Interlude In Imladris

Third age, 2951.  This story is set directly after ‘Shadows Over Lasgalen’.  It stands alone, but there are references to some events from that story.

Chapter One - The Ford

It was a week after he returned from the tragic mission before Legolas was able to travel to Imladris to see Elladan’s trolls. He had seen Eléntia’s brother again, and Math’rin’s and Elthan’s wives, and had made a complete report to both his father and Mithrandir.  Pavisel, too, was restless and eager to be active again.

Leaving Lasgalen in the capable hands of his second-in-commands, Alfiel and Tirnan, Legolas left early one morning. He rode along the little-used old elf path, which Bilbo and his companions had travelled ten years before, and which Aragorn had used nearly three weeks previously. Bilbo had found the forest very eerie, but did not understand it the way he did. This was one of the oldest parts of Lasgalen, and the trees grew close together. The path he rode had a musty feel, a claustrophobic atmosphere.  Even here, close to home, the shadow was growing nearer. To either side of the path webs could be seen, the strands as thick as ropes. Occasionally the branches shook, as if something heavy lurked there. The light was dim, but his eyes soon became accustomed to it. Far off into the trees thick cobwebs hung and the spiders lurked there, but the path itself was kept clear by the power of the elves. Black squirrels danced among the branches. They were as playful as their red cousins, but more wary – they were often hunted by the handful of men who lived along the western borders, who feared them.

Towards the end of the first day, Legolas came to a river that ran across his path. It flowed swiftly to the north, and the water appeared dark, almost black, in the dim light. This was the Enchanted River, that brought deep sleep to any who touched its waters. Since Bilbo and the Dwarves had travelled the path ten years before, the bridge had been rebuilt, a simple affair of two planks laid side by side across the water. It was wide enough for Pavisel to cross with ease, and he was thankful that his people were no longer so insular with the departure of the shadow, and prepared for travellers to come once again to their realm.

That first night, Legolas rode as long as he could, until it was too dark to see the track before him. He could not light a fire along this path, the flamelight would call forth creatures of the forest who would watch, unseen apart from the reflection in their eyes. Also, there were giant moths, attracted by the firelight, which would incinerate themselves in the flames, filling the air with the stench of their burning wings.

Although the moon must be nearly full, Legolas could see nothing. He halted, ate a brief meal, and slept fitfully for a few hours. As soon as dawn broke, and he could see a dim grey glimmer about him, he set off again. The next day seemed even longer. The darkness of the forest to the left and right of him seemed even thicker, cobwebs festooned the trees, and once or twice he glimpsed the scuttle of a thick, hairy leg disappearing. But the path itself remained clear. At last he reached the eaves of the forest.

At the western edge, as Legolas came into clear air again, he breathed a sigh of relief. Being under trees was one thing, but as well, he needed to feel the breeze and see the light of the sun and stars. He continued westward across meadowlands until he reached the River Anduin. He came to the banks of the great river just after nightfall, so halted Pavisel and they rested. There was no moon but stars sprinkled the night. Resting beneath the open sky he felt refreshed, and had no need of sleep. So far, the journey had been uneventful, but away to the north he sensed the weather was changing. It looked like he was due for some heavy rain.

The next day Legolas headed south along the river. The edge of the rainstorm caught him, and before long he was soaked. They rode through a downpour. Cold, wet, miserable, he and Pavisel plodded along. The ground was too soft to gallop, so they made slow progress. By nightfall he was drenched. By using dry wood, which he carried for chances such as this, he made a small fire. There was no sign of life in that vast, empty land, and there would be nothing foolish enough to be out watching him. At dawn he continued south again towards the ford. It was still raining. Pavisel’s mane and tail were sodden, his legs and golden skin splashed with mud. By midday they reached the ford. Deep at the best of times, now the crossing stones were covered by a raging torrent of water rushing down from the Ered Mithrin. Legolas halted in dismay. To go south to the next pass, Caradhras, would add four weeks to his journey. He could wait for the river to subside, but away to the north the sky was still dark with rain. In the end he gave a deep sigh. There was nothing for it but to take their chances and cross – with the rain that had been falling, it would only get worse.

The crossing stones were invisible beneath the water, so they would have to walk across, rather than ride. Legolas slid down from Pavisel, removed the pack strapped to his own back, securely tied the baggage together, and fastened it to Pavisel. When all was ready, he led Pavisel cautiously into the water, probing with each step for the crossing stones. The chill made him gasp. Straight from the mountains, the water was far colder than he had expected for this time of year, and the force of the current was strong. By the time he was waist deep, he could barely keep his feet, and moved to Pavisel’s right, where the river pressed him against the horse’s side. He knew the crossing well, having been this way many times in the past, but it had never been this difficult or dangerous. They were about halfway across the ford when Pavisel slipped.

To compensate for the constant pressure of the water trying to force them off the crossing, Legolas and Pavisel had been angling to the right - but had gone too far, off the crossing stones. Suddenly Legolas found himself in much deeper water. The torrent was over his head, and he could not touch the river bottom.  Raging, muddy water filled his eyes and ears, his mouth and nose.  His left hand still gripped Pavisel’s mane, and somehow he was able to pull himself up, gasping for breath, choking, spitting out mouthfuls of dirty water.. Hauling the horse sideways, suddenly he felt the crossing beneath his feet again. Not caring how hard he pulled at Pavisel’s mane, he tugged until the horse’s hooves found some purchase on the stones, and he was able to stand again, trembling.   He took a moment to regain his equilibrium and breath, then, moving even more cautiously, making sure they were securely on the crossing, they edged forward.

Suddenly his foot, probing beneath the water for the next clapper stone, felt nothing. The stone had been washed away in the flood, and there was nothing there. Pavisel shied, uncharacteristically, and Legolas found himself slipping on the wet, slick stones. There was a surge of water, and he lost his footing completely. Plunging forward, he lost his grip on Pavisel, and was washed helplessly downstream, tumbling like a leaf in the churning waters of the Anduin as it raced towards the far distant sea.

To Be Continued

Author’s Notes:I imagine the ford to be a ‘clapper’ bridge, common on Dartmoor near where I live in Devon, in South West England. It consists of flat slabs of stone (the ‘clappers’ ), supported on pillars of granite. The pillars are set into the river bed. Although massive, and very heavy, it is possible for the stone slabs to be washed away in floods - I’ve seen it happen. It is a very ancient type of bridge, and could easily be built in Middle Earth.

Chapter Two – Imladris

As Legolas plunged into the river, the roaring water closed over his head.  The bitter cold made him gasp, and he drew in a mouthful of  icy, dirty water.  Choking, he spat it out again, coughing as it caught in his throat.  Struggling desperately, he tried to break free of the raging current, but was pulled down again by his water-logged clothes, boots and cloak.

Legolas had no idea how far he was carried by the torrent. He was dragged under the water repeatedly, tossed and turned by the flood, whirling along like flotsam. At length he was able raise both hands to his throat, releasing the clasp, and his cloak, made of a thick, warm weave, was snatched away into watery oblivion.  Relieved of the weight, eventually he could kick to the surface, gasping for air. Unable to see for more than a few yards upstream or downstream, he struck out towards the western shore, somewhere on his right, as the current carried him ever further from the ford. At last he was close enough to grip the reeds that grew thickly by the edge of the river, and slowly pulled himself into shallower, calmer water, and then, finally, to the bank. On hands and knees, he crawled away from the water’s edge, coughing painfully against the water in his lungs, then lay on the bank, heart pounding. He closed his eyes, drifting into semi-consciousness as he struggled to breathe. 

At last,  the burning pain in his chest slowly subsided, and he returned to full awareness.  He found he was able to sit up and take stock of the situation.  To his amazement, he was unharmed apart from scrapes and bruises – though his hands were cut from the sharp edges of the reeds – but was soaked, chilled, and exhausted. He still had the knife on his belt, his quiver – which amazingly still had a few arrows in it – but his bow was missing.

Legolas knew that his best course of action was to find what had happened to Pavisel.  A conception-day gift from Thranduil, several years before,  they had been through much together, and Pavisel was a valuable asset in border patrol skirmishes.  He was more than just a horse, he was a companion and a friend, and Legolas grieved to think he was no more.  But he had to be practical. Even if the horse had not survived, he might be able to salvage the packs Pavisel had carried. First, though, he stripped off his outer clothes down to the thin under-tunic. That would dry quickly, and be less hampering and chilling than the wet things.

At length Legolas got to his feet, and started back towards the ford. He kept close to the water's edge, looking, watching, for any sign of Pavisel, the baggage, or his bow. Dusk was falling, and he was stumbling with weariness when he glimpsed something lying half submerged, entangled in the reeds by a curve in the river.  It was longer, thicker, and shaped differently than the straight reed-stems. He stared at it without recognition for a moment, but knew it was important.  Carefully he waded, knee-deep, into the water to retrieve it - a long, curved piece of wood, carved into intricate designs, supple and flexible. It was his bow.  Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving he inspected it.  It was clogged with mud; the string was broken, but it was intact.

Back on the bank, he pondered what to do next. As night fell, it would become more and more difficult to see anything washed up by the river, and he could easily miss something important. Besides which, he was more tired than he had been in a long time, even after the return from Dol Guldur. Reluctantly, he decided to stop overnight and wait until daybreak before continuing.

From the reed bed he was able to gather several dead, hollow stems, and many dry leaves, together with clumps of driftwood washed up by previous floods. The debris underneath was relatively dry, so he set about building a small fire. His outer clothing was by now fairly dry, and he sat by the fire, eating the dried fruit and nuts from the emergency rations in his belt pouch, and feeling more at ease than he had any right to expect.  He did not dare to sleep properly, despite his exhaustion, but sat upright, feeding the flames, drifting lightly into a doze.

A slight sound in the distance brought Legolas fully awake again. He kept low, his heart racing, peering into the night, trying to identify the noise. It came again, a soft thud, together with the breathing of a large animal. Not quite daring to believe his luck, he called, the shrill sound of tawny owl. There was an answering snort, and the thudding came closer, sounding irregular. He stood, waiting. Pavisel walked into the circle of firelight, hobbling slightly, and stopped by Legolas.  He patted the soft nose, elated at this good fortune, and swiftly felt Pavisel’s legs for injury.  The cause of his limping gait was immediately apparent, and Legolas gave a soft laugh.  One of the packs which had been strapped to his back had slipped down, and hung under him like a misplaced pregnancy. He quickly undid the straps and removed the pack, allowing Pavisel to move more freely. Carefully he checked again for injuries, but Pavisel seemed to have escaped as lightly as he had himself.

He leaned against the horse's neck, revelling in the warmth and familiar smell, and the companionship of another creature.   He was not sure how long he stood there, murmuring softly, while Pavisel blew warm, grass-scented breath at him. At last he moved, and sat by the fire again, checking the contents of the pack. There was a cloak, a thick wolf skin rug - a gift for Elrond - and half of the food he had carried. His spare clothing and the rest of the food had been in the other pack, but it was enough. Spreading the rug on the ground, he wrapped himself in the cloak and slept deeply –  trusting in his own instincts and Pavisel's senses to warn if danger approached.

Shortly before dawn Legolas awoke and stretched. The fire had died, but it was not totally dark - the clouds had cleared and the sky was lightening. Pavisel was nearby, grazing contentedly. When he had repacked the baggage, he and Pavisel rode to the north, back towards the ford. From this higher vantage point Legolas could see more of the river. The water level had not dropped at all; if anything it seemed to have risen further, and continued to roar south to the Gladden Fields. Some way downstream he could see the other pack, but it was on the far side of the Anduin. He left it there, and rode on, moving away from the river now, where the land was a little higher and drier. By midday they had come to the track that led to the ford – amazingly, the near disaster had only cost him one day. With only half the supplies, the week-long journey would not be comfortable, but Imladris was at the end.

After two days of uneventful travel, they reached the foothills of the Misty Mountains. A further day brought them near the High Pass, which led over the mountains and down into Eriador. It was cold at this altitude, but he did not dare light a fire at night in case it attracted the attention of any wandering orcs. As they crested the pass Legolas paused and looked back the way they had come. He could see the line of the Anduin, and beyond that, away to the east, the dark smudge of Lasgalen stretched to north and south as far as he could see. The Emyn Duir marched in a line away from him, and beyond them lay his home. Far to the south he thought he could see a darker shadow on the forest which marked Dol Guldur, but perhaps that was only imagination.

He turned to face forward. To the west lay a green country of rivers and hills, gentler looking than the land behind him. Somewhere below, hidden from sight, lay the valley sheltering Imladris, and journey's end.

As they descended once again the air became warmer. The mountains were not so steep on this side, and the going was easier. Legolas rode through resin-scented pine trees, needles creating a soft carpet on the ground that muffled Pavisel's hooves. At length the land levelled. Ahead lay a high, windswept moorland, purpled with heather, and gilded gold with gorse. As he finally approached the hidden valley where Imladris lay, he became aware that he was being watched. He could not see the concealed sentinels that guarded Imladris, but could sense them following his trail, watching his every move.

Suddenly a figure dropped out of the trees ahead of him, causing Pavisel to start and give a snort. Simultaneously two elves materialised out of the forest on either side of the track, arrows drawn and pointed at him. Legolas froze, then addressed the elf before him in exasperation. "Ellahir! Is this the way you normally greet invited guests?"

The two guards, on hearing the unfamiliar name, drew back on their bowstrings. Elladan stepped forward and pushed both bows down, with a soft word of reassurance. He looked up at Legolas. "We can never be too careful when a traveller comes down out of the mountains. Especially one who appears not to know the names of the sons of Elrond." He grinned. "It is good to see you again, Leg'as." He turned to the archers. "Go back to your duties. There is no cause for alarm, this is the son of Thranduil of Mirkwood." Looking a little confused, they turned and disappeared back into the trees.

Elladan gave a soft whistle, and a tall, grey horse moved forward out of the trees. He jumped lightly onto its back, and together he and Legolas rode down into the valley of Rivendell. As they dropped lower, Legolas found himself remembering the sights, sounds and smells of Imladris. The glimpses, far below, seen through the slightly misty valley, of Elrond's halls, formed of living wood and stone. The rush and babble of the Bruinen, the roar of the water as it fell over rocks, into deep and mysterious pools. The scent of the trees, of damp earth, and of wet, mossy stones. He inhaled deeply and gave a sigh. "It feels good to be back. It seems a long time since I was last here. Tell me, did Aragorn arrive safely?"

Elladan nodded.  "About three weeks ago. He told me he had met you at Lasgalen, I hoped you would be there. That was why I sent you the message."

"He said something about trolls. How bad is it?"

"The worst we have ever seen them. Mithrandir got rid of the last ones, about ten years ago, but they keep coming down from the mountains." Elladan sighed, shaking his head.

Legolas paused, remembering.  "Were they the same ones Elrohir and I tried to go after?"

"Havens, no. They would never live that long. They are not usually too bad, just taking the occasional wild pony or goat, but there are five this time, and much more cunning and dangerous than usual. They discovered travellers are easier prey, and often attack people riding alone or even in pairs. Most have escaped, but they killed two messengers from Bree last month."

Legolas pondered what Elladan had told him. During their conversation they had ridden down through the valley and were now not far from the halls of Imladris. Questions and strategies raced through his mind. "Do you know where they come from?"

"No, it proves impossible to find their lair. Even if we do, it seems equally impossible to harm a troll!” Elladan sounded frustrated. “They have immense strength, and hides like stone. I know you have experience in fighting orcs, goblins, spiders - and wolves - so I thought you might have some ideas."

Legolas gave Elladan a sharp look. "Have you been talking to Aragorn?”

Elladan smiled. "He did mention something about an encounter with wolves. Among other things."

"What sort of other things?" asked Legolas suspiciously.

"That you told him you were engaged to Arwen."

"That was not what I said! Well, not exactly!" protested Legolas indignantly.

"So what did you tell him?" queried Elladan, with a gleam of malice in his expression.

Legolas described the conversation he had had with Aragorn. Elladan gleefully demanded every nuance of his foster brother's reaction. As they rode under the archway that led into Imladris, Elladan added casually, "I think he was not entirely convinced though, because he asked Arwen about it when he returned here."

Legolas stopped dead, nudging Pavisel to a halt. "Arwen knows?"

Elladan now wore an expression of pure innocence.  "Yes. I think she said she wants to see you when you arrive."

Legolas closed his eyes, his lips moving in a succinct, inaudible curse. Arwen had a formidable temper when roused.

A flight of wide, shallow steps led from the courtyard into the entrance hall. Elrond stood at the top, Elrohir at his side. There was no sign of either Arwen or Aragorn. After exchanging warm greetings, Elrond welcomed him to Rivendell, and Elrohir took Legolas to the guest rooms.  As always, a hot bath had just been drawn, steaming and fragrant.

"Supper will be in about an hour. Join us in the Hall of Fire when you feel ready." As Elrohir turned to leave, Legolas called him back.

"Elrohir!  My father was wondering why you and Elladan thought I would want to go troll hunting. Did you ever tell Elrond about that particular trip?"

Elrohir laughed and shook his head. "I did not tell him, no. I suspect he guessed, though. There were always some things he said he would rather not know."

"I am scarcely surprised. I find it hard to believe we did that, we were lucky.  They could easily have killed us.”

"We were young, and foolish. I think we both learned our lesson.  We would never do anything so irresponsible now.”

Legolas, remembering the chase with the wolves he and Aragorn had had, was not entirely sure, but agreed, at least aloud, with Elrohir.

After Elrohir had gone, he washed and changed. There was a gentle tap at the door, and then Arwen opened it, walked in, and shut the door behind her. Legolas was surprised to see her in his room, but greeted her warmly. He was a little wary of her reaction to the news of their `betrothal', but had no intention of mentioning it until she did.

"You need not worry about me being here. It would be quite proper. We are engaged, after all." Her voice had a definite edge to it, and her expression was cold.

Legolas sighed inwardly. She sounded even more annoyed than he had feared. "Arwen, I – I apologise. That was not quite what I said, anyway. It was just .... "

She was no longer listening, but interrupted him: "Why, by the Valar, did you have to remember that ridiculous idea of my father's? And why tell Aragorn about it? What other bright ideas have you had?"

"Arwen, I am sorry," he said again. "Truly.  I did not mean to upset either of you. I did explain to him ..... " he stopped again, recalling Aragorn's stunned and shocked expression, his stumbling words, and could not prevent a grin at the memory. He tried to hide it from Arwen - it would annoy her even more - but then realised that she was struggling to suppress a smile of her own. He glared at her. "Why am I apologising to you?" he demanded. "You think it just as funny as the rest of us!"

She was laughing now, abandoning her attempt to scold him. He hugged her, laughing as well. "Arwen, it is wonderful to see you again, it has been far too long. It must be.."

"You came to the last Lórien Council instead of your father. That was about fifty five years ago. I have seen nothing of you since then."

Arm in arm, exchanging news, they went downstairs together to the Hall of Fire to join the rest of Elrond's household for the evening meal.

To Be Continued

 .

Chapter Three -Trolls

Downstairs, a group of scouts, led by Aragorn, was just returning. They had searched all day to the south of Imladris, but had found nothing. There was no trace of the trolls’ lair, no traces of where they went after the latest attack on the travellers from Bree. They returned dispiritedly to report to Elrond.  Legolas greeted Aragorn warmly, surprised at how glad he was to see the ranger again after such a short acquaintance, although the other seemed to regard him a little coolly.

The lack of success was disheartening, and it was clear new tactics were needed. Searches by day were pointless, there was nothing to be seen, and night patrols never seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

“We need more search parties, more widely spread. The trolls only move at night, so we need to be in position well before.  We have been there at night, but have seen nothing of them, but they could be anywhere on those hills. It seems clear we have no hope of finding them by chance, so I want several groups to lie in wait all around that area to see if they appear. We should return night after night, if necessary, trying different areas, until we find them.”

Elladan’s plans were clear. If the trolls’ lair was so well hidden, the only chance they had was at night when the trolls would be out and about – and at their most dangerous.

During supper Legolas described his journey, and what had happened at the ford.  “You will have to warn your messengers, Elrond. When I return, I will send a patrol from Lasgalen to repair the damage, but possibly some of the woodsmen have already seen to it - they use the ford a great deal.”

Elrohir shook his head. “You seem to have the luck of the Valar, Legolas. You could have been killed!”

“It certainly explains why you looked so bedraggled when I met you,” said Elladan.  “I should have guessed you had gone for a swim!”

When the meal was over, Aragorn drew Legolas to one side. “You haven’t told me how your patrol to Dol Guldur went. Did you find anything down there?”

Legolas was silent for a moment, remembering – not that he would ever forget.  “Yes.  We did.  But it all went badly wrong. Eléntia, Elthan and Math’rin were killed. We found at least two of the Nazgûl there, and the rest of us only just made it back.”

Aragorn gazed at him in horror. “Legolas, I’m sorry. I had no idea. What happened?” His voice was filled with compassion. “I’m so sorry” he repeated, sounding a little more friendly than he had at first.

Legolas shook his head. “Not now.  Perhaps another time.”   There was a shadow of sadness in his eyes, and Aragorn let the matter drop.  But there was one matter he could not forget. 

“Legolas,” he began, sounding rather reluctant.  “What you told me about – about you and Arwen.  That you were to marry.  You said there was nothing in it, but tonight I saw you, coming down the stairs together.  You looked – you both looked so happy.  Arwen looked so happy.  I just wondered …”  his voice trailed away.

“Aragorn, stop worrying!” Legolas told him firmly.  “I told you the truth.  Yes, Arwen loves me – as she loves Elladan and Elrohir.  Are you jealous of them?  I love her in the same way, like a sister.  My own sister died when she was born, I never had the chance to know her; but I like to think that she would have been like Arwen.  I was glad to see her, we had much to talk about, but that is all.  You have no reason to worry.”

Aragorn stared at him, as if reading the truth in his eyes.  Then he looked  away.  “I’m sorry.  I should never have doubted you, either of you.  I know that.  I think I …”

“I saw her just now, going outside.  That way.”  Legolas pointed towards one of the outer doors, smiling as Aragorn lost no time in following.  This visit, he reflected,  could be interesting, in more ways than one.

There were no further patrols that night, but the next evening they left Imladris. They crossed the ford of Bruinen and rode up into the hills that surrounded the Trollshaws. There were many outcrops of rock, cracked and fissured, where there could be caves where the trolls might be concealed. Legolas began to appreciate how difficult the terrain was to search, and how easily the trolls could hide. He had only been into the Trollshaws once before, long ago, and that had been at night. Goaded by Elladan and some of the other elflings, he and Elrohir had crept out of Rivendell, crossed the ford – strictly against Elrond’s orders – and up to the wood. The fright he got then, when they had come face to face with two curious trolls, had been nothing compared with the fright he got when they had returned to Imladris to find both Elrond and Thranduil waiting up for them. They had talked their way out of it, but were still in a lot of trouble.

The hunting party split up, into groups of two or three, close enough to call to, just in sight, but far enough away to cover as much ground as possible. They settled into position as dusk fell.

Legolas was with Elrohir, concealed in a low tree. In the distance he could see Elladan and Arwen. Somewhere on his other side, hidden by bushes, were Aragorn and Raffael, one of Elrond’s warriors. The night grew darker, but then the moon rose, hanging low in the sky, a few days off full. The two elves sat back to back on adjacent branches, enabling them to watch as much of the terrain as possible.

All was silent. The quiet of the night was broken only by the hoot of an owl, the cries of other night birds, and the high pitched calls of bats. It had surprised Legolas when Aragorn had said he was unable to hear the bats. He had not realised until then just how restricted a mortal’s hearing was.  What else did they miss out on?  High on their branch, he and Elrohir spoke in soft voices, reminiscing.

Legolas had not been to Imladris for many years, and had only seen Elrohir briefly since his arrival, so they had much news to catch up on.   “Elladan and Aragorn both said something about Mithrandir dealing with the last trolls. What happened?”

Elrohir gave a sudden smile at the memory. “It was about ten years ago.  He was coming here with a party of dwarves and a friend of theirs, an odd little fellow called Bilbo. They managed to get themselves caught by the trolls. They were about to be eaten, when Mithrandir – who of course had managed to escape capture – got the trolls arguing about how to cook them, which to kill first. Every time they thought they had reached an agreement, he started them off again!  He kept them at it so long, the sun came up and turned all the trolls into stone.”

Legolas gave a shout of laughter, but then quickly stifled it. “That must have been the same group of dwarves who came through Lasgalen later that year.  I met some of them after the battle. I remember Bilbo, he seemed a strange little creature - a hobbit, or some such name. I had never seen one before, but he was brave and loyal.  He tried hard to break the siege. Both my father and Thorin were being amazingly stubborn. I wonder what happened to him when he left?  I suppose I shall never see another hobbit, but Bilbo seemed very odd.”

“He came back through Imladris on his way home. Mithrandir said the dwarves had upset your father somehow, so he threw them all in the dungeons!”

Legolas laughed at the memory. “Yes, that was true, he did. He realised almost immediately that he had made a mistake, but you know how stubborn he can be - he was unable to back down without seeming to give in to Thorin’s demands. If I had been there, I would have talked him round, or released them myself, but as it was, this Bilbo freed them somehow. I still wonder how he managed it!”

There was silence for a while, punctuated by the quiet night sounds. Elrohir moved slightly, feeling stiff. Legolas’s voice came from behind him. “The stone trolls, are they near here?”

“A couple of day’s journey away. If we have time, we can ride up there, so I can show you.”

“If there is time. We have to catch these first.”

The night passed uneventfully, with not even a hint of troll activity. Gradually the sky lightened as dawn approached. As the sun rose, they dropped to the ground, stretching against the stiffness of remaining in the same position all night long. No one had seen any sign of the trolls, but as they regrouped, and rode wearily down to the Road and back towards Imladris they came across a scene of devastation.

A small group of dwarves, travelling from the Ered Luin to Erebor had been attacked. Wary of the trolls, they had moved off the Road and camped by an outcrop of rocks to the south. They had set guards to watch all night, and had not lit any fire that might attract attention. In short, they had done everything right, everything they could. Their camp had still been attacked, and three dwarves had been carried off.

The survivors were shaken, but their shock was giving way to anger. They vented it on the first plausible target – the elves whose realm bordered this area, and who should have done something. As Elladan and Elrohir tried to placate them, and reassure them that Elrond was indeed doing something about the trolls, Legolas kept in the background. His only dealings with dwarves had been ten years previously, at the Battle of Five Armies, and he was curious to see the outcome. In the end the dwarves were offered an escort to Imladris, and shelter for the night.

As they returned to Imladris, Legolas rode with Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn. “What I cannot understand is why we always seem to be behind them. They either strike in a place we thought was safe, or return to an area we have already searched, and where we found no trace of them,” Elladan complained. “It seems they know where we are, better than we know where they are.”

“We must have searched every cave in these hills over the last few weeks,” said Elrohir. “And we still cannot find their last den.”

“Perhaps they do not have just one,” suggested Legolas. “Maybe they move around from one cave to another. That would explain why they keep striking in a different place. Have you got a map that shows where they have been?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Elladan. “But there seems to be no pattern in it, it appears random.”

Legolas considered this.  “Have you tried plotting it with the dates of attack? See if that shows up anything.”

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other. “We should have thought of that,”  Elladan told his twin.

“Maybe, but we do not live in a forest under constant attack from spiders and goblins,” said Elrohir.

“Or orcs,” added Elladan

“Don’t forget the wolves” supplied Aragorn. “Mirkwood – sorry, Lasgalen – is  a rather dangerous place. I found that out last month.”

The four fell to inventing other dangers that lurked in Lasgalen for the unwary. The list included mist wraiths, tree spirits, banshees, giant frogs, carnivorous plants that could swallow a horse, and flowers that showered unsuspecting travellers with hallucinogenic pollen. After a while Legolas fell silent. He had discovered enough real terrors in the forest, without the need to make up more. Aragorn noticed his change in mood and moved Duathnir next to Pavisel.

“Homesick?” he asked, deliberately pretending to misunderstand. “You must miss such a wonderful place. I’m surprised you can bear to leave it!” The tactic worked. Legolas laughed with him, and by the time they reached Imladris his despondency was forgotten.

They rode up into the hills above the Trollshaws again the next evening. This time Legolas was partnered with Aragorn. As they made their way to a remote outcrop of rocks which would make a good vantage point, Aragorn noticed what seemed to be a deeper patch of shadow at the base of the stones. He stopped and called Legolas back.

“Legolas!  Look, there. Is that a cave? Let’s go and look.”

They approached the area cautiously. As they drew nearer, the shadow widened and they could see a deep cleft running back into the rock.

Legolas was cautious. “I think so.  Yes, it is a cave. Have they searched this one? It was only by the way the moonlight fell that you saw it.”

“I don’t know if they looked here yet. I don’t think so - but we should go inside to check. Can you hear anything?”

Legolas paused at the entrance, listening intently. He sniffed the air inside the cave. “There is nothing in there now. But I think they have been, though not recently.”

Aragorn seemed excited. “If they aren’t there, it should be safe to go inside. Come on!”

Legolas hesitated, searching for an excuse. “You go.  One of us should stay here, keep watch in case they come back.”

Aragorn kindled a torch and stepped warily into the cave. The flickering light from his torch picked up glints of quartz and mica in the walls. He turned, and could see Legolas silhouetted against the lighter darkness at the entrance. Soon the passage turned and then opened up into a high cave. By the uncertain torchlight he could see bones strewn on the floor, some small enough to be sheep or goats, some large enough to be from a horse or pony. Some of the bones looked horribly human. He moved further into the cave and looked around, then jumped and swore. He caught his breath on a note of horror. On a ledge of the cave, roughly at eye level, sat a human skull.  Was it an ornament?  It seemed to be looking at him from the empty eye sockets.

Aragorn took a final swift look around the cave, wanting to be out in the clean night air.  It was clear the trolls had been here, but not for some time, it appeared. As he turned to leave he could hear his name being called, and grateful for an excuse to hurry, went quickly back to the entrance.

Outside, Legolas watched as the glimmer of torchlight faded into the cave. It was ridiculous that he still felt this deep reluctance to venture into a cave. He had never been able to completely conquer the fear of darkness, pain and helplessness. He could force himself to enter a cave if there was no alternative, but would not go in if it could possibly be avoided.  The halls of Lasgalen were different. They were known, familiar, well lit and lavishly furnished. Frequent windows were cut, allowing light, air and the sounds of the forest in.

He called softly. “Aragorn! Can you see anything?” He listened, and could hear the faint sounds of Aragorn’s footsteps returning.

Back in the open, Aragorn told him everything he had seen. “They’ve obviously been there a lot, but not for a long time. At least we know one of their dens now!”

Legolas nodded.  “I think we should plan to keep watch here, for as long as necessary. They may return eventually. It seems to be the best sign we have had of them yet. We can tell Elladan and Elrohir in the morning.”

They continued to the top of the rocks to start the night’s vigil. It was a clear, cloudless night, and the hillside was brightly lit from the moon. For a few hours nothing happened and they talked in quiet voices of their journeys from Lasgalen. As Legolas related the tale of his ill-fated attempt to cross the ford, he noticed shadows moving across the hillside below. Simultaneous with his realisation that there were no clouds in the night sky to create a shadow, he saw smaller shadows, elves, following stealthily.

They had finally found the trolls.

As Aragorn and Legolas moved silently down to the others, more groups converged on the hillside. Although the elves moved silently, the trolls, somehow, suddenly became aware that they had company. With roars and bellows they rounded on those closest with terrifying speed. The elves darted out of range, but then a pitched battle began. The elves had speed and numbers to their advantage, but the trolls were also fast, and had brute strength, and hides impervious to arrows.  After the initial confusion, Legolas realised that there were only three trolls, and no sign of the other two. They were armed with heavy clubs which they wielded with deadly force, and had fists like sledgehammers.  Even the casual swing of a fist, which barely made contact, sent Elladan sprawling breathlessly to the ground. He sat up, dazed, as Elrohir dragged him to safety.

Aragorn and several other elves who fought with swords attacked together. His blade rang dully and bounced off the troll’s skin. None of their weapons seemed to have any effect, but the trolls could inflict serious injury if they ever managed to hit anyone. Fortunately the elves were too fast, and only a few minor swipes had made contact.

Suddenly there was a cry. A heavy swing from one of the clubs had struck one of the elves with vicious force, knocking him to the ground. He lay motionless. Standing over his victim, the troll roared in triumph. Despite his concern, it gave Legolas a sudden idea. Ignoring the twins’ shouts to move, he stood directly in front of the troll, and fired an arrow straight at its face. The arrow bounced off uselessly, as he had known it would, and the troll bellowed at him mockingly.   Seizing his opportunity, Legolas stood his ground and rapidly fired two arrows into the troll’s open mouth. Both arrows lodged deep in its throat.

For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, and Legolas felt a bitter disappointment.  He had been so sure that his plan would work!  Then the troll stopped.  It coughed, looking almost puzzled, swayed, and with a thunderous crash fell forwards. It did not move again.

Legolas dodged out of the way just in time, and looked down at the fallen troll with satisfaction. He did not realise that his movement had brought him into the range of one of the other trolls. It had taken a wild swing at Elladan with its club and missed, but the backswing caught Legolas a heavy blow on the side of his head. The impact knocked him off his feet, into the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing.

There was a moment of agony as pain crashed through him, and then nothing.

To be continued

Chapter Four - Waiting

Aragorn, off to the left, saw what Legolas did, how the troll fell. He gave a whoop of elation and shouted to Elrohir. “Did you see that? Aim for its mouth!”

Elrohir nodded tensely.  He could do it, but it would be dangerous.  To get the right trajectory, he would have to stand very close to the troll - and to its fists and club.  He positioned himself, and waited until the troll towering over him roared again, then swiftly shot his arrow at it. It worked. The troll tried to swallow, gave a hoarse, harsh bellow, and collapsed. The cheers of the elves at his success seemed to enrage the remaining troll. It shot out its hand and grabbed at Elrohir, seizing his arm in a crushing grip, but then seemed to be moving more slowly. The hillside was becoming brighter now, and in the steadily growing light, Elrohir could see the troll’s alarmed expression. Elladan, with a glance at the sky, yelled: “Elrohir, get away from it! Now!”

Elrohir, suddenly understanding, gave a desperate twist and broke free, leaving half his sleeve in the troll’s grasp. The first rays of the rising sun filtered across the hillside. The troll gave a bellow of rage and fury that abruptly broke off.

In the growing light the elves could see it, one arm reaching out for Elrohir, a shred of his sleeve forever locked in its grip. “That was close,” Elrohir gasped to his brother, who had gone rather white. “Thank you for the warning, El.”  He looked around the hillside, at the three trolls they had fought, all dead. “Is that it? Two dead, one stone. I wonder where the other two are?  But at least this hunt was successful.”

“Not quite so successful,” said Elladan sombrely. “Linhir is dead.” He was kneeling by the elf who had been hit by the troll’s club. He lay where he had fallen. The club had hit the top of his head, shattering the skull. In sorrow they gathered round as the sun rose on the scene. The two dead trolls had turned to stone, either as they died or as the sun reached them, and there were now three new rocks on the hillside.

Elladan got to his feet. “We have to go back.  Let me take Linhir.” He moved across to Mithrond.

“I think it would have been a lot worse if Legolas had not realised how to kill them,” said Elrohir. “Nothing else we did seemed to work.  Well done.” He paused, looking around. “Where is he?”  They looked round sharply. There was no sign of Legolas, either among those standing sadly by Linhir, or with the elves inspecting the fallen trolls. “Where is he?” Elrohir repeated, his voice sharpened by anxiety.

Aragorn pointed.  “He was standing by the first troll we killed. I saw him jump out of the way! It couldn’t have fallen on him, could it?” Unable to believe the sudden turn of events, the three looked at each other, baffled.

“Spread out. Search,” ordered Elladan tersely.

“Over here!” called Raffael. He was looking at the bushes just behind them. Turning, they saw Legolas lying motionless where the blow from the club had knocked him, crumpled limply beneath the tree. Elladan and Elrohir moved him carefully onto the grass as Aragorn bent over them. “What happened?”

“I cannot tell,” said Elrohir. “It looks like the other troll got him, but I do not know if it was a fist or its club.”

Aragorn, remembering Linhir, whispered, “Is he alive?”

Just then there was a commotion behind them. A group of elves from Imladris, lead by Elrond, had come to check on their progress. “Thank the Valar. Father! Over here!” called Elrohir. As Elrond approached, Aragorn moved aside to give him room.

Elladan had gently felt for a pulse, dreading what he might find. He gave a sigh of relief, coupled with surprise.  “Yes, he is.”

Elrond knelt beside his sons. Legolas had a long cut running vertically from his hairline to the corner of his eye, an area of crushed and bloodied flesh on his forehead, and a darkening bruise covering half his face. There was no flicker of consciousness, and his face, always pale, was ashen. Elrond looked down at him. “Oh, elfling, what have you done this time?” he murmured softly. He ran deft, probing fingers over Legolas’ head, feeling carefully for any damage to the skull. Then he gently lifted each eyelid, looking at the pupils.

“Father?”

Elrond looked up at his sons, not sure which of the three had spoken.  “What happened?” he asked simply, his face strained.

Elladan and Elrohir explained what they knew, with Aragorn adding what he had seen. “Father? Will he be all right?” Elrond stood up wearily and sighed.

“I cannot tell yet. Come, we should go back to Imladris.”

Slowly, sadly, the hunting party rode back to Imladris. The euphoria they had felt at the defeat of the trolls had completely disappeared, and the mood was subdued. Three of the trolls were dead, but two of their own had fallen. One was dead, and the other – no one knew yet.  Aragorn rode beside Elrond, questioning him about Legolas’s injury. Behind them were Elladan and Elrohir, their normal high spirits quenched.  Elladan held Linhir in his arms, his expression blank.  This could so easily have been any of them.

As they rode through the archway into the courtyard at Imladris, Arwen was waiting to greet them. She looked pale and strained. Her eyes flicked over the group, some of the tension visibly leaving her as she saw Aragorn, her father, her brothers. She came down the steps and stopped by Elrond. “Father, the messengers said someone had been killed! What happened?”   She raised one hand, and twitched aside a fold of the cloak that wrapped Legolas.  Her hands flew to her mouth in horror as she stifled a cry of anguish.  “Legolas,” she breathed.  “No.  Oh, no!”

She turned to Aragorn, and buried her face in his shoulder.  “It’s all right,” he told her, reflecting that that was not quite the right thing to say.  “Legolas is alive.  He’s hurt, but he’s alive.”

Then, behind him, she saw her brothers more clearly. Arwen’s eyes widened in dismay.  “Linhir too?  Oh no - Elladan, what happened?” she whispered.

Aragorn moved from her side, reaching up to help Elladan move Linhir. “I’m sorry, Linhir’s dead. One of the trolls got him. But Legolas is going to be all right, I’m sure your father can do something.” He sounded optimistic, wanting to reassure Arwen, but in truth was desperately worried. He had seen the concern on Elrond’s face. And if the elf Lord was so uncertain, what were Legolas’ chances?

Aragorn trailed behind Elrond as they made their way to Legolas’s room. Arwen and Elladan remained to deal with Linhir.

In Legolas’ chamber, Elrohir carefully placed him on the bed. Then he and Aragorn stood back to give their father room. Elrond again ran his long, sensitive fingers over Legolas’ head, probing gently, and feeling for any swelling or depression, any ridge which could indicate a fracture. At last he straightened, and gave a sigh of relief. “Well, there seems to be no damage that I can feel. But this,” – he indicated the long, jagged gash – “will need to be stitched.”

Aragorn watched, fascinated, as Elrond carefully stitched along the wound, drawing the skin on either side of the gaping cut together.  He never tired of watching his father work.  When he had finished, a line of fine stitches ran vertically down Legolas’ forehead, but the wide gash was now only a long, narrow cut. Elrond stood back. “That should heal now, without a scar. It could have been a lot worse. He must have a very thick skull.”

“I said that years ago,” muttered Elrohir, not quite under his breath. Aragorn, despite his concern, gave a short laugh, which he changed into a cough when Elrond glared at them both.

“I want one of you to stay here. I think he will not wake up yet, but if he does, call me.”

“Yes, father,” murmured Aragorn. When Elrond had gone, he gazed down at Legolas. It seemed strange to see him so pale and still, the spark of life and joy missing. The day dragged. Elrohir disappeared after a while, leaving Aragorn alone. He read, paced, and sat by the bed telling Legolas how the other two trolls had been killed.

At one stage it looked like Legolas was rousing. He stirred slightly, eyes flickering, and murmured something which Aragorn did not catch. But after a while he subsided, and silence fell again. Aragorn, sitting by the window, looked up in relief as, towards evening, Elrond returned with Elrohir.

“Is there no change?” Aragorn shook his head.

“Nothing. I thought he was going to wake up, but ...” he trailed off. “Father, is he going to be all right?”

Elrond gave them both a reassuring smile. “There is no need to worry, just give it time. I think he will be fine.” The three sat, talking softly, as outside darkness fell.

~~**~~

For Legolas, return to consciousness was a slow, painful business. Stray thoughts and sensory impressions flickered like fireflies, but when he tried to hold on to them, they slipped from his grasp like a handful of sand. The more he tried, the harder it was, and everything seemed to become more and more elusive. Legolas struggled to make some sense of his confused thoughts, but the effort was too great. It hurt even to think. Eventually the thoughts faded away completely, and he sank into oblivion again.

Some indeterminable time later he drifted toward the light again. The fleeting thoughts and feelings returned, as ephemeral as a will-o-the-wisp. With an immense effort he was able to hold on to some of the impressions, and gradually made some order out of the chaos.

He was indoors, lying on a soft bed. A breath of cool air carried scents of trees, water and damp earth to him. Imladris. There were others in the room, one very close to him. There was sharp, stabbing pain across his head, and a duller ache throughout his body. There was a quiet voice calling him.

“Come, elfling. I know you are awake.”

Elfling? Only three people ever called him that. He considered the possibilities. His father, Glorfindel, or:  “Elrond?” He realised he had made no sound. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Cool water trickled into his mouth, and he licked it gratefully. He tried again. “Elrond?” His voice was a faint, breathy whisper.

Legolas struggled to open his eyes, but the lids felt leaden. Finally he succeeded, but his vision was blurred, and he could only see out of one eye. The other was glued shut. He felt a momentary panic, but the figure next to him – Elrond? – wiped away the encrusted blood until he could open both eyes, although his right eye would still not open fully.  It felt swollen, ached incessantly, and the vision remained blurred. Slowly he blinked the room into partial focus. It was dark outside, and he could see two figures by the windows. Elrond was standing over the bed, looking down in concern.

“Can you tell me what happened?” It was his standard question when assessing any head injury.

Legolas frowned, and closed his eyes again, trying to remember. The slight movement sent a sharp pain across his forehead. He raised his hand to it, and felt a raw tender area, and a long gash that ran to his eye, criss-crossed by a line of stitches. He was unaware that as his silence lengthened Elrond’s look of concern deepened, and across the room, Elrohir and Aragorn exchanged worried glances.

“The trolls,” he said at last, a little uncertainly. “We fought them. I killed one, I think. After that…” he stopped, unable to recall anything else. He shook his head, grimacing as the movement sent a blinding pain shooting through his head. “I am not sure.” Suddenly he looked up at Elrond. “Linhir. I saw him go down. Is he all right?”

Elrond sighed. He had hoped Legolas would not remember that particular detail. “No. He was killed. I think you were very lucky. How do you feel?”

Legolas considered the question.  “As if Durin himself had used my head for his anvil.”

Across the room he could hear a smothered laugh from Aragorn, who crossed to the bed. He sat down; causing a slight jolt that sent another wave of pain and nausea through Legolas, who gave a slight gasp.

Elrond smiled. “Drink this. It should help the headache.” He slipped an arm around Legolas and helped him to sit up. Taking a cup, Elrond held it to his mouth. Legolas was not about to be helped to drink like a child, so he took the cup for himself. He was appalled to see his hand shaking. He steadied the cup with his other hand and managed to drink. The sweet taste of the liquid could not disguise the bitter aftertaste of the herbs. He drained it, then said: “Did you say lucky? What happened to Linhir?”

Elrond had not wanted to go into details, but could no longer avoid it. Legolas was every bit as stubborn as his father was. “The troll hit him with its club. He was killed instantly. His – his skull was crushed.”

Aragorn, from the end of the bed, said: “You killed one of the trolls. Elrohir followed your example and got another one. The last one was petrified when the sun came up. We got them, Legolas, all three.”

Legolas leaned his head back against the pillows and swallowed against a sudden vertigo. The room was spinning. Whatever was in the draught Elrond had given him, it was more than just a remedy for his headache.

Grey eyes looked accusingly at Elrond as darkness splintered the edges of his vision. “What...” he began, as unconsciousness claimed him again.

“”Just something to help you sleep, elfling. Just something to help you sleep.”

To Be Continued

Chapter Five  - More Troll Hunting

When Legolas awoke again it was daylight, and he was alone. The headache still lurked behind his eyes, but had receded to manageable proportions, and his vision was clearer.

He turned his head a little as the door opened.  Arwen stood there, a slight smile on her face.  “How do you feel?”

He looked at her and considered the question carefully. “Better,” he conceded. “Do you think your father will let me get up?”

“I should think so.  I doubt he would be able to stop you, anyway.”  She came into the room and looked at him carefully as he stood cautiously.  She hovered at his side, though Legolas noticed she did not offer to help, probably knowing he would only refuse – but she kept close enough to catch him if he fell. He walked slowly to the window and leant on the sill for support, looking down through the trees to the river below.

He was acutely aware of her assessing gaze, and was not in the least surprised at her next comment.  “You look terrible,” she told him bluntly.

 “Thank you so much.  Do you have a mirror?  Let me see.”

She found one, and handed it to him wordlessly.  He looked at his reflection and sighed.  He was very pale, and the dark bruise covering a quarter of his face accentuated the pallor of his skin.  One eye was swollen and half-closed – it was not surprising that his vision was still a little unfocused.   The jagged cut, nearly four inches long, was surrounded by a scraped, painful looking graze, only now beginning to scab over.   “He calls that lucky? Oh well, I suppose it will heal. What time is it?” he changed the subject.

“About midday. I came to see if you were awake and wanted any lunch.”

Legolas frowned, trying to reconcile the hours.  They did not seem to add up.  “Midday? It must have been near dawn when we fought the trolls. Was that only this morning?”

Arwen shook her head.  “That was yesterday. You have been - asleep - since then.”

“I see,” he said, a little horrified that he had been unaware for so long.

“You woke up for a while last night.  Do you remember?”

He thought back. There was a dim memory of Elrond, of Aragorn at the end of the bed, telling him about the trolls. “I think so. But it seems a bit - hazy. Your father was there. And Aragorn. And - Elrohir?”

Arwen smiled at him. “Good. You do remember. I shall give you a few minutes to get dressed, then you can meet us downstairs.”  She gave him a light kiss on the cheek, and left.

A short time later, Legolas joined Arwen, Aragorn and the twins over the noon meal, although he did not feel particularly hungry. He was keen to hear full details of what had happened to the other trolls.

“Well, I saw how you killed the first troll, so I tried the same thing. I thought it would not work at first, but then it went down like a tree falling!” explained Elrohir enthusiastically. “But then the last troll realised that we had killed the other two, and seemed to be even more enraged.”

“Yes, it grabbed him, just as the sun came up,” added Elladan. “It was turned to stone. El was lucky he got away in time!”

Elrohir shivered. “Yes, that was close!”

“What do you think would have happened if you had still been held by the troll?  If you had not got away?” Legolas asked Elrohir curiously.

“I have no idea, but I am very glad I did not find out!”  Elrohir said firmly.

“Maybe you’d have been turned to stone as well!” exclaimed Aragorn ghoulishly.

“Or perhaps you would have had to wait until we could find a handy dwarf to come along with a chisel to free you,” suggested Arwen.

Legolas shook his head and laughed. “I wish I had seen it!  It sounds like I missed all the fun.  But when are you going out after the other two?”

“There will be another search party tonight,”  Elladan explained.  “We plan to go south of the road this time, we have not been there for a while, but there have been no reports of trolls anywhere for days. It seems to have gone very quiet. I hope we will be able to find them soon!”

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.  Elladan and Elrohir left on pursuits of their own, Elrohir saying something about visitors from Lorien. Legolas took the opportunity to replenish his arrows. He had lost most of his in the Anduin, and wanted – needed – to replace them. He collected the supplies he needed, then set to work. Aragorn watched with interest as the arrow heads, with lethally sharp points, were fitted and bound to the shafts with thin strips of leather. Then Legolas sorted through a handful of feathers, selecting the ones he wanted for fletching. “Pass me that knife, please?”  he asked absently.

Aragorn handed him the knife he had been using for the arrow heads.  Legolas glared at him in exasperation.  “No, not that one! The fletching knife, there!” he snapped.

Aragorn changed knives quickly, giving his friend the correct one. “Sorry.”

Legolas sighed, resting his head against one hand.  “No, I am the one who should be sorry. There was no need for that. I – I feel tired.” In truth, the detailed work and concentration needed for the tricky task of fletching the arrows was not helping a persistent headache, and his vision still blurred disconcertingly at times. He  did not usually feel this bad tempered or out-of-sorts.  Quickly he finished the fletching, then added the final detail, a tiny golden oakleaf symbol, etched on the arrows near the fletching. He stowed the completed arrows in the quiver, and returned with it to his room as Aragorn left to get ready for the night’s search.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the hunting party assembled once again in the courtyard. As Legolas arrived he saw Aragorn talking to Elladan and Elrohir while they waited by the horses.

“There are only two of them left, and if they stay together we could search from now until Yule until we find them,” Elrohir complained. “I do not particularly want to be spending every night out after them. There is a girl from Lorien, a healer, who has just arrived. I want ...” he broke off, looking over Aragorn’s shoulder at the steps from the house. “Oh. I wondered when you would appear.”

Aragorn and Elladan turned to look.  Legolas returned their gaze calmly.  Elladan gave a snort of disgust. “You must be mad if you think you are well enough to come tonight. I am surprised father has not stopped you.”

Legolas stood, rather defensively, on the steps, his bow slung over his shoulder, a quiver full of newly-fletched arrows on his back. Elrond appeared behind him, looking resigned.

Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir converged on him. All three started on him at once, and Legolas quickly became defensive. “I feel fine, there is nothing wrong with me. I just want to get on with this. Will you all stop fussing!” His voice rose to a near shout.

Aragorn watched the argument wryly. Legolas’s stubbornness had collided head-on with the twins’ steely determination. It would be interesting to see who won. After five minutes of fruitless ‘discussion’, when none of them had yielded an inch, Aragorn decided to call a halt, using more subtle methods. Moving around behind Legolas, he caught Elrohir’s eye. When there was a lull in the furious flow of words, he spoke sharply behind his friend. “Legolas!”

Legolas turned quickly - too quickly. He went pale, and swayed as a wave of dizziness hit him. He glared at Aragorn, who was regarding him with what could only be described as a smirk. “Still think you’re well enough to come?” the ranger asked sardonically.

“That was a low trick!” snapped Legolas.

“But necessary” said Elrond, firmly. “I trust there will be no further discussion?”  He stared at Legolas with an expression eerily reminiscent of Thranduil at his most implacable.

Legolas knew when he was beaten, but still glowered at all four. “All right. I shall stay here - tonight.” Without another word, he turned and went back into the house.

Aragorn realized that Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir were looking at him in admiration. “That was nicely done, Estel. Much simpler than a long drawn out argument,” praised Elrond.

“But you could have just put your foot down,” Elladan told his father.

“Yes, I could,”  Elrond agreed,  “but he would have resented it, and me. Besides, I have no authority to forbid him to do anything. This way, he can decide for himself.”

~*~*~*~*~

Legolas watched from the windows in Elrond’s library. If he could not participate in the hunt, he could at least search for references to other troll attacks. He turned as Arwen came to join him in his research.

“You wish you were with them,” she said sympathetically.

Legolas simply nodded.

“I know how you feel. Sometimes Aragorn thinks he should look after me, that I need protecting.”

Legolas looked at her in disbelief. He could hardly imagine any woman less in need of protection than Arwen, with the possible exception of one of his warriors from Lasgalen, Taniquel. He remembered Arwen’s fearless companionship when he had once been injured, the deadly accuracy of her arrows when he had taken her on a spider hunt through Lasgalen. “What do you tell him?”

“Most times I point out his error. But sometimes - sometimes I let him. He has a tendency to take responsibility for things he cannot really control. He cannot help it - it comes of being a ranger.”

Legolas considered her words. It certainly shed a new light on Aragorn - he had not suspected this trait in his friend. And the thought of Arwen in need of protection was still mind-boggling. He could easily imagine her ‘pointing out’ Aragorn’s error. It was very revealing that she did not do so every time.

“You love him,”  he stated flatly.

Arwen nodded, almost sadly. “Yes. And I will have to make the same choice as Luthien in time. But it is no choice at all, really.” She shook off her melancholic mood and changed the subject. “Anyway, what about you?”

Legolas smiled suddenly. “Ashia is due to return from Lorien some time next year. Then she will start training our healers in the techniques she learnt there. I had a letter from her a few months ago. She says she has learnt more from your Grandmother than she ever believed possible!”

“I met Ashia when I was in Lórien.  I like her.  And I think she is just right for you!”  She leaned forward and embraced him.  “I am glad for you.”

“So am I for you, Arwen.  Aragorn is a fine man.  Be happy.”

~*~*~*~*~

Early the next morning, the hunting party trailed back to Imladris, cold, wet, and miserable. It had rained all night, and once more, there had been no sign of the trolls anywhere.

 Thereafter, patrols continued every night, with no more success. Elrond varied the hunters out searching so that none became too exhausted or despondent, and between them they covered every inch of ground surrounding Imladris, but found no sign of the remaining trolls. There were no new caves found where they might lie hidden, and no new traces in the caves they had already searched. However, they all took comfort in the fact that at least there had been no new attacks reported.

Four nights after the fight with the three trolls at the Trollshaws, a large party, this time including Legolas, rode out from Rivendell. There had been a message that travellers were again braving the road between Bree and the mountains, and Elrond was taking no chances.

Elladan and Elrohir were planning to conduct a further search of the many caves in the area, including the one Aragorn and Legolas had found. They were discussing tactics when Elrond spoke behind them.

“Legolas. I would speak with you, if I may.”  Legolas slowed Pavisel until Elrond caught up with him, and they rode alongside one another.  “You warned me when you arrived of the renewed evil that dwells in Dol Guldur. But you have not told me all that occurred there. I sense a shadow on you. What else happened?”

Legolas hesitated, looking down at Pavisel’s mane. “The mission - was not a success. Of the six who rode out, three did not return.”  He paused, chosing his words with care.  “We were returning from Dol Guldur when we were ambushed - I should have sensed it! One of the warriors, Math’rin, was killed instantly. We fought the orcs, and eventually defeated them, but Elthan had taken a grievous wound. He died before we could help him.”

“I remember Math’rin when we fought together at the Last Alliance” said Elrond sadly. “He was a valiant warrior. He used to play for us, and could charm the birds from the trees with his harping! And Elthan, he came here many, many years ago to learn from our healers. I grieve for your losses.” He paused, waiting for Legolas to continue, then asked,  “What happened to the third of your companions?”

Legolas hesitated for a long time, his voice distant as he was forced to confront Eléntia’s death again. He continued slowly: “One of my warriors, Eléntia, was taken by orcs. We followed them, but they reached Dol Guldur. The Nazgûl were there. They are - truly evil.” Legolas’s voice dropped to a bare whisper. Then he continued: “One described in great detail what they would do to her, wanting us to take that message back to Lasgalen, so no others would approach the tower.” He stopped again, seeing in his memories the tower, Eléntia chained against it, the towering figure of the Nazgûl, the chill of fear they had felt as it turned to them, and hearing once more its cold voice.

Elrond watched him closely, saying nothing. He could guess what had happened then, and the terrible burden which Legolas carried.

Eventually Legolas continued. “I had no choice. Rescue was impossible, there were hundreds of orcs and trolls. Once they took her inside the tower - we could not let that happen, could not abandon her to that fate.” His voice dropped again, so even Elrond, riding beside him, could barely hear. “I had no choice.”

“I see.  Have you spoken with your father of this?”

Legolas nodded.  “Yes.  It helped, but I still wish things could have been different.”  He looked at Elrond. “I appreciate your help.  Thank you,” he said simply.

Elrond gave him a sudden smile. “Away with you, elfling. Go and see what my sons are up to.”

Legolas rode away from the main party, over the hill to the rock outcrop he had seen with Aragorn. As he drew near the cave, he could see no sign of the twins or Aragorn. They had clearly gone into the cave, as their three horses waited patiently outside. He was still several hundred yards away when through the dusky twilight he saw a dark shape moving slowly past the rocks towards the cave. He watched in disbelief for a long second,  then called a sharp warning.

“Aragorn! Elladan, Elrohir! Get out of there, the troll is coming back!”

The creature turned at his shout, and regarded him with an idle curiosity. Then it resumed its path and lumbered towards the cave entrance. Legolas turned to look for Elrond, or anyone, but there was no one else in sight. He slid off Pavisel. “Go and find Elrond, now. Bring him here!” Then he turned and raced towards the cave. The troll had already reached the entrance and gone in. For a long moment, nothing happened, then he heard a wild shout, a furious bellow, and a startled cry from one of the twins.

As Legolas reached the cleft there was another roar from the troll, a crash, then the thunderous roar of collapsing rock. A shockwave of dust and fetid air blasted out of the cave mouth, and he reeled back, coughing. Then there was a groaning, creaking sound, another rumble, and a further cloud of dust. Gradually silence fell, and the cloud dispersed.

The cave had collapsed, and the entrance was completely blocked.

To Be Continued

Chapter Six - Rescue

Struck by horror, Legolas flung himself at the cave entrance, clawing at the rock with his bare hands, shouting desperately.

“Aragorn! Elladan, Elrohir! Can you hear me?!” There was no sound at all from within the cave. He listened, desperate for some sign, any indication that his friends still lived, but the silence was broken only by the occasional chink of settling rubble.  He looked up and down the deserted hillside for anyone who could get help, but there was no one.  He, Aragorn and the twins had been detailed to search this cave, and the others had spread out to other locations.

He stared at the cave blankly, wondering what he could do, knowing he had to act swiftly if there was any chance of getting them out alive – if  they were still alive.  Studying the cave again, he realised that the entrance was not totally blocked as he first thought. Two large boulders had fallen across it, but there was a very narrow gap beside one that opened into darkness. Without giving himself time to think about it, he took a deep breath and slid into the gap, twisting his body to fit through.

Inside, it was pitch black, so dark he could see nothing. He tried hard to recall the layout of the cave as Aragorn had described it to him, but he had been paying little attention at the time, and could not recall much. With one hand outstretched in front of him to feel the wall, Legolas took a cautious step forward, then another, then swore sharply as his head hit the low roof. This was no good. He moved back to the slice of grey light that marked the gap, and squeezed back out into the night. He took a deep breath of the cool night air, then turned to Elladan’s horse. He found a tinderbox in the bags, with flint, kindling, and a tallow candle, and quickly lit it, then re-entered the cave.  

It was harder this time, and he had to force himself to continue, sorely tempted to simply take one of the horses and ride for help.  The wavering flame cast a fitful light before him, sending flickering shadows across the walls. The tunnel was partially blocked, but now that he was able to see he could pick his way over the rubble, ducking his head to avoid the low roof.  Just ahead he could see a dark shape on the ground – the troll. It lay where the tunnel widened out, and part of the cave roof had collapsed onto it.  It looked dead, and he fervently hoped that it was.

Above the troll, a slab of rock had fallen from the roof. It was balanced on a precarious support, and looked ready to collapse at any minute. Legolas looked at it for a moment, then edged under it warily – if it fell, it would kill him without doubt, or trap him on the far side, away from the entrance.

He called again. “Elrohir? Elladan? Aragorn?”   To his relief, a faint moan answered him – at least someone was alive.  He stepped carefully past the troll and found a large cave, just as Aragorn had said. He turned to look round the cave, moving a little too quickly, and the flame shuddered and nearly went out. He slowed, his heart racing, and carefully checked his pocket yet again to be sure he had the tinderbox safe.   Then he carefully dripped molten wax onto a ledge of rock, fixing the candle into place. As his eyes adjusted to the faint light he could see that the roof at one side of the cave had fallen in, and rubble and debris littered the floor.

Immediately in front of him he could see Aragorn, just raising himself to his hands and knees. He seemed dazed, and not fully aware of what had happened. Legolas dropped to one knee beside him. “Aragorn? Are you all right? Can you walk?” He touched the man on one shoulder, but the ranger seemed disorientated, and took a wild swing at Legolas. The sudden movement unbalanced Aragorn, and he nearly fell. Legolas lowered his voice. “Aragorn, it is me, Legolas. Can you hear me?  Wait here, I shall go to see if I can find what happened to Elladan and Elrohir.”

He could see both the twins, just past Aragorn: Elladan nearest, just beginning to stir, and Elrohir, unmoving, lying against the far side of the cave. He moved carefully past Aragorn, then knelt next to Elladan. His eyes were flickering, and he was moving his head slightly. Legolas touched his face gently with his hands. “Elladan? Elladan!” He paused, then continued, using the old name. “Ellahir? Wake up, talk to me Ellahir!”

There was a soft sigh. “Go ’way.”

Legolas grinned. “That sounds better. Wake up now, Aragorn is hurt, and I need you to help me with him.” He turned then to Aragorn again. “Aragorn, can you stand? I want you to get Elladan out of here.”

Aragorn groaned, but got to his feet, swaying slightly. “Elladan? Is he all right? What about Elrohir?”

“I can see to Elrohir. Go on, take Elladan outside, get help.”

Aragorn helped pull Elladan to his feet, then turned to stare hazily at Legolas. “What are you doing here? I thought you were talking to Elrond.”

“I followed you down. Come on, I need you to help Elladan, remember?”

With a mixture of pleas and threats, Legolas was able to persuade the pair to move to the exit, stumbling and supporting each other. They were both clearly dazed and only partially aware of what had happened, or he would never have got them out while Elrohir remained.

Once they were safely gone, he turned to Elrohir.  “Elrohir?  Elrohir?” he asked gently.  There was no response.  Elrohir lay face down, motionless, partly buried in dust and rubble. His hair was coated with a grey dust. Carefully, Legolas moved the candle a little closer, fixing it in place again, then slid his hand beneath Elrohir’s neck to check for a pulse, fearing what he might find.  To his relief, he found it, beating strongly.  Then, as he gently touched the back of Elrohir’s head, he felt a sticky smear of blood.  As he moved enough of the stone and rock to free Elrohir, he was sharply reminded of his own experiences, and he fought to control his panic again.  Eventually he was able to pull Elrohir free. The movement raised a further cloud of dust, adding to that already choking the air. The smell, the taste of the dust, the stinging in his eyes and throat all revived the memories even more vividly, but there was no time to dwell on them.

As Legolas bent to check on Elrohir again, the candle flame began to gutter and flicker, sending shadows leaping wildly across the walls. He turned to look at the candle as the flame shimmered and finally went out, leaving him in total darkness again.   He stood, controlling his fear with an immense effort, and groped for the tinderbox.  But his hands shook, and as he opened it to strike the flint, it slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground somewhere among the stones that covered the floor of the cave.  Crouching, he felt among the rubble, his hands sweeping the floor in a vain search for the box, but it was gone.  He swore in despair, but abandoned his attempts to relight the candle.  Instead, he located Elrohir again by touch and lifted him carefully. Legolas had had no time to examine Elrohir for further injury, and knew he should not really be moved, but there seemed no other choice now.  He was still unconscious, but at least he was alive.  The darkness now was absolute, pierced by the sound of settling earth, and laced with the evocative smell of damp and crumbling rock.

Legolas had heard a steady trickle of dust and debris, together with a constant drip of water for some time, and now there was a creaking groan as more of the cave collapsed somewhere behind him. He moved cautiously forward, trying to feel ahead with one hand outstretched, while still supporting Elrohir. After what seemed like an eternity he located the wall, and began to grope along it in the direction of the cave mouth. He had forgotten about the troll, lying near the tunnel, and stumbled over it, nearly dropping Elrohir as he fell. At the same time there was a thunderous roar as more of the cave collapsed, this time showering him with stones and mud. He got to his feet again, heart pounding, breathing harshly.  He swallowed again, fighting the panic that welled up within, and battling against the impulse to abandon Elrohir and simply run for his life.

Behind him, there was a different sound, the rumble of a semi-conscious troll - it was obviously not as dead as Legolas had hoped. He could hear it lumbering to its feet. Glancing behind, he could just see it in the grainy light filtering from the cave entrance, peering all around, looking for the three elves that had trespassed in its cave. There was a low growl, then a crash. The troll had stumbled, falling against the single remaining roof support. There was a tremendous crash as the rock slab above fell, bringing down the rest of the cave roof.  Faintly, in the noise, there was a soft grunt as the troll was buried beneath tons of rock.

A trickle of stones was falling all around Legolas now, and once or twice there was a heavier impact. Something brushed against his back and landed heavily just behind him - large enough to have inflicted serious damage if it had struck him. Another rock hit his shoulder, numbing his arm, and Legolas stumbled to his knees once more. Grimly he picked himself up.  Surely the tunnel had not been so long on his way in?  Could he possibly have taken a wrong turn in the darkness?  Was he, even now, moving deeper and deeper into the hill?   Finally, ahead of him, he could see a dim grey light that marked the exit, and could hear voices calling. The light was momentarily blocked, and he was plunged back into darkness as someone edged through the narrow gap.

“Legolas! Elrohir! Are you there?”

He gave a sigh – almost a sob – of  relief. “Yes.  Here. Get out, quickly, because I cannot tell how long it will be before the rest of the roof falls in.” Suddenly someone was beside him, taking Elrohir, and guiding him out of the cave. There seemed an interminable pause while Elrohir was manoeuvred past the rocks blocking the cave, when the light was obscured again, then they were out, breathing the clean night air.

Wearily,  Legolas sank to his knees in the damp grass. He was filthy, streaked with debris, mud and blood, hair matted and dulled with dust. Elrohir, laying a little way off with Elrond kneeling beside him, looked no better. But they were alive.

Hearing shouts and curses, Legolas looked about him, absently rubbing his shoulder and flexing his hand. Aragorn and Elladan were being forcibly restrained as they struggled to get back to the cave, Elladan fighting desperately against the three elves who held him back.  “El!”  he cried, screaming his brother’s name.  He turned and snarled at the ones who struggled to maintain their hold on him.  “Let me go, curse you!  Elrohir!” 

Finally it registered on him that Legolas and Elrohir were both out, and only then did Raffael, Tirilth and the rest release him and Aragorn.  Elladan ran to his brother’s side, but was waved aside by Elrond. “Let me see to him. What happened?”

Elladan was still dazed, but reasonably coherent. “We went to have a look at the cave Aragorn found with Legolas. We went inside, but one of the trolls came back and found us.” He paused, clearly trying to recall what happened after that. “It started waving its club around, and hit one of the roof supports. Then - then I think the whole cave started falling down.”  He sank to the ground next to his twin.  “Elrohir?  Can you hear me, little brother?”

Between them, Elrohir was already starting to stir, and before long his eyes opened. He blinked up at his father and brother, both leaning over him anxiously. The fact that Elrohir had regained consciousness fairly quickly had already relieved some of Elrond’s concerns. It was further alleviated when Elrohir groaned and muttered “Oh no - what happened to that troll?”

Legolas looked across at him. “Have no worries – it was dead.  The roof caved in on it.”

Elrohir blinked at him owlishly. “Legolas? I thought I heard your voice. Where did you come from?  Were you in the cave with us?”

“You were lucky.  I came to see what you were up to. You need looking after!”

Elrond watched Legolas as he spoke, his gaze going then to his sons. The three were battered and bruised, but already arguing about who was at fault. He turned to Legolas. “They are indeed lucky you came after them. I owe you - I owe you a debt of gratitude I can never repay.” he said quietly.

Legolas was spared from having to answer. There was a clatter of hooves as Arwen rode up. She had been working with one of the other search parties away to the south, but had obviously heard what had occurred. Elrohir was sitting up by now, elbows propped on his knees as Elrond tended to the cut at the back of his head.  He winced, then looked up as Arwen approached. “Oh no, not again!” he murmured.

As she dropped to the ground, Legolas took her horse. He looked at the beast curiously. It did not look like the one she usually rode.

Once she had seen for herself that Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn were more or less in one piece, her concern gave way to anger. “What were you thinking of, going in there without a lookout? You know how dangerous these trolls can be! Have you forgotten what happened last time?  Have you forgotten poor Linhir?”

Aragorn tried to defuse her anger. “I did have a lookout the last time I went into the cave, Legolas stayed outside. He was going to again, but got talking to your father. None of us wanted to wait, so we all went in without him. Perhaps we should have waited ....”

“Yes, you should! At least Legolas has some sense!”

Legolas did not want to be dragged into the argument, so looked for a way to interrupt, and changed the subject.  “Arwen, surely this is Asfaloth? Where is your horse?”

She looked slightly guilty. “I borrowed him. He was faster than mine. I know Glorfindel will not mind!”

“What do you mean?” asked her father. “Glorfindel does know you have his horse, I suppose?”

She flushed. “Well - he was not there to ask. He was off searching one of the other caves - with a lookout!” she added pointedly.

Elrond sighed. “I told you before, ask first! I know this is not the first time you have taken Asfaloth without asking Glorfindel.”

“And it probably will not be the last, either,” Elladan added slyly.  He was in high good humour now that he knew Elrohir was safe.

The search parties were now split into two groups. One continued the search for the remaining trolls, while the other was delegated to escort Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn back to Imladris.

“Arwen, take Asfaloth back at once. Apologise to Glorfindel!”  Elrond was irritated with her, but too relieved to be properly angry.

Arwen bowed her head meekly. “Yes, father.”

Elladan and Elrohir watched with unashamed delight. It was extremely rare that their sister bore the brunt of Elrond’s anger - it was usually them, even when she had been the instigator of some prank.  Elrohir, holding a pad of soft cloth to the back of his head,  exchanged a broad smile with his brother.

Elrond now turned his attention to his sons and Legolas. “I want you to head straight home. None of you are fit for any more adventures today!” He paused then, glaring at them all in resignation, and changed his mind with a sigh. “No, on second thoughts I will accompany you myself. I do not trust any of you!”

To Be Continued

Chapter Seven – The Last Troll

The journey back to Imladris passed without incident, but by the time they returned it was nearly dawn.   As they ascended the steps, Elrond studied his sons carefully. 

“I want all three of you to go and rest.  Legolas as well, I would suggest.  I do not want to see any of you before noon!”   As they turned away towards the stairs, he added:  “And Elladan, I mean your own room!  Elrohir is well; you do not need to watch over him while he sleeps!”

Indignant, Elladan turned, ready to argue, but a glare from his father – and his twin – stopped him.  “I really am all right, El.  There is no need to worry!”  Elrohir told him firmly.  The four dispersed, each to their own chambers, and a brief peace descended on the Last Homely House.

At noon, the soft ringing of many bells summoned all to the mid day meal.  As Legolas crossed the hall, Erestor approached him.  “My Lord, a messenger arrived from your father this morning.  He awaits you in the Hall of Fire.”

Slightly apprehensive, hoping nothing was wrong, Legolas went into the dimly lit hall. At the sound of his soft footsteps the messenger got to his feet and bowed.  “My Lord Legolas! I bring greetings from your Lord Father.”

Legolas greeted the messenger warmly.  “Nifael! It is a pleasure to see someone from home. Did you have a safe journey?”

Nifael nodded. He was a new recruit to the messenger service, young, very much in awe of the army commander and his prince. He looked a little shocked as Legolas went to one of the tables and poured him a cup of wine.  “Here. You must have been riding all night.”

Nifael bowed uneasily.  “Thank you, my Lord.”

Legolas ignored the honorific. He had tried before to persuade Nifael to call him by name, but to no avail. The only way would seem to be a direct order, which rather defeated the object.  “Do you have a message for me?”

“Yes, my Lord. I was instructed by Lord Tirnan to inform you and Lord Elrond that the crossing at the ford has been repaired. It was washed away in floods a week or two ago.”

“Yes, I had noticed,” Legolas commented dryly.

“Oh. Well, Lord Tirnan sent a patrol to repair the stones. He asked me to inform you, my Lord.” Nifael stopped, and bowed again.

Legolas sighed. “Thank you. Is there any further news?”

“Yes, my Lord. Your Lord Father asks when you will return to Lasgalen.”

Frowning, Legolas considered the question.  “Well, we have not finished here yet. You can tell him … tell him I will be back when the last of the trolls is dead.”

Nifael nodded. “Of course, my Lord. I can leave at once.”

Legolas stopped the messenger as he turned, ready to depart immediately.  “No, you will not! You have only just arrived. Stay here. Rest. The message will keep until tomorrow.  And join us for the noon meal.”

The messenger nodded nervously. “Yes, my Lord. Thank you.” He gave a final bow.

Legolas watched Nifael leave, and shook his head. He hated excessive formality, but at times fought a losing battle. There was clearly no hope for Nifael. But with his zeal and enthusiasm, Legolas knew he would deliver the message safely, and it would not be long before he himself returned home.

Legolas rejoined the others after Nifael left the Hall of Fire, as Aragorn looked at him quizzically. “You look harassed.  Is there trouble at home?”

“No, no important messages,”  Legolas replied shortly.  “Just Nifael, ‘my Lording’ me all the time!”

Elladan laughed. “I know how you feel.  We had a servant here once; she looked dazed every time she had to speak to us!”

“Well, you can understand that,” Aragorn commented slyly.

Elladan ignored him. “It was El’s fault; but all he did was smile at her.  You know what some ellyth are like around him.    One day she was so busy looking at him she poured soup in Glorfindel’s lap.  She was never the same after that!  Mind you, neither was he.”

Legolas was intrigued. “What happened to her?” he asked.

“In the end she asked to work in the kitchens. She married one of the cooks eventually.”

After the noon meal, Nifael appeared again, once more eager to leave to deliver his message.

“At least stay  overnight.  If you leave then there will be better light, and you will make better time.   I will make sure your horse is ready, and the supplies you will need,” Legolas persuaded him.

“Please, my Lord, you should not ...”

“Stop arguing!”

Nifael flinched.  “Yes, my Lord. I apologise, my Lord.”

“Nifael, please … oh, never mind!”

In addition to the message he had given Nifael, Legolas wrote a long letter to be delivered to his father. He described his journey to Rivendell, crossing the ford, and the progress of the troll hunt. He gave a detailed account – as far as he could recall events – of  the attack by the three trolls. He wanted to reassure his father that he was well – it was entirely possible that Thranduil had sensed something of what had happened. If so, he would have been concerned.

Nifael departed soon after dawn the next day.  He had carefully put the letter in his pack; checked it,  repeated the verbal message – twice – to  be sure he had it correctly memorised, and finally rode out of the courtyard.  In truth, Legolas was not sorry to see him go. The youngster’s constant deference and eagerness to please was exhausting.

That evening the hunting parties rode out from Imladris yet again. With only one troll left, the hunt would either be over quickly, or could take another year. Legolas knew he could not be away indefinitely, so hoped it would not be too long. He did not want to have to leave before the final battle, but was beginning to feel guilty about the length of his absence from Lasgalen.  His leave was nearly over, and he would not abuse his position by extending it.

The night was cold and wet, a thin drizzling rain soaking everything. Clouds veiled the stars, and a chill wind blew up the valley.  They rode quietly, huddled within cloaks, breath misting on the air before them. 

Elladan and Aragorn, and even Elrohir, had successfully argued that they were fit to join the hunting party. Elrond, however, insisted on accompanying them ‘to keep an eye on them.’  Arwen too had decided to join the group - Legolas realized that she did not trust them to stay out of trouble any more than Elrond did.

About an hour’s travel from Imladris they came to an area Legolas had not seen before. The area they had decided to watch was a small dell, overhung by a high cliff and surrounded by trees. It was a gloomy place, where the sun rarely penetrated, but a narrow, twisting trail led through the trees and across the dell, and in the soft mud scouts had found the clear tracks of a troll.

Watching alone all night could be deathly dull, so Legolas sat with Arwen against a rock below the cliff. The horses were safely hidden beneath the trees that grew thickly all around. The night was cold, and they sat huddled in their cloaks, shielded from the wind by the sheltering rocks.

Legolas spent a pleasant few hours with Arwen, reminiscing about adventures around Imladris and in Lasgalen, and giving her a colourful account of the Battle of Five Armies.

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Arwen. “Eagles? And bears? I suppose you will tell me next that the wolves were on your side?”

“Wargs, not wolves. They were worse. And no, they were most definitely not on our side,” said Legolas seriously. “And there was only one bear - but it was very big!  I think I have a few fangs from the wargs somewhere, souvenirs …” He pretended to grope in a pocket on his tunic for a warg fang, causing Arwen to giggle like an elfling. Suddenly he stopped, and drew from his pocket a silver handled knife, enamelled with a design of fish and waterfalls. “Curse it.  I forgot I had this.”

“That looks like Elladan’s.”

Legolas nodded.  “Yes, I borrowed it yesterday. I should give it back.”

He pushed himself away from the rock he had been leaning against, and moved across the dell to Elladan’s position. As he reached the twins, somewhere behind him he heard a low rumble, like thunder, but not quite.  His skin prickled. Where had he heard that before?

Elladan took the knife, looking at him curiously. “What was that?” he mouthed.

“It sounds familiar,” Legolas whispered back, shaking his head.  “I feel I should know.”  Then his eyes widened in disbelief. He remembered where he had heard the sound before – two nights ago, in the cave; the troll. He turned slowly.

The rock he and Arwen had been leaning against was moving. It straightened stiffly, gradually awakening,  and stood, towering over the dell as the elves stared in disbelief.  It seemed they had found the final troll.

To Be Continued

Chapter Eight – Stone Trolls and Orcs

Legolas was frozen in horror, but Arwen was already moving slowly and stealthily, backing away from the troll; her eyes never leaving it.  She was close to its feet; so close that at this range it could not see her.  Beside him, Elrohir was watching every inch of her progress, whispering under his breath.  “Come on, Ar, you can do it – just a little further … yes, keep going …”

It seemed as if Arwen would reach the safety of the trees, when disaster struck.  Suddenly Alauda, her horse, sensing the troll, panicked and reared. The mare slipped on the soft mud, crashing against Arwen and knocking her to the ground. She fell heavily, momentarily stunned, and did not at first move.  The troll moved forward a step, missing Arwen by inches.

Elrohir gave a  gasp of horror, and he and Elladan both took a step forward, as did Elrond, over on the other side of the dell.  Off to the left, there was an anguished cry from Aragorn.

“Arwen!  No!”  In seconds he was at her side. Unharmed, Arwen was already regaining her feet, and together they moved warily away from the troll, watching it carefully. Both had bows ready, and arrows drawn, but were too near to the troll to be able to shoot. This close, the angle was impossibly steep. As they drew further away, the troll glanced down, for the first time becoming aware of the small figures by its feet. It growled threateningly.

“Don’t just growl at me, you brute, roar!” muttered Aragorn.

Suddenly Arwen stepped forward, shouting at the troll, waving her bow. Startled, it peered down at her and growled again. Then it opened its mouth and gave a tremendous roar. Arwen and Aragorn both jumped back and fired at it, their arrows lodging in its throat.  Simultaneously, Legolas shot his own arrow, as did the twins, and Aragorn flinched as their arrows passed close over his head.  All five struck the troll’s mouth, penetrating deep into the soft tissue at the back of its throat.

They watched breathlessly as the troll gave a strangled cry and collapsed, thudding to the ground at Arwen’s feet.  For an instant there was silence, then the dell resounded to yells of elation, cheers and cries of triumph.

Aragorn turned to Arwen and gave her a resounding hug. “We did it! We did it!” he cried ecstatically.

They gathered in the clearing, laughing in delight.  Elladan and Elrohir bore down on their sister, with Legolas in tow. Elrohir pushed Legolas against Arwen in mock disgust. “You imbeciles! The pair of you! You were sitting against that rock for most of the night! Did neither of you notice it was a troll?”

Arwen and Legolas exchanged a sheepish glance. “Well ...” she began.

Aragorn interrupted, puzzled. “How could it be sitting there in full view? Why wasn’t it turned to stone?”

No one had an answer for that at first. Then Elrond looked up at the cliff that the troll had been resting beneath.

“It is always dark and gloomy here. This side of the dell never gets any sunlight. And here below this overhang it would be dark enough for the troll to be safe. It obviously slept during the day until nightfall.”

Elladan was incredulous. “Do you mean it could have been here the whole time?  That cannot be possible!  Elrohir and I have ridden along this trail several times. We would have gone straight past it!”

Legolas could not resist the temptation. With a perfect intonation of Elrohir’s voice he asked: “Did neither of you notice it was a troll?”

The glare Elladan gave him was worth all the dangers they had encountered over the past few days.

They returned to Imladris, euphoric, calling out the good news to the other search parties as they passed them. At day break, as the last few hunting groups returned, they started a full scale celebration, with wine, food and song, sending out messengers to Bree and the villages around Imladris that the trolls were dead; that it was safe for travellers to brave the roads again.

Legolas was impressed. Elrond could throw an impromptu celebration every bit as well as Thranduil could, and the Silvan elves of his father’s kingdom were noted for their love of song, wine and festivities.

Some time later, Elrohir drew Legolas to one side. “Do you still have time to ride out to see the other stone trolls? I said I would show you one day. Elladan and Aragorn can come as well.”

Legolas considered the proposition. “We seem to have finished here.  I can take a few days, no more.  I would love to see your trolls, but then I have to go back to Lasgalen. It will be time I went home.”

Elrohir grinned, a little drunkenly.  “Good. We can leave tomorrow!”

Early the next morning, Legolas rode out from Imladris accompanied by Aragorn and the twins. The part of the Trollshaws where Bilbo’s trolls had had their lair was just over a day’s journey from Rivendell. They followed the road west from the Ford of Bruinen, where it lay in a deep cutting under steep banks. Gradually the path rose, following a line of hills between the valleys.

In the early evening they moved off the road into the woods to the south. Elladan and Elrohir often stopped at this place when journeying, and a small spring welled up beneath a low cliff that sheltered the clearing from the prevailing wind. Flat stones had been placed around the spring to keep the surrounding ground dry and mud free.

There was a small store of fire wood stacked below the cliff for times when rain made it impossible to collect dry wood. Today, however, the weather was mild, and they quickly gathered enough wood to keep a small fire going throughout the night.

They drew lots to keep watch. Elladan and Elrohir had quickly learnt not to keep Aragorn from the rota - he refused to accept that mortals needed more sleep than elves - and Legolas was beginning to agree with their conclusion. It was far less trouble this way.

For a while the four sat by the fire while the night deepened. Elladan was recounting the dwarves’ visit to Imladris after they had met the trolls.

“And Estel was absolutely fascinated by them. He spent hours and hours talking to them about the Lonely Mountain, dragons, and the quest. I know he was desperate to go with them when they left, he was absolutely determined, but for one thing …”

“What was that?” asked Legolas.

Aragorn took up the tale. “Well - I’d heard them talking about a treasure hoard, and a secret map. The night before they left Elrond was in his library, talking to Thorin. I decided to climb up a tree outside the windows to listen, I wanted to find out more. I was only ten years old, I thought I could find the treasure before they did! The trouble is, I was too far away to be able to hear what they were saying.”

“So he crawled along a branch to get closer, but it broke, and he fell and broke his arm!” Elrohir finished.

Legolas gave a snort of laughter, but then sobered. “That must have hurt.”

“But we got the blame!” complained Elladan. “Father was furious with him about it, but decided he had suffered enough. So instead he blamed us for not teaching him to climb properly!”

“No good ever came to anyone who eavesdrops,” Legolas opined sagely.

Elladan stared at him disbelievingly. “Are those your own words of wisdom, or someone else’s?”

“The lady Galadriel told me that.”

Elrohir grinned, and gave him a knowing look. “Grandmother? Why? What had you done?”

“Well - I was hiding on the balcony outside my father’s study once. He and your grandparents were talking about the Last Alliance, about my grandfather Oropher – I  wanted to hear too! Of course, they caught me.”

“What happened?”

Legolas grimaced. “My father told me that I had let him down, that it was a disgraceful and dishonourable thing to do, unworthy of the lowest servant, and especially a prince.” He paused, and could still recall the burning sense of shame he had felt at the end of his father’s lecture. “But it worked - it was something I never did again! I remember Galadriel said it would punish me properly for listening.”

They continued reminiscing about childhood misdemeanours long into the night, including some involving Arwen that astounded Aragorn. Elrohir recalled an escapade that had involved climbing across the rooftops of Imladris that had ended in disaster,  while Elladan told of the time he had taken a wild ride on Elrond’s stallion that not even Elrohir had known about. For the elves it was all a very long time ago, but it was all much more recent for Aragorn. His foster brothers knew nearly all his guilty secrets, but for his sake they refrained from describing some of the more embarrassing episodes.

The fire was burning low, so after stoking it for the night, they settled to sleep. Elladan was taking the first watch, and as he fell asleep Legolas could hear Elrohir’s insistent whisper.  “You stole father’s horse?  When? Why did you never tell me about that?  Elladan!  Answer me!”

When they awoke the next morning there had been a frost in the night. The grass was crisped white, and ice had formed where the spring splashed onto the stones. Their breath hung in the still air. The fire had gone out, but there was enough heat in the embers for Aragorn to stand over them, warming his hands.

“It’s all right for you,” he grumbled. “You never feel the cold!”

It took Legolas little time to rekindle the fire enough to heat a kettle of water. He made hot drinks for all four and handed them round. Although he did not particularly feel the cold himself, it was still comforting.

Riding swiftly, they reached the place where Bilbo and the dwarves had encountered the trolls, and the twins related the tale again.  There were three of the trolls, one bending down, the other two staring at it. Legolas looked at them for a moment. “They look different to the ones we fought,” he said at last. “Are there different sorts of trolls? Different species?”

“There could be,” agreed Elrohir. “You could be right, these are smaller than the ones we saw. I think these are wood trolls, whereas ours were stone trolls. There are cave trolls as well. They live in darkness all their lives, so they grow to huge sizes, far larger than the other breeds. They must be far harder to kill, because they have no need to fear the sun.”

Legolas exchanged a glance with Aragorn. The five trolls they had battled against were bad enough. “Well, I hope never come face to face with a cave troll,” he decided. “It would be bad enough being in a cave, never mind the troll!”

They returned to Imladris the next day. After a final meal with Elrond and the others, Legolas left on a sharp, frosty morning. Smoke from the fires rose straight into the air and layers of mist hung in the valley.

Legolas looked at the sky and sniffed the air.  “If this weather holds, it will only take about six days to return home. With Pavisel, if necessary, I could do it in five.”

“Is there any rush?”

He shook his head.  “No rush. There is no need to press on. Six days will be soon enough. It will be good to be home.”

~~**~~

 Two days after he had left Imladris, Nifael rode higher and higher along the High Pass over the Misty Mountains. The trail was wide here, and unclear, littered with scree and loose rock. To the left the track broadened and flattened, levelling off onto more solid ground.

Turning absently in that direction he missed the narrower path that climbed still higher, and eventually over the pass.

It was some time before Nifael slowed his horse and looked around. His route did not look familiar, and he was unsure of where he was. He paused uncertainly, looking back at the path he had been following, and then ahead. Above him a cliff rose on one side, pock marked with caves. On the other side the trail fell away steeply, strewn with debris from the cliff above. Beyond that there was a sheer drop to the plains below. Nifael halted, wondering if the trail continued around the corner of rock that blocked his view, or if he had somehow taken a wrong turn.

He was unaware that he was being watched.

In one of the caves above him two orcs watched curiously. Their lair was safely off the main track, where there was less danger of discovery. They were unused to seeing travellers here, but the elf below them was alone, hesitant, easy prey. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

One of the orcs stealthily reached for a bow. It sighted carefully, and fired, letting out a grunt of satisfaction as the arrow struck home. It fired again, but the elf had already fallen, and the horse was disappearing back up the trail.

Nifael had no warning of the attack. Sudden agony flared as the arrow hit his back, sending him toppling forward off Morlai. Dazed, he was only partially aware as he slid and rolled down the slope. He tried to grasp at the stones, but they were loose, and fell with him. He could not prevent a gasp of pain as his fall jarred the arrow still protruding from his back. Suddenly he realised that beyond the slope the ground fell away into nothingness. In desperation he twisted, unable to prevent his fall, but angling his body, trying to reach a spur of cliff jutting out below and to his left.

He hit the rock with sickening force, driving the arrow deeper. His head jerked back against the stone, and he was plunged into darkness.

From the shelter of their cave, the orcs watched dispassionately, then scrambled down to the track. Their attack had not been as successful as they had hoped. The horse was long gone, and they had not yet captured the elf. They stood on the path, gazing down at the motionless figure far below.

Finally one spoke in their guttural speech. “Well? You goin’ down there, Fangar? If we get it back here, we could have some fun with it!”

The other grunted. “Nah. Looks dangerous. You go. Why’d you let the horse escape, anyways?  We could’ve ate it!”

“You blamin’ me? You should of shot it first!”

“But then that damned elf would prob’ly have shot us!”

The first orc kicked its companion. “Are we goin’ down to get it, or not?”

The smaller of the two orcs looked down the slope doubtfully. “Looks like it’s prob’ly dead already. No point getting it, they’s no fun dead. Shame.”

Disappointed, they turned away, and then spotted the pouch Nifael had been carrying. Tearing it open, they investigated the contents. First they found a rolled sheet of parchment. Unfurling it, they peered uncomprehendingly at the flowing Elvish script.

“What’s this?” said Fangar at last.

“Dunno. It’s no use to us.” Gordur crumpled the sheet in one huge fist, and threw it aside.

The pouch also contained some strips of dried meat, which they sniffed suspiciously, and then ate. There were also several flat cakes, wrapped in leaves. Gordur sniffed again, broke off a section, and tried it. With an exclamation of disgust, he spat the mouthful out, and dropped the cakes in his hand to the ground, treading them into the dirt.

“Filthy bloody elves! We can’t eat this!”

There was nothing else of interest in the pouch, so they dropped it back on the trail again, and shambled off back to their cave. Far at the back, out of sight of prying eyes and snooping elf patrols, they curled up to sleep.

Outside, night began to darken. A cold wind sprang up, and an icy rain began to fall. Slowly the rain soaked into Nifael’s tunic, mingling with the blood that still seeped slowly from the wound on his back.

To Be Continued.

Author's Notes:  Warning!  Much grief and angst ahead.

Chapter Nine – The Message

Some time, a long time later, Nifael slowly regained consciousness. Basic survival training instinctively took over, and he lay still, eyes closed, listening intently. As far as he could tell, he was alone. There did not seem to be anything, anyone near him. Cautiously he opened his eyes. It was dark, and it was raining heavily. He was wedged half on his side, half on his back, between the ground and an outcrop of rock. There was a fiery pain in his back, and every breath hurt.

Slowly he pulled himself upright, leaning against the rock for support. Gingerly he touched the back of his head, ignoring the pounding ache. There was a large bump there, and his hair was stiff with dried blood, but at least it seemed to have stopped bleeding. His arm was gashed by one of the sharp splinters of rock that littered the slope, a long deep cut that still bled sluggishly.

Finally he brushed his hand across his back. The shaft of the arrow had snapped off, leaving a stub about two inches long still protruding. Steeling himself, he grasped the end and tried to pull. The pain was nauseating. With a sob of agony he fell to his knees again, breathing deeply, determined not to pass out. It was no good; the arrow would not budge, it was too deeply embedded.

As the pain receded a little, he lifted his head and looked around. A short was away was a sheer drop, much too close for comfort. Above him the slope rose steeply towards the path he had fallen from.

It was clear he could not stay here. With a sigh of futility, he salvaged the arrows which had fallen from his quiver, then slowly and painfully began the ascent to the path. On hands and knees he crawled laboriously up the slope, stopping frequently to catch his breath.  The slope was littered with loose stone and scree, fragments of rock broken away from the mountains by constant freezing and thawing.

Once finally at the top, he moved across the path and halted under the cliff. Here he was partially concealed from the caves above. He leaned against the rock wall, exhausted already.  As he fought for breath, he pondered the attack.  He had seen nothing, but here in the passes of the mountains it was most likely to be orcs.  They must have thought him already dead – and if it had not been for the treacherous slope and the lethal drop beyond, they would surely have checked, and found out their error.  He shuddered uncontrollably at the thought of being taken alive by orcs.  He had heard such stories …

After a while Nifael pushed himself upright again, and began to make his way down the track. At the side of the path he glimpsed something familiar, the message pouch he had been carrying. It was clear the orcs had been through it. The letter which Prince Legolas had written to his father, and entrusted to him to deliver, was gone. The only thing left was a few wafers of lembas, nothing else. It was very little, but it was better than nothing.   And what of Morlai?  He had also heard that orcs were partial to horseflesh.  Morlai had been faithful, and deserved better. 

Moving on again, he stopped frequently, both to gather his strength, and to look ahead along the path to the next place where he would stop. There was a darker patch of shadow against the night, and he peered at it uncertainly. The shadow gave a soft snort, and he moved closer.  “Morlai?” 

The black horse waited patiently for him to approach.  Finally, he wrapped his arms around the horse’s head, and leaned against him.  “Oh, Morlai,” he whispered.  “What have we got ourselves into?”  It took three attempts before Nifael could haul himself onto Morlai’s back, but he finally succeeded. Leaning forward, he gave a sigh of relief. Maybe, just maybe, he would make it back. He drank, sparingly, from the skins of water Morlai carried, and found a dry cloak in one of the packs. He wrapped it closely around himself, easing the chill which seeped into his bones from the wet clothes.

He rested against the horse’s neck, the position easing his pain a little. “Take us home,” he whispered.

In a surprisingly short time they came to the place where the trail branched off. It was obvious, now, which was the correct route. To the right the track descended back down to Imladris. To his left, it climbed steeply, leading over the pass. It took only a momentary decision.  Imladris was nearer, downhill, famed for its healers. But Lasgalen was his home, and he was honour bound to deliver his message. He turned Morlai to the left. “Take us home,” he repeated.

The journey back was slow and painstaking. A day to cross the pass and drop down to the plains, two days to reach the ford, newly repaired. Crossing was easy, the water level safely below the flat clapper stones of the bridge. Morlai moved at a slow, steady gait, his stride smooth so it would not jar Nifael. He rode draped across Morlai’s back, hands clasped beneath his neck. He dozed, only semi-conscious, as the horse plodded steadily across the grasslands between the Anduin and the forest. Once or twice Nifael found himself on the ground, with no recollection of how he had got there. The first time he somehow managed to pull himself onto Morlai, but the second time he had to stumble alongside the horse to a boulder on the plain and use that to mount. Towards the end of the fourth day he drew near to one of the villages of men that had grown up under the eaves of the forest.

Relations between men and elves could best be described as an uneasy truce. Neither entirely trusted the other, but there was not outright fear and hate. Thranduil suspected the men of poaching deer along the edges of the forest. The villagers feared Lasgalen – or Mirkwood as they termed it – the spiders, the darkness, the ghosts which many were convinced haunted the area.  A suspicious few spread rumours that the elves encouraged these perils to keep intruders out.

Legolas had been trying forge bonds between the different inhabitants of Lasgalen, but with only a little success. Very few of the villagers were prepared to put aside their traditional mistrust, and many of the elders were fiercely independent. Added to that, most of the elves could see no good reason to concern themselves with the men, who had nothing to offer them.

Even through the haze of his confused thoughts, Nifael decided it would be better to avoid the village. But as he skirted the area, he came across a man reaping the last of a crop of vegetables before the winter’s frosts.

The man straightened, and looked at Nifael curiously. “Greetings, stranger. It’s been a while since we saw one of Thranduil’s people here.” Then his gaze sharpened, as he took in Nifael’s drawn face and the bloodstains. “You’re hurt! Come with me, my village is near, we can help you.”

Nifael shook his head.  “No, I cannot stop, I have to return.”

The man put down his spade and the sack he had been filling, and drew a grimy hand across his brow.  He approached Nifael cautiously. “You’ll not make it anywhere like that. It’s not far. My wife is a healer of sorts, I’ll take you to her.”

Nifael shook his head, wincing at the movement. “No. I thank you, but I must go on,” he insisted.   He was already past the man, and rode on with Morlai, leaving the villager behind.

~~**~~

The man watched as Nifael swayed and almost fell off his horse. Shaking his head, he turned and hurried back to the village, shouting for his wife as he approached.  “Mara?  Mara!  I need some of your medicines. I just met an elf, he’s badly injured, but wouldn’t let me bring him here.”

She looked up from her baking.  “An elf? Injured, is he? So where is he now?”

“Gone. He said he had to return. To Mirkwood, I suppose, he was wearing Thranduil’s colours. But he’ll never make it through the forest like that.  The spiders will have him for sure.”

“So you ...”

He was gathering provisions as he spoke.  “Mara, the elves helped us a lot when we had the floods two years back. And long, long ago, when I was a child, there was a sickness. My father said many died. The elves sent one of their healers,  gave us medicines, and sowed the crops when there was no one well enough to work the fields. My father said they saved the village.”

She nodded. “Darian? What are you going to do?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I’m going after him. If he won’t let us help, at least I can make sure he gets there in one piece. It’s the only way I can repay what they’ve done for us.”

He snatched the pack Mara thrust at him, a loaf, some died meat, and dried fruit and nuts. He found his hunting knife, a short bow and some arrows. When Mara’s attention was distracted, he added several more arrows. He feared he would need them if the spiders sensed easy prey.

Hastily saddling Inda, a shaggy brown pony, he rode after the elf. Inda was no match for the elf’s magnificent, midnight black stallion – but they had been travelling very slowly. He caught up with them just before they entered the forest.

As the elf realised he had a companion, he turned to Darian. After staring at him in puzzlement for a while, he said slowly: “Did you not hear me? I cannot go with you. I carry a message which I must deliver safely.”

“I know you won’t stop. But I will travel with you, if I may. My name is Darian.”

The elf’s protest was halted by a harsh coughing spasm. He bent forward, gasping for breath. When he could speak again, he nodded. “All right. Thank you, Darian.  I am Nifael.”

They rode together through the darkening forest as night approached. Nifael was adamant he could not stop, and Darian did not wish to linger in the forest any longer than he had to. Deciding not to halt unless absolutely necessary, they continued to Lasgalen.

At last the two reached the outer boundaries of Lasgalen. Although Darian could not hear it, an alert rang throughout the forest at the sight of a stranger, and a wounded elf. They were trailed by sentinels until they passed the boundary trees. At last they came to an open stretch of grass that lay in front of a bridge. Beyond that lay the halls of the wood elves.

They were expected.  Two stood waiting silently, and behind them were ranged several archers.

Darian stopped at the sight of the silent welcoming party. He swallowed, no longer sure if he had done the right thing in escorting the injured elf. His eyes were fixed on the tall, dark haired elf in the centre, unarmed, but quite clearly the leader of this group. The elf stepped forward towards Darian, who tried to move Inda backwards. Then, quite suddenly, he smiled. Darian’s uncertainty vanished.

“Thank you, my friend, for helping our brother. Please join us, take food and rest before you return.” He waved a hand, and one of the elves came forward to greet Darian.

“Come with me. I will see that your pony is looked after as well.”

Before Darian could move, the elf he had escorted tried to dismount, and began to crumple to the ground. The others turned to help him.

~~**~~

Nifael fell off his horse in a haze of pain and confusion. Alfiel caught him, and gently lowered him to the ground. He turned and called for Tirana.

Throughout his journey, Nifael knew he had been given a message to deliver from Legolas. It had been the only thing that kept him going. Somehow it seemed imperative that he delivered that message - he had promised. Struggling to breathe, he knew he had to pass it on to Alfiel.

His hand groped for the letter Legolas had written to Thranduil, but then remembered he had lost it in the attack. No matter. He drew a breath and repeated the message with the last of his strength.  “I have a message from Prince Legolas. He said he will be back when the last of the trolls is dead.”

His voice was so faint, Alfiel had to lean close to make it out. He could barely hear the breathy whisper, but the urgency behind it was unmistakeable.

“Message .... Prince Legolas ......... is dead.”

Alfiel sat back on his heels in shock, his face white. “Nifael? Tell me again. I - I did not hear that right. What happened?”

“Trolls ...”  Nifael’s willpower deserted him then, and he let the darkness claim him, satisfied that he had finally delivered Legolas’ message safely.

Alfiel looked across at Tirana, unable to believe what he had just heard, but he could see his own shock mirrored in her eyes. “What did he just say?” he asked her, needing reassurance. There was none she could give.

She gave a jerky nod. “I know. He said ... he said ...” her voice broke. “He said Legolas is dead.”

Alfiel bowed his head, staring down at Nifael. What had happened? They would have to wait for Nifael to awaken before they could get the full story. He raised his eyes to Tirana. “Look after him. Try to find out what he can tell you.”

“I can try.” She ran her hands over him, assessing the gash on his arm, the lump on his head, the arrow wound. “He has been badly injured. I think he will recover, but it will be a while before he tells us anything else.” She looked up at Alfiel as he got to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“There is something I have to do” he said, dreading it. “I have to find the King.” He stood still for a moment, steeling himself, gazing down at Nifael in disbelief.  Legolas was not just one of his closest friends, not just the army commander.  He was the prince.  Lasgalen was doomed.

 ~~**~~

Darian had been unable to hear any of the message, but its effect was amazing. The elves appeared shocked and bewildered. They looked at each other in disbelief, and several were weeping openly. No wonder the mysterious messenger’s errand was so important, if it was so devastating. He had clearly been forgotten, despite the earlier greeting, so Darian turned slowly away, ready to take Inda back home.

Before he had gone more than a few steps, he was stopped by the elf who had offered to care for Inda.  “You must think us very discourteous. We offered you food and hospitality.  Come.  We have not forgotten what you did.”

“What was the message?” asked Darian curiously. “It seemed like - bad news.”

The elf nodded, his expression bleak. “It was. The worst. Our ...” he stopped, swallowed, then continued: “Our prince is dead.”

“Oh,” said Darian. It seemed dreadfully inadequate. “I’m sorry” he added lamely.

“Come. We can give you shelter, replenish your supplies, and tomorrow escort you home. You will not have to ride through the forest alone.”

Darian, who had been rather dreading the journey home - there was no denying it, he was afraid of the spiders, and the darkness - followed the elf, aware of the sense of gloom that was settling over the forest.

 ~~**~~

Alfiel found the King in the Great Hall, hearing petitions from traders from Lake Town. Tionel was overseeing the supplicants.

Alfiel spoke to the steward softly. “Get rid of them, all of them. Now!”

Tionel looked startled. “But ...”

“Just do it!” There was an unaccustomed harshness in Alfiel’s voice.

As the next man stepped forward, Tionel stopped him. “This audience is now closed. If you still wish to be heard, please attend the next audience in three day’s time.”

The men muttered resentfully, but left without question.

Alfiel and Tionel turned to see Thranduil watching them both. “Why was that necessary?”

Alfiel approached him hesitantly. “It was my doing, your Majesty. I - have news.”

Thranduil regarded him impatiently. “Well?”

“Nifael has just returned from Imladris. He carried a message.” Alfiel hesitated again, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere else - even back at Dol Guldur. “He said - he said your son, Prince Legolas, is dead.” He bowed his head, unable to look at Thranduil. “I am so sorry, Sire,” he finished, his voice a mere whisper. “Forgive me for bringing this news.”

There was a moment of total silence. Thranduil uttered just one, hoarse word. “How?”

Alfiel shook his head. “We do not know yet. Nifael was injured, Tirana is with him now.  But - he said something about trolls. That was  all.”

Thranduil spoke just once more. “Leave me.”

“But ...”

“Go!”

Exchanging a glance, Alfiel and Tionel left, followed by two servants who had been standing, rigid, in the shadows.

As the door closed behind him, Alfiel was bombarded with questions.

“What happened?”

“Legolas is dead?”

“Are you sure?”

The blank, empty look in Alfiel’s eyes was answer enough. They all knew that he was - had been - a close friend of the prince. Tionel repeated his original question, the only one that mattered. “What happened?”

“Only Nifael knows that. He was unconscious. Tirana cannot tell when he will be able to tell us anything. He said something about trolls.”

~~**~~ 

Alone in the Great Hall, Thranduil sank back into the throne. The everyday sounds of Lasgalen faded away, until the only sound he was aware of was the harsh beat of his heart. He did not doubt for a minute that Alfiel’s anguished words were true.

A vivid, waking dream of a few days ago came to him - a portent, he realised now. In it, he saw his son, battling against three mighty trolls. He saw Legolas standing alone, dwarfed as one of the creatures towered above him, firing at it, sending it crashing to the ground. He watched helplessly as another of the trolls swung its club, dealing Legolas a crushing blow, knocking him to the ground to lie motionless, lifeless, on the cold ground.

He could never recall how long he sat there, images from the dream replaying over and over again, while Alfiel’s words rang repetitively in his head. There were scenes from the past, Legolas’s birth, their shared grief at Telparian’s death a few short years later, his son’s first archery lessons and first horse, his first battle.

Slowly Thranduil became aware of himself again, and moved to the windows at the end of the hall to stare out at the trees. The news was spreading fast. He could hear whispered conversations, gasps, cries of denial, stifled sobs. An air of gloom hung over Lasgalen, and for the first time he found himself thinking of the forest by the name outsiders used. Mirkwood. It had never been more appropriate.

Sadly, feeling every one of his long years, Thranduil crossed the hall again to the heavy wooden doors. Opening them, he followed the stairways that led upwards through Lasgalen from the Great Hall to his own chambers. There were times when he passed others. Some looked away, avoiding his eyes, others stopped to try to say something. He was not really aware of any of them, and reached the privacy of his rooms uninterrupted. With a sigh of relief he shut the door. He was alone at last. Alone with his grief, alone with his memories, alone with his uncertainty over the future.

Why had the Valar cursed him like this?  Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him.  Oropher had been lost in that first headlong rush towards the hordes of Mordor.  Telparian and Lissuin had died too, and he still did not understand why.  Now his son; his sun, the bright, shining centre of his world had been entinguished, and his life was forever darkened.

He stood by the open window, dry-eyed, looking unseeingly at the forest. It was late autumn, and the remaining leaves on the trees were a hundred shades of bronze. Legolas had always loved this time of year, and the blaze of colours that slowly crept northward.

‘No one should have to bury his own son,’ thought Thranduil despairingly. ‘But I cannot even do that.  The old linger, and the young perish.’   The grief was like a physical pain, a burning ache that threatened to overwhelm him.It seemed so wrong that Legolas should lie so far away, and never return to his beloved Lasgalen. Soon, before winter deepened, Thranduil would arrange to go to Imladris, to see - to see his son’s grave. The thought was too much to bear. He turned away from the window, bowing his head as bitter tears began to fall.

Tomorrow he would have to talk to Tionel, to Alfiel and Tirnan. Tomorrow he would have to send messages to the other Elven realms, and to Lake Town, tomorrow he would have to think about the future of Lasgalen. Tomorrow he would see Nifael, and discover the details of his message, what had happened. But not now.  Today he was alone with his grief.

To Be Continued

Author’s Notes:Well, this is the final chapter, but I warn you, the angst factor goes up before matters are finally resolved.

Chapter Ten – Sadness And Sorrow

Darian followed the elf to the kitchens. He was swiftly given food: new, warm bread, meat carved off the spits in the hearth, cool water drawn from the springs below the caverns; a flask of wine. Having lived off trail rations for the past two days, it seemed a feast. He ate swiftly, drinking the fresh water gratefully, but leaving the wine. He was unused to it, and did not wish to appear muddle-headed in front of the elves.

“How did you come to be in Lasgalen?” asked the elf who had served him.

“Your messenger came through my village two days ago.  I could see he was injured, and feared he’d not make it through the forest. He wouldn’t stop, but I couldn’t leave him to ride on alone, so decided to go with him. Your folk helped my village two years ago, when we suffered from severe flooding. It was something I could do in return. That’s all.”

The elf looked at him questioningly. “Your village ... Verush? Is that it?”

Darian nodded, surprised that the elf knew of it. 

“Then you may remember our prince. Legolas brought one of his patrols to you to help.”

Darian vividly remembered the elves who had helped save his village. They had worked alongside the villagers, drenched from the teeming rain, digging ditches to divert flood waters, filling sandbags, moving cattle to higher ground, and wrapping food supplies in skins before hoisting them into the trees. The one in charge had been the butt of much humour when he slipped, falling full length in the filthy water. He had sat there, dripping, hair a muddy brown, swearing like a foot soldier - in Westron. Legolas ... yes, that had been the name.

“He said after that Elvish didn’t contain the words he needed to say,” said Darian, relating the tale.

The elf gave a wry smile and a nod. “Yes, that sounds like Legolas.”

“He was your prince? I had no idea. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His companion inclined his head, acknowledging Darian’s words. “Please, come with me. A room has been prepared for you. You will find us poor company tonight, but tomorrow we will arrange an escort for you. There are ... messages to take to our kindred.”

~~**~~

Five days after leaving Imladris, Legolas drew near to Lasgalen.  He had made good time, but was beginning to be disturbed by a vague sense of wrongness. Something was amiss in the forest.  He frowned, trying to identify what it was. He felt a slight sense of unease, not much as yet, but there was something, and there did not seem to be any shadows from Dol Guldur. The forest sounds were there, birdsong and insects, the constant murmur of leaves stirring. So what was it?  He realised it was the trees.  They were sad, and sang a song of sorrow.

He quickened his pace, and emerged from the path, joining with the road that lead west from Esgaroth, before turning north to his father’s halls.  As he approached, something still seemed wrong, and a deep sense of unease, growing to dread crept upon him.  He realised he had not seen or heard anyone yet. Normally there would be hunting parties out, the sound of weapons practice from the armoury, voices, shouts and laughter. There was nothing. The whole of Lasgalen seemed deserted. Where was everyone? What had happened?

There was still no sense of evil, but the stillness was unnerving.  As Legolas came to the two tall trees that marked the entrance to Lasgalen, he stopped dead, staring upwards in shock. Usually two banners flew from tall poles, one bearing the sign of a tree, and the other the oak-leaf symbol and insignia of Lasgalen, so familiar he barely noticed them normally.

But now it was different. The banners hung limply half-way down the poles, and both had the white edge of mourning. It signified a death in the royal household. Legolas could just remember seeing the banners like this once before, when his mother had died.

He stared at the banners numbly, still disbelieving. It could only mean one thing. His father was dead. But how? What had happened? He swallowed against a hard lump in his throat, and realised he was shaking.

He dismounted from Pavisel, leaving him to graze, and slowly crossed the bridge to the doors. The sentries stared at him, seeming startled by his appearance; and one spoke, but Legolas took no notice; did not even hear him. He headed instinctively for the Great Hall where feasts were held, and where his father sat in judgement or to hear requests and petitions.  Like the corridors and halls, it was now silent and deserted. Somehow the stillness, more than anything else, convinced him that his father was indeed gone.

Thranduil’s crown lay abandoned on a small table at the side of the throne. It changed with the seasons, and was now crafted of autumn leaves, berries, nuts and acorns. Legolas touched it with one hand, so gently the leaves did not stir or even rustle. He closed his eyes in desperate sorrow, and clenched his hands into fists.

“Oh, my father, what happened to you?” he murmured. “Why was I not here? If I had not gone to Imladris; if I had returned with Nifael, maybe I would have been here when you needed me.  I should have been here.”

Slowly Legolas sank down to sit on the steps of the throne - his now, he realised with a sudden jolt. He was king of Lasgalen. It was a title he had never wanted, or even expected to inherit. His life as a warrior had made the succession uncertain at times. Although as a child he had often sat there, pretending, now that it was real, it was different.

Strangely, it was his mother’s death he now remembered. That had been so very, very long ago - he had been a child of just ten. There had been a long, dark night, full of grim faces, hurried whispers and running feet.

He had known there was something wrong, but no-one would tell him anything. No-one had come to send him to bed. No-one even noticed him, crouched in a corner of the corridor.

Later, much later, his father had come to him. He was crying. He had explained, haltingly, that Telparian had gone to join grandfather Oropher in the Halls of Mandos - and the new baby sister had gone with her.

It was scant consolation, now, to know that Thranduil had at last been reunited with her. With all of them.

He remembered, as well, the close bond he had had with his father, the lively discussions they had had - furious arguments, sometimes - mostly about Thranduil’s isolationist policies, his mistrust of other races, what Legolas saw as his father’s over protectiveness. While Legolas had finally won this final argument, there had been little movement in other areas. Thranduil could never forget his experiences before Mordor in the Last Alliance, and what he saw as Isildur’s weakness and treachery.

But over recent years things had improved. The trade agreements between Lasgalen and Esgaroth were now far more amicable, and there were even trade negotiations - albeit limited - with the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. The Battle of Five Armies had changed many things.

When the goblins and wargs had attacked so suddenly, everything had changed. Ancient enmities became ancient history.  Legolas and his father had been fighting desperately, side by side, all differences with the dwarves forgotten. At the end, Thorin had fallen, but Thranduil had made his peace with the dwarf, and returned Orcrist to him before he died.

There were other memories, too, of rides together beneath the beeches of Lasgalen, of laughter, shared moments, the time when Alfiel, Tirnan and Tionel had managed to get both Legolas and Thranduil drunk on the Dorwinion wine - much to the mirth of all present.

But that was all finished now, no more. Now all that was left were the memories.  He still wore one memory on a slender chain of mithril around his neck – a memento of a very special day he and his father had shared.  Reaching inside his tunic, Legolas pulled out a small, flattish stone, a naturally-formed hole through the centre.  It was worn smooth, highly polished after years of being worn next to his skin.  Fingering the stone absently, he sat alone in the Great Hall and remembered.

~~**~~

Thranduil’s steward Tionel came in at the far end of the hall by the windows. He carried a large glass bowl, painted with scenes of the Battle of Five Armies, a gift from the people of Lake Town. Thranduil was depicted on it, and Legolas, together with the dwarves, Bard, and the great eagles.   Tionel did not immediately notice the still figure, sitting with head bowed on the steps. When the image registered itself on his mind, he stared, his face ashen. The glass bowl slipped from nerveless fingers and fell to the floor, smashing into a thousand rainbow coloured shards, glinting in the sunlight.

Legolas turned sharply at the crash. He had been so lost in thought he had not heard Tionel enter. He stood abruptly, brushing a hand across his eyes.  “Tionel. Where is everyone? What - what happened?”

Tionel stood staring at him for so long Legolas wondered if he had spoken aloud. Then, very hesitantly, the steward answered.  “Legolas?  Is it really you?” He sounded puzzled.

“Yes, of course it is!”  Legolas exclaimed impatiently.  “Who were you expecting?  Tionel … how did he die?  What happened?”

“What happened?”  Tionel repeated blankly.  “Legolas, we have been asking ourselves the same question.”

Legolas swore.  “I knew I should have been here!  I should never have gone to Imladris – there was no need to go chasing trolls!  My place is here, I should have been at his side – perhaps then it would never have happened!”

“Legolas, what do you mean?

“I just rode in,” Legolas explained. “You should have received my message by now.  I ... saw the banners outside.” He paused before he could continue. “I know my father is dead, but will you please tell me what happened!” His grief was beginning to be replaced by exasperation and anger.

Tionel was still staring at him, dumbfounded. Then he shook himself, as if coming out of a daze. His usual commonsense began to re-assert itself. “You sent a message?”

“Yes, with Nifael,” Legolas replied impatiently. “Did he deliver it? I should have his ears for this! Tionel, please tell me one thing – how did he die?”  His voice broke slightly on the last plea. 

Tionel concentrated on the most important thing. “There is nothing wrong with your father that the sight of you will not cure.  The message we received yesterday said you were dead - Legolas, Lasgalen is in mourning for you, not your father!”

Legolas gazed at Tionel, trying to understand the chain of events.   He wondered how his straightforward message could have been so misunderstood, with such devastating consequences, and vowed he would kill Nifael personally.

But one simple fact shone clear and bright, like a beacon. His father was alive. That was all that mattered. The relief hit him like a blow, and he sank back down onto the steps.

“Thank the Valar,” he whispered softly.  Then the secondary fact hit him, almost as hard, and he jumped to his feet again. “Wait a moment, he thinks me dead?  Tionel, I must go to him. Where is he?”

Legolas ran swiftly up the stairs, two at a time, as he made his way to his father’s rooms.  At the door, he paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. What, in the name of all the Valar, could he say?  He opened the door and slipped into the room. There was a table just inside the door, bearing two trays. One held vegetables and meat - venison, cooked in a rich sauce. It was cold and congealed. An unopened flask of wine stood on the tray. A second tray held bread and fruit, also untouched.

Legolas crossed the room to where his father stood, staring out of the windows at the tops of the tallest trees in the forest. Thranduil turned slowly at the soft sound of footsteps behind him.

“Tionel, please …” He broke off, staring in unbelieving hope.

“Father,” said Legolas in the same instant. Father and son gazed at one another, and swiftly closed the short gap between them, embracing tightly, as if their grip could repel the bitter memories.  “I thought you were dead,” both said at once.

Thranduil cradled the blond head against his shoulder, burying his face in the soft hair.  This was a moment he had never imagined he would ever experience again.  “I never thought to see you again,”  he murmured.  “The message – they told me you were dead.  I thought you were dead, elfling.”

Legolas nodded, without once lifting his head from his father’s shoulder.  “I know,” he whispered.  “Tionel said.  But why?”

Thranduil hesitated.  He could recall little of Alfiel’s words the day before, or what Tionel had subsequently said to him.  “I think Nifael had been injured.  He said something about trolls.  And I had had a dream.  About you, fighting some trolls – one of them hit you.”  He drew back a little, touching Legolas’s brow, still faintly discoloured, very gently.  “Just here.  My mother at times had the gift of foresight – I knew it was a true dream.”

“It was true – but I was injured, not killed.”  Legolas hugged his father tightly again.  “I believed you dead, too.  The forest felt wrong – the trees were mourning; telling me ‘he is dead’.  Then I saw the banners, and all my fears were confirmed.”  He shuddered, and tightened his embrace.

They stood together, silent now, neither willing to release the other, rejoicing in the great gift they had been given.

~~**~~

Later, Legolas went to the infirmary to see Nifael. A message had come from Tirana that he had finally regained consciousness, and was utterly mortified at the consequences of his misheard message.

Nifael was propped against several pillows, but tried to sit upright as he saw Legolas approaching. “My Lord!  Forgive me, my Lord, it was all my fault.  I took the wrong turning, and was attacked by goblins. I lost your letter, and when I got to Lasgalen ....”

“When he got to Lasgalen, your fool of a second did not hear what he was saying.” Alfiel finished from behind him. “Legolas, I am so sorry. I did not hear all of Nifael’s message. The part I did hear ..... I should have made certain. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,”  Legolas reassured them both.  “You did nothing wrong.  It was just – unfortunate.”

Nifael described how he had got lost, and the orc attack: “I should have been more careful. I lost the letter, and could not even deliver your message properly.  Forgive me, my Lord.”

“Nifael, stop it! I told you, you did nothing wrong. You acted in the highest traditions of the messenger service, you are a credit to them. Despite your injuries, you delivered your message safely. You did well.”

Nifael glowed at the praise. “Thank you, my Lord!”

“However, there is one more thing I have to say to you. I want you to listen carefully.” Legolas sounded deadly serious now, and Nifael’s smile faded. He looked apprehensive.  “Stop saying ‘my Lord’ all the time. I have a name. Please use it.”

Nifael’s smile had returned, and Alfiel was trying not to laugh.  “Yes, my - Legolas. I will try.”

Legolas turned to the healer. “Tirana! There will be a feast tonight. Will he be well enough to come?”

Tirana looked at Nifael gravely. “No, absolutely not!  But no doubt a flask or two of wine will find its way here.  Just be careful. No dancing!”

“Your father has ordered a celebration, then?” asked Alfiel.

“A celebration?   Feasts and festivities.  Jollifications and jubilations.  Dancing and Dorwinion.  Music and – and,” Legolas stopped, unable to continue his alliterations.

“Merriment?” Alfiel supplied.  “I get the picture!  And from what I saw as I came past the kitchens, it was organising itself!”

~~**~~

News of Legolas’ return had spread even faster than Nifael’s original message, fuelled by Tionel, and the guards at the entrance who had seen Legolas. Its progress could be followed by the sound of shouts, joyous laughter, and cries of elation. As night fell, lamps were lit, hanging in the trees, floating on the water, lining the paths and illuminating every window.  The whole of Lasgalen seemed ablaze with light.  The feast was memorable. There was meat, huge haunches of venison spit-roasted over open fires, freshly baked breads, cheeses, fruit grown in the palace gardens, and wine - even Thranduil’s favourite Dorwinion, as Legolas had promised.

The laughter, music and song echoed around Lasgalen, penetrating deep into the forest, as the celebrations lasted far into the night. Dancers moved in intricate patterns, silhouetted against the flames and flickering lanterns.

Flushed with wine and the rigours of a particularly strenuous dance, Legolas sank to the grass by his father’s feet.  All was right with the world.  He was home once more, and wondered if he would ever want to leave again.

The End