicine?” he teased, marveling at his own ease with this maiden who had always before rendered him speechless.  Perhaps he should have vomited in front of her earlier.  Then he would have known that she had already seen him at his worst and relaxed.

“I am afraid you will have to save yourself,” Alfirin smiled.  “I would never dare cross my naneth when she has decided to sedate one of her patients.”

For a moment, their eyes met and held.  “I wanted to thank you for how kind you were to me in the infirmary,” he said, feeling a little breathless.

She blushed slightly. “You are most welcome, my lord,” she said and turned toward the training field.  He looked that way too and saw Penntalion demonstrating something about gripping a bow to an attentive group of elflings.   He looked at Alfirin from the corner of his eye. Her face was still pink, but she kept her eyes on Penntalion.  He felt a pang of doubt.  She could not have expected to see him at the field today because she thought he was still confined to bed, but she certainly would have expected to see the archery master.  Uncertainty choked off anything else he might have been going to say.

“Good day to you, mistress,” he said and resumed his interrupted trip to his office, resolutely resisting the urge to look back.

***

Thranduil entered the family sitting room, and the warrior standing near the fireplace turned swiftly and bowed with his hand over his heart.  “My lord.”

“Mae govannen, Siondel,” Thranduil said.  He crossed the room to pour two cups of wine and offered one to Annael’s father, who hesitated for a second and then took it.  “Sit please,” Thranduil said, settling in a chair.  Somewhat stiffly, Siondel did as he was asked.

“I invited you to come here because I wanted to speak to you as one father to another,” Thranduil said.  “I understand that our sons have built a flet behind your cottage.”

Siondel’s face relaxed into a smile.  “They have,” he agreed.

“Legolas tells me that Turgon and Annael have slept on it,” Thranduil went on. “He would like to join them.” Siondel nodded cautiously.  “I have not allowed it thus far because, as you know, our children have occasionally wandered at night, and I have worried over their safety.”

“I do not think Annael will do so again, my lord,” Siondel said.  “He seems to have learned his lesson.”

“Annael was not really the one I was worried about,” Thranduil said dryly. “He has always struck me as a sensible child. But I am not so certain about Legolas and Turgon, and even Annael might feel duty bound to accompany his friends as they get into trouble.”

Siondel grimaced a little.  “They have behaved themselves thus far, my lord,” he finally offered. “And my wife and I leave our bedroom window open so that we can hear them.”

Thranduil looked thoughtfully down and tapped one finger against his wine goblet.  “The woods in which this flet is built are small, as I recall, but there is a thick copse about a hundred yards from your cottage.”  He looked up, and Siondel nodded, plainly unclear on where Thranduil was going.  “If a warrior were to choose to camp in this copse, do you think the elflings would be aware of his presence?”

Siondel’s face slowly split into a broad grin.  “I do not believe they would, my lord.  They tend to chatter together until they fall quite suddenly asleep.”

“And would a camping warrior disturb you and your wife?” Thranduil asked.

“Not at all,” Siondel said. “Perhaps we would even sleep more easily.”

Thranduil smiled.  “Excellent,” he said. “My son has spent many pleasant hours in your good wife’s care.  If I could repay her in any way, I would.”  He drank some of the fine wine and watched Siondel drink appreciatively too.  Legolas needed to spend a night under the stars with terror kept well at bay, Thranduil thought.  His courage demanded a reward.

***

Siondel disappeared through the back door of the cottage, leaving the three friends alone in the starry night.  Legolas sighed with deep contentment, lay back between Turgon and Annael, and pulled his blanket up to his chin.  He still could not quite believe that his father was allowing this, but Thranduil had said that now that Ithilden no longer needed Legolas’s care, he could spend this night on the flet.

“You have earned it,” he had said. “Just be sure you stay where you have promised to be.”

“I will, Adar,” Legolas had pledged. “I do not even want to go into the woods at night.”

His father had stroked his hair.  “One of these days you will want to do so again, my heart.  And when you do, you need to be with an adult.  Do you understand?”  Legolas had nodded vigorously. Oh yes. He understood the need to have an adult with him in the woods at night.

But not now.  Now he was with his friends, and the trees were singing their night song, and the stars were so close he thought he might be able to reach out and touch them.

“Did you really shoot a spider, Legolas?” Turgon asked.

Reluctantly, Legolas turned away from the sky to face Turgon. “Yes,” he sighed.  Turgon had been fascinated by his account of the camping trip, and sometimes Legolas enjoyed talking about it because his friends were impressed by the parts of the trip he had told them about.  He had not told them everything, of course.  He did not like to even think about how frightened he had been or how he had cried. And right now, he did not want to talk about the trip at all.  He wanted to just enjoy being himself as he was at this minute, sleeping on a flet with his friends.

Turgon must have sense his lack of enthusiasm because he changed the subject immediately.  He propped himself up on his elbow.  “Do you want to go down to the meadow and catch fireflies?”

“No,” Legolas said firmly.  “I want to stay here. I like it here.”

Turgon sighed and laid back down.  Annael began to sing softly, matching his song to that of the trees, and after a moment Legolas joined in.  Then Turgon too began to sing.  They twined their voices around those of the trees and the night birds and the sky and then trailed gradually away into silence.  An answering voice picked up their song, coming through the open window at the back of the cottage.  Annael’s nana was singing, her voice rising and falling in a lullaby for the creatures of the woods.  Legolas drew a deep, contented breath and let go of a tiny knot of fear that somehow a spider might be lurking in the tree overhead.  A spider would never want to be where it could hear Annael’s nana.  He would live in the woods forever, he thought dreamily.  He would never leave.  The path of dreams came up to meet him and he ran along it with his arms spread wide in joy.

The End