Winter Encounters

by

JastaElf

In reply to the Farewell Fic Challenge to honour the ending of the MirkwoodCastle Yahoo group

It had been a very long day for the King of Mirkwood, and it did not seem as if it had any sort of end. Scroll upon scroll, message upon message, visitor after visitor, petitioners lined up out of the antechamber and down the hallway... and all the King could think of was a strong desire to sit somewhere quiet. The forest had been speaking to him all day, softly, urgently, anxiously--sometimes tree-spirits from as far away as the former home of the Wood-Elves, many miles south of their current home had managed to get through to him with a sense that something was not right somewhere in the realm.

Time... I just need time. Let me get through this pestilential paperwork, and then I will have time to figure out just what is going on....

Out in the antechamber, a door slammed open and crashed against the interior wall. The King heard voices: his son Brethilas, and his wife's nephew Galeril Tinuvilion. Arguing, as usual. They had been born mere weeks apart--Brethilas mercifully first, as Tinuvil would never have let his marriage brother live it down had it been otherwise--and had cheerfully been in competition ever since.

Well--usually cheerfully, anyway...

He listened with half an ear as the younger Elves growled at one another.

"No. No! Let me give him this message first!" Brethilas sounded almost desperate; Thranduil cocked one dark golden eyebrow and made himself continue reading the scroll. ...and the rights of the Men of the Dale to hunt have been under discussion since....

"This one is surely more important!" Galeril, normally a very even-tempered youngster, seemed curiously strident. "The Dwarves were most insistent!"

"Are they not always so?" Brethilas demanded. There came the sound of huffing breath and a growl or two more, as apparently they grappled with one another over the right to enter Thranduil's presence.

And isn't that a change from the usual... normally they studiously avoid having to beard the Lion in his den...

Thranduil looked up from the documents he was studying as there was a knock on the door and a messenger entered. It was neither Brethilas nor Galeril, much to the King's amusement; the other must have slipped past them both as they argued, and swept right on past.

"A letter, my lord. The courier said it was most urgent."

Curiously, for the seal was unfamiliar, Thranduil opened the message and read it swiftly. Then he read it again, more slowly, and looked at the messenger in silence for a moment before responding.

"Who brought this?" he asked, perhaps more sharply than he intended. The other startled and blushed to the tips of his ears.

"Sire?"

"It was a simple enough question. Who brought this?"

The messenger, a Sindar who appeared to be part of the generation born just after Thranduil himself, furrowed his brow and looked as if he were trying to think of something incredibly appropriate to say. Thranduil cleared his throat meaningfully.

"Ercilar."

The messenger jumped, startled. Ai, didn't think I knew your name, now did you! And hard upon the heels of that thought, the King suddenly remembered where he had seen Ercilar last: riding out of Eryn Lasgalen as part of the guard of honour for a certain young Prince who did not seem to be in evidence...

"Umm. Sire?"

"Whatever you have to tell me is not going to get any better with the ageing, unless I was sent a gift of wine or cheese." Thranduil tapped the scroll with one long, elegant finger. "I take it there is more to this?"

"Um. Yes. That is, I--"

"Out with it. Where is Legolas? And whose seal is this?"

Just then, a shame-faced Brethilas and an anxious-looking Galeril crowded into the doorway behind the messenger.

"Aran brannon, I can explain," Brethilas began rather formally. Thranduil frowned lightly; Ercilar looked as if he wished he could sink into the floor.

"I was addressing Ercilar. Who apparently has at least enough of his tongue left to utter nonsense syllables." Icy blue eyes fixed themselves upon the unfortunate messenger. "And if he wishes to retain what is left of his tongue, he will answer my question." He tapped the scroll beneath his hand. "Whose seal is this?"

Ercilar had lost several shades of colour over the last moment or so, but he managed to find his tongue. "Sire, I--it is--I believe, at any rate--it is the seal of the Lord Estel, foster-son to Lord Elrond of Imladris."

Thranduil gave a glance at his son and nephew, who were both looking as if they might interrupt again. The expression meant different things to each of them, but was sufficient to quell them both--at least for the moment.

"And precisely why is my youngest son utilizing the seal of a young Human on a letter to me?" the King asked, his tone a calm purr. Correctly interpreting what that tone might mean under such circumstances, Ercilar's grey eyes widened in deep anxiety. Amusingly, both Brethilas and Galeril stood even straighter, though the words had not been addressed to him.

"I--do not know, Sire. Perhaps the Prince mentions his reasons in the note?"

"No. No, he does not." Thranduil turned his eyes upon his younger kinsmen. "And what have you two to say for yourselves? Acting like hooligans outside my study?"

"You first," Brethilas hissed sidelong. "After all, the Dwarves were most insistent!"

Galeril gave him a filthy look, though Thranduil could see the twinkle in his nephew's eyes. Then Tinuvil's eldest squared his shoulders and faced the King.

"Aran brannon, there is a Dwarvish delegation in the entry hallway demanding speech with you," he announced, apparently deciding it was better to be hanged for a ram as for a sheep. "The leader of the delegation is one Gloin, whom your majesty may remember from the Barrel Incident some years back."

Thranduil felt a certain itching behind his eyes, but managed not to rub them. It had been a long, trying day, and the evening was not likely to get any better, given how it was beginning. "I see," he murmured neutrally. "And why, pray tell, does this Gloin demand to see me?"

"Well--it has to do with Legolas, I believe," Brethilas put in, recognizing the timbre in his sire's tone and opting for the quickest, kindest cut. "Ercilar brought a letter for me as well, nín adar, and I suspect if we put the contents together, a great many things will become clear."

Thranduil could only imagine, given the cryptic message he had received from his youngest. He glanced once more at the scroll, reading the words written in Legolas's carefully-trained schoolboy hand:

Dearest Ada--I know you will be worried, so there is no point in my suggesting you not do so. I have been chosen to accompany a young Perian named Frodo, the nephew of Bilbo Baggins whom I am sure you will remember, as he bears a certain item away from the Elven Realms and back to the place where it was forged. By the time you receive this, we will have left Imladris. I swear I will find some way to come home in one piece, and promise to shed as little of my own blood as I can conveniently arrange. Please know that I love you dearly, and will bear my weapons honourably in the name of the Elves of the Greenwood. I only pray Lord Elrond will still be in one piece when I get home. With all my heart, and all my love, your son, Legolas.

Just enough information to make Thranduil's heart want to stop in his chest…. he suddenly felt the need to get up and move, and did so with sufficient precipitation that all three of the Elves standing before his desk flinched backward, eyes wide. Thranduil gave them the Look for which he was justly famous, but instead of making them stop, it only widened their eyes and made them each take another judicious backward step.

"So." He paced over to the balcony and stared out into the royal gardens, the delightfully airy green growing place built into the centre of the underground caverns he called home, in order to make it as forest-like as could be managed. "My youngest son has been chosen by Elrond to go off to some place with a notable Forge--with the nephew of Master Baggins, a trouble-maker of the most delightful kind himself. He expects, does my Legolas, to run the risk of shedding his own blood--and to bear weapons. Let me guess."

He turned, the back hem of his formal robe switching behind him like a pouncing cat, and clasped his hands behind his back. Advancing on the younger Elves, eyes narrowed, the King continued his ruminations.

"The item in question is the One Ring--which Mithrandir conveniently forgot to make any mention of when he was here about that vile little Sméagol creature--and my Legolas is off to Mordor's forge. To cross, perhaps, the very same battle plain on which his Daeradar and Rodwenil died--where Aduialas was near mortally wounded, and near which Ereinion perished at the hands of the Orcs."

None of the three before him dared say a word, understanding that the commentary was rhetorical. Hearing the names of his long-lost elder siblings, Brethilas flinched and closed his eyes briefly, only to open them when he felt a gentle, powerful hand on his shoulder.

"I do not mean to stir up old pain, las-min," the King murmured. "But allow me to say that I am stunned and rather taken aback. I cannot believe Elrond would do this, after all Legolas has been through--all he endured in his childhood!"

Thranduil glanced at Ercilar then. "And where were you when all this was happening? I sent you people along to keep him safe!"

"Sire--we did our best!" the guardsman protested. "The Prince would not be swayed. Lord Elrond did not choose him lightly--he said as much! But the neth Ernil insisted--he said he had demons to slay and nightmare trolls to lay to rest!"

It was Thranduil's turn to close his eyes in pain, and he turned away once again. Behind his eyelids he could clearly see the image of his youngest son, the image he always held close: the sweet, earnest young face, the bright eyes, the ravenous intellect, the desperate joy taken in all that he encountered--the seriousness that sometimes came upon him in the midst of laughter, so that from pleasant cheer he could turn in a heartbeat to a deadly, focused warrior…. oh yes, Legolas had demons to slay, and many a nightmare to put to rest. Of that his father had no doubt. Elrond would have realized that just as powerfully--and if Thranduil was being charitable, he would admit there was just as much pain for the Lord of Imladris in allowing Legolas to join this mad endeavor. And Thranduil was nothing, these days, if not charitable toward a former nemesis….

"I do not doubt you did, Ercilar," the King sighed then, and glanced back at the guardsman. "Thank you for bringing me this message. Please go and see your family--no doubt they will be anxious for your return."

Ercilar felt his fond heart twist at that, knowing how anxious his message had made this family, his King and the Prince. But there was little he could say to improve the mood, so he bowed, hand to heart, and turned smartly to leave. Galeril glanced nervously at his uncle and cousin; feeling his eyes upon him, Thranduil came back to the present and shook himself. There were things to tend to, after all, and some of them would not wait.

"Galeril--would you and Brethilas please go find your parents, and tell them what has transpired?" he murmured, making a dismissive gesture. "I--need to go see what the Dwarves want."

"I could come with you, Adar," Brethilas suggested gently. The King sighed, shaking his head.

"Best you not see me at my worst," he quipped. "After all, I have a reputation to maintain."

It took a moment to realize his father was being puckish; Brethilas gave a faint smile and nodded, steering his cousin out the door and back through the antechamber. Thranduil started to reach for his informal crown, a mithril circlet fashioned to look like holly and ivy intertwined, for it was winter in Ennor, but decided against it. His mood was unadorned and sombre; he might as well not pretend otherwise, and if Gloin did not understand, then there were parts of Thranduil he might be invited at least rhetorically to kiss.

The deep green velvet of his robe flowed behind him as he strode long-legged and swift through his deep-delved halls. Thranduil did not realize--frequently did not, in fact--just how imposing a sight he was: a trained warrior with centuries of experience, not visibly armed, but then not un-armed, either, for he himself was the weapon. The fact that he was in formal court attire did not change the image; instead of making him look less imposing, the brownish-burgundy slubbed silk of his under-robe, with its gold and mithril embroidery and subtle highlights of small gems and pearls only seemed to point up the strength of his body and his fëa. He tucked Legolas's cryptic note into the sea-green sash about his trim waist, then squared his shoulders and stepped into the main entrance hallway of the palace to face his insistent Dwarven guests.

He recognized Gloin immediately of course, having run into him from time to time over the years since the Battle of the Five Armies and the strange incidents brought into play by Mithrandir and Master Baggins. The Dwarf had gone quite white of hair in the intervening time, from the ruddy red-brown of his youth; he had always had a face that was wonderfully wrinkled, even as a young Dwarf, but now he seemed like a veritable map of Ennor with a beard. Still, his black eyes gazed sharply at the approaching Elven-king, and he straightened to his most imposing height in anticipation.

Ranged behind him were six other Dwarves of varying ages and beard-lengths; they were all dressed richly, but in garments clearly made for travel, and none of them had deigned to put down their various weapons. Given the number of his own guard who were about, Thranduil had no doubt there had been some debate before that had been allowed!

He stopped within several feet of Gloin and inclined his head regally. "Lord Gloin. What a pleasure to see you again."

"Thranduil of Mirkwood, I greet you--I am at your service," the elderly Dwarf rumbled in a bass voice that echoed in the stone hall. Thranduil kept his facial reaction to the 'Mirkwood' epithet to a simple flare of the nostrils, and gave a warning glance to some of the more restive among his people.

"And I am at yours, and your family's," the King replied, well knowing the appropriate Dwarven niceties. "How may I assist you this lovely winter's day?"

"By not beating about the bushes," Gloin replied, a comment his entourage apparently found amusing, as there were various chuckles and smirks among the other Dwarves. "I know you have heard from your son, Greenleaf I believe his name is. And I am all too well aware of what my own son has been up to. I wish to speak with you about this matter."

"Legolas."

"Come again?"

"My son's name is Legolas." Thranduil cocked an eyebrow and smiled faintly. "What exactly have our sons to do with one another, pray tell?"

He gestured; people seemed to almost magically appear from the shadows and out of doorways to open other portals, and bear forth trays carrying refreshment appropriate to the company. Thranduil made a sweeping gesture with one arm, inviting Gloin to join him in the Hall of Celebration. The Dwarf made a rumbling grunt of a sound and joined him, bowing slightly; he just came up to the midpoint of Thranduil's chest as they went in, side by side.

Within the Hall there were two huge fireplaces, each containing a roaring fire, as it was nearing the dinner hour. Tables had been set to accommodate the King's household at the meal, but right close by one of the fireplaces there was Thranduil's favourite chair and a number of other comfortable seats, belonging to various members of his staff and family. The King gestured that the Dwarves should make themselves at home, and accepted a goblet of mulled wine when the servants brought the refreshments into view. There were brimming mugs of strong ale for the Dwarves, and wine a-plenty if they so chose; plates filled with small pastries, both sweet and savoury, were handed around. Once they were all settled, Thranduil repeated his question:

"So now, what have our sons to do with one another?"

"Your Lord Elrond has sent them off to Mordor together--had you known that?" Gloin demanded, brushing off the crumbs from a prodigious cheese and meat pastry he had just consumed in two bites. Thranduil raised both brows.

"He is most certainly not my Elrond," the King murmured. "The Lord of Imladris is a master of Lore and knows many things, Lord Gloin. I am sure I will eventually convince myself he has acted wisely in the disposal of the--ahh--item of which they will be disposing. In Mordor."

"Eventually, yes," Gloin repeated, nodding wisely. "No doubt I will reach that same place of understanding where my Gimli is concerned."

"Ah yes, Gimli. Fine stout young Dwarf, your lad." Thranduil remembered having met the younger Dwarf briefly, and without much interest, when the Dwarves passed through the Greenwood on their way to Elrond's council. Now he wished he had paid more attention--though how could he have known at the time? Who could have predicted that his son would hare off on this insane quest in the company of a Dwarf?

Thranduil leaned forward. "Gloin--you have the advantage of me," he announced. "You were there, I was not. The forest has spoken to me of the changes coming, of the dangers faced by my son and his companions--but I do not know the all of it. What can you tell me of this matter?"

Gloin gazed at him in silence for several heartbeats. There had been a time when he considered the very name of this proud Elven ruler to be the worst curse a Dwarfling could utter, would have in fact washed out the mouth of any child saying anything even remotely kind concerning the son of Oropher, King of the Wood-Elves of the Greenwood. But after what he had heard in Imladris, even the worst of the past seemed to dim to unimportance. His son, the heart of his heart, was traipsing off to Mordor with a fragile-looking Elfling, two Men of Gondor, four Hobbits, and the very same Wizard who had gotten them into trouble in Mirkwood all those years ago--and Gimli might never come back. What could be of greater importance than that?

So he put aside his past grudges and grievances for the moment at least, and told Thranduil what he needed to know. Doubtless the King's advisors who were present would eventually have the courage to face him and tell him more--but Gloin gave him the unvarnished truth, start to finish, and did so with a certain urgency. He left out Gimli's attempt to destroy the Ring, but did scruple to tell the proud Elf how his son had tried to keep the peace, once the vile Ring had made fair to turn them all against one another there in the council chamber. He finished with the names of those comprising the Fellowship, as Elrond had called them, and informed Thranduil that the plan had been to depart on Yule-day.

"Five days ago," the Elven-king murmured, turning to stare into the fire. "It will be rough going at this time of year, from Imladris to Mordor. The mountain passes will be treacherous."

"If they are wise, they will pass through Moria and make way to Lothlorien for fresh supplies before heading to the south," Gloin grunted. "At least they will be warm and dry--and my cousin Balin will do right by them."

Thranduil shuddered at the thought of his sweet son in the darkness of the Mines, but said nothing, knowing how proud the Dwarves were of Dwarrowdelf and the great earthworks of Khazad-dum. He only made noises of seeming agreement; Balin was indeed a liberal-handed creature, for a Dwarf, and he would see the advantage of assisting this Fellowship in their endeavors.

They talked a while longer, then inevitably, dinner was about to be served. Thranduil bestirred himself and remembered all his manners.

"I invite you to spend the night, Lord Gloin, and refresh yourselves at my table as my guests," he said, making himself be expansive and charming, as everyone who knew him better knew he could be. "I promise your accommodations will be infinitely superior to your last stay here--and it will be safer if you pass through the rest of my realm and beyond in daylight. Shadow is held at bay close to the palace--but beyond, I can guarantee you nothing, save to tell you my people will watch over you until you leave our borders."

Gloin gave a curiously Elvish-looking eyebrow lift of wry humour at the concept of being Thranduil's guest--last time he had been locked in a dingy little subterranean chamber in the deepest cellars with his compatriots, though to be fair they were trespassing, and they had been very well fed while locked up… but he decided if the Elf could be mannerly, so could he. And so the invitation was accepted, and Thranduil's people were treated to the odd sight of their King sharing the High Table with his family who were present--and with seven Dwarves of Erebor….

Thranduil was careful to calmly and pleasantly inform his household of Legolas's adventures right out in plain sight, so there would be no overt misinformation passed about through careless gossip--and he was careful as well to mention Gloin's son and his contribution, so his curious guests would not feel slighted. Dinner went as well as such a thing ever does, and certainly even the Dwarves could not complain about the amount and quality of the food--for Thranduil's kitchens were famous for their provender.

The King had little heart for the singing and story-telling afterwards, though he remained long enough out of politeness to hear Gloin's retelling of the Battle of the Five Armies from the Dwarf viewpoint. He excused himself shortly thereafter and went to his private suite, to try and relax enough for sleep and ponder the curiousness of the day just past.

A soak in the bathing pool did little to calm him, nor did a glass of his favourite Dorwinion wine help much, either. It was an anxious, rather frazzled father who found himself seated by the fire, staring out as it began to snow yet again in the soft darkness; wrapped in the silk of his sleep garment and the black squirrel-lined velvet robe his beloved wife had made for him so many long years ago, Thranduil settled back and stared at a small portrait of Legolas that had been painted within the last year by Tinuvil's daughter. A talented artist, she had convinced her much-younger cousin to forget she was painting a picture of him and just chatted with him about any and everything, until Legolas relaxed from his customary vigilance and just enjoyed the visit. The end result was a remarkably lifelike, beautiful portrait of the youngest prince, framed by the branches of trees bending near to him with all the affection the forest bore for him, and he was smiling. Dear, sweet Elbereth… what a smile….

He closed his eyes in annoyance when the knock came at his door.

"What is it?"

The guard leaned in apologetically. "I beg your pardon, aran brannon," she murmured. "Lord Gloin wishes to speak with you. I told him you were likely abed, but he insists."

Thranduil sighed. "Very well--let him enter."

Gloin was, curiously enough, dressed for bed as well, in a comfortable-looking linen nightshirt and a rather handsome robe of velvet trimmed in soft leather, the whole the colour of oak leaves in autumn, that lovely brownish-red--a colour beloved of the Wood-elves, as it happened. The braids had been combed out of his prodigious beard, and there was a faint glimmer to his white hair, as if he had brushed it within an inch of its life as part of his bedtime ablutions. A faint scent of musk and sandalwood wafted from him, and Thranduil knew the Dwarf-lord had made use of his own bathing chamber before heading for bed.

He rose and bowed slightly. "Lord Gloin. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Gloin rumbled. Thranduil shook his head graciously.

"Not at all. I was just attempting to relax enough to get some sleep." He gave a faintly sardonic smile. "It has been a rather trying day, after all."

"I daresay." Gloin perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair into which the King waved him. He glanced about the chamber, gazing appreciatively at the stonework. "This is excellent carving. Dwarf work?"

"Indeed yes. Many of the inner chambers were worked by your people--we have all always appreciated the marvels of the workmanship." He glanced at the portrait in his hands. "Legolas in particular loves the nursery so much, he has been loathe to completely leave it--there are vines and trees carved into the stone, so realistic you would swear you were in a forest. And much of the work is augmented with green marble, to heighten the likeness to the woods."

"You miss him," Gloin rumbled, jutting his chin at the portrait. Thranduil nodded, handing the beloved picture briefly to the Dwarf. Gloin looked at it in silence for a long moment then handed it back. "He has a good face. A kind face. And yet, I saw him at weapons practice--he will do you proud as a fierce warrior."

Thranduil smiled distantly. "Thank you." He rose and replaced the frame on his bedside table, where he suspected the picture would remain until the subject had come home. In one piece. With as much of his blood still within his body as possible. "I wish I could say something similarly kind about your Gimli, but though I know I have seen him at least that once, we did not have much of a chance to speak."

"It matters not." Gloin dug in his pocket, bringing forth a handsome locket nearly the size of his fist, on a chain of bright gold. "I, too, keep a picture of my brat--well-favoured as he is for a Dwarfling."

He thumbed the locket open and handed it to Thranduil, who made admiring noises about the jewelry workmanship, being something of a connoisseur. But he was more interested in looking at the face of young Gimli--the better to ascertain what manner of person this Dwarf was, who would be going into the lair of the Enemy with Thranduil's own son.

He decided it was a good face, for a Dwarf--well worthy of a sire like Gloin, who was an honest, forthright soul, for all his prickliness. Gimli gazed out of the picture squarely, almost confrontingly, with eyes as black as his father's. His hair was ruddy though, as Thranduil remembered Gloin's being in his youth, and the expected wrinkles were there, making for a rather fine Dwarf indeed. Thranduil guessed he was about young-middle-age-ish, probably about the age when young Dwarves find themselves being pressured to wed and produce grandchildren.

"He looks a fine lad. Does he leave a wife and little ones behind?" Thranduil asked politely. Gloin rumbled with laughter.

"Gimli, married? Nay--though not for lack of my pushing him to it!" the Dwarf-lord exclaimed. "What about your laddie? Mahal knows, the poor child was being admired from every conceivable direction in Imladris--if he isn't married, you might want to suggest he become so, to save himself the trouble!"

Thranduil cocked one eyebrow expressively at the image of Legolas beset by admirers. It happened often enough here at home too, and he knew how much such attention bedeviled his occasionally shy, retiring child. Those who knew him well did not bother him, knowing how he was likely to react; his childhood having been disrupted as it was, Legolas was not always comfortable in crowds, and took complete dislike to being the centre of attention. Those who did not know him well, or who believed him completely past the trauma of those early years, took their lives in their hands to press him too closely….

"No, Legolas is not married. Elves tend either to mate quite young--or much later, if they do not find the other half of their soul before then." Thranduil fought his own memories to avoid thinking of the other half of his soul, the lost and still very much beloved Luthiél, who surely had been released from the Halls of Mandos by now and awaited him in Valinor…. He handed the locket back to Gloin with a sad smile. "You have a fine boy there. I hope they will both be able to put aside the prejudices of their fathers, and cooperate well in this endeavor--the better to come home in one piece."

Gloin glanced at his son's picture, then resolutely closed the locket and stowed it away in his robe pocket once more. He leveled a measuring look on the Elven-king.

"We're managing to handle those prejudices rather well at the moment, now, are we not?" he observed. "If the very fathers from whom they learned some of their prejudices can sit here and miss our boys by firelight in our nightshirts, surely two fine young warriors can find a common ground to be polite--the better to keep those four silly Hobbits from lopping their own ears off, and keep the Men of Gondor from one another's throats!"

"And handle Mithrandir--ah, Gandalf--as well?" Thranduil suggested archly. Gloin snorted.

"No one handles Gandalf," he retorted, surprising a smile out of Thranduil.

"No, I suppose no one ever does," he agreed.

A companionable silence settled between them, much to their mutual surprise. They sat there for a while, listening to the fire pop and crackle, and watching the snow come down.

"If this keeps up all night, it might be hard going on the morrow," Thranduil murmured after a while. Gloin nodded distractedly.

"Could be, could be." He seemed to come back to himself then, clapping his hands upon his broad thighs, and rising. "Well--best to get some sleep in any case," he announced. "Just--thought I would say good-night--as it is polite and all."

"Indeed." Thranduil saw him to the door; trying hard to be diffident about it, he murmured, "Should the weather prove less than hospitable, you and your entourage are welcome to stay another night--if it wouldn't inconvenience you too much to do so."

Gloin seemed surprised, but pleased; he nodded, giving a rumbly kind of "hrmph!" in agreement.

"We shall consider it, when we awaken--make an assessment, as it were." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Mighty kind of you to make the offer. Hmm. Thank you."

"You are entirely welcome. Good night, Lord Gloin--sleep well."

"And likewise to you, son of Oropher."

He stomped off, still quite steady on his feet for a Dwarf of his advanced years, and turned the corner toward his guest chamber. Moments later Thranduil heard the door shut quietly. He chuckled briefly, shaking his head; the guard looked at him in some consternation, doubtless surprised at the actions of her King this night. He gazed at her steadily, eyes twinkling.

"Good night, Caliwen."

"Umm. Good night, sire--sleep well!"

"I believe I shall, thank you. May your watch be uneventful."

Thranduil closed the door and banked the fire, then went to draw the curtains over the broad balcony window--but at the last second he decided to keep them open so he could watch the snow from his bed. With the fire covered and the lamps extinguished, there was only the exterior light of the falling snow against the blackness of the deep woods beyond--a metaphor, surely, for the light of hope against the darkness of Shadow, to the heart of a fond father worried over a headstrong, inspired son.

Good night, my Legolas, he thought toward the South. Wherever you are tonight, may your watch be uneventful as well! May you all be safe… and tithen emlin, try to be polite to the son of Gloin! I'd rather you not become acquainted with the power of a Dwarven axe in quite the wrong manner….

He could not be certain at this distance, of course, for even the fondest father's bond is stretched by many miles between--but it almost seemed, as he drifted off into calm sleep, that Thranduil could feel the answering caress of his son's fëa against his mind--could hear the bright chuckle of Legolas's laughter at the very thought of befriending a Dwarf to whatever degree. Whether it was so or not, certainly Thranduil chose to believe it was. If nothing else, his many long years had taught him that love was a link that kept many things and people together, no matter where they journeyed in life, or how far from home they wandered.

Outside, the trees of the Greenwood settled down to their long winter sleep, and the snow continued to gently fall, like the calm before the maelstrom, covering all the darkness with sparkling white….

The End

Translations:

Aran brannon - Lord King

nín adar - my father

Daeradar - elder father, grandfather

las-min - literally 'leaf treasure', a pet name for Brethilas

neth Ernil - young Prince

fëa - spirit, soul

tithen emlin - 'little golden bird', a pet name for Legolas

This story takes place within the "Dark Leaf" arc, just in case some of Thranduil's musings about Legolas's childhood seem difficult to comprehend…. and I bent the rules a bit by mixing the challenge text into the beginning, rather than starting the story with exactly those lines. I hope no one minds! The challenge text is bolded, there toward the beginning. This is un-beta'd and may therefore contain spelling errors, grammatical dum-dums, or inconsistencies. You have been warned. :-)

To Soledad and the Mirkwood Castle gang… may we all keep in touch! Just because the Group is gone doesn't mean our friendships are--after all, if I dare be so cocky as to quote myself, "love was (is) a link that kept (keeps) many things and people together, no matter where they journeyed in life, or how far from home they wandered."

Cheers,

Jasta