This story is set in the autumn of 2510 TA, the year that Tolkien tells us that the Balchoth, men from the east who had been living along the southeastern edge of Mirkwood, finally invaded Gondor. Gondor’s soldiers defeated them with the aid of the people who later became the Rohirrim.

In my stories about Legolas, it is thus set between “Growing under Shadow” (in which there is tension between Men, Elves, and Dwarves over the sale of weapons) and “My Brother’s Keeper” (in which there is tension over the sale of an addictive herb). Legolas is 30, or about 12 in human years. You should not have to read those stories in order to enjoy this one.

I owe Nilmandra many thanks for beta reading this chapter.

*******

1. Arrows Fly

Legolas carefully turned the arrow shaft in his fingers, drawing a thin line of dark red around it with the brush he held in his other hand. He eyed the line anxiously, but he seemed to have judged the necessary amount of paint correctly this time, and none of it threatened to tremble over the line’s edge in ungraceful bulges.

“Good,” said Thranduil, pausing in cutting the nock in one of the shafts Legolas had crested the previous afternoon. Legolas smiled at him and then held the shaft next to the cresting pattern on the paper that lay on the table before painting the next red line. As his father had reminded him when they drew the pattern, the cresting in a set of arrows should be consistent, or when they stood in his quiver, the mismatch would be obvious, and the elegant effect would be ruined.

The door opened, and with his brush poised in his hand, Legolas looked up to see a smiling Eilian limping into the sitting room. Legolas blinked in surprise. His brother had been sent home from his warrior patrol two weeks ago with a deep cut in one calf. He had had to stay off his feet entirely for several days, and then had been allowed up only on crutches.

Thranduil put down the arrow shaft he was holding. “Did the healers say you could discard your crutches?” he demanded.

Eilian grimaced slightly. “Yes, Adar,” he sighed. “I am allowed to walk on my own, and Belówen said I could start training again tomorrow.” He advanced to the table and picked up one of the already crested and nocked shafts. “Very nice, brat,” he admired. “Would you like me to help you fletch them? I have some handsome peacock feathers that you can have if you want them.”

Delighted by the thought of how splendid the feathers would look, Legolas opened his mouth to accept the offer and then suddenly glanced at his father and hesitated. He loved the fact that his busy father was taking the time to help him make this set of arrows, and he did not want to do anything that would cost him a second of Thranduil’s company. But he also would enjoy having Eilian help him, for his brother was away far too much. And he longed for the peacock feathers. No-one else in his archery class was likely to have feathers so beautiful, and he could just picture their faces when they saw his quiver full of these arrows next week when they all were supposed to bring shafts of their own making.

He looked across the table to find Thranduil watching him appraisingly. His father shifted his gaze to Eilian. “If you can be here in the late afternoon, you may help us fletch the arrows,” Thranduil said, “and we would be happy to have the feathers in any case.”

“Of course,” said Eilian hastily, with a glance at Legolas. “I would not want to disrupt anything.”

Legolas relaxed, elated by the idea of having both his father and brother help him. Sometimes Thranduil and Eilian erupted in what seemed to Legolas to be completely unpredictable quarrels, but surely nothing would disturb them when engaged in a task so pleasant and absorbing.

“It grows late,” Thranduil said, putting his knife down next to the already nocked shafts. “You need to put the paint away and clean your brushes, Legolas, or you will not have time to bathe before evening meal.”

“Just let me finish the red,” Legolas begged, and Thranduil nodded.

The door opened again, and Ithilden strode into the room, looking disgruntled. “That did not take long,” he said in disgust.

Legolas applied another band of red to the shaft in his hand, and then eyed Ithilden covertly, trying not to look too interested. His father usually sent Legolas out of the room when he and Ithilden talked about Ithilden’s concerns as the Woodland Realm’s troop commander.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and Ithilden accepted the invitation. “One of the supply rafts was attacked between Esgaroth and the edge of the forest.” Legolas abandoned all pretense and stared at his brother with his mouth open. He pictured Orcs on the eastern edge of the forest, and his breath quickened. He had never seen one of the creatures who had killed his mother, not while he was awake anyway, but he had imagined them.

“Attacked?” Thranduil said sharply. “By whom? What happened?”

“The attacker was a single Man,” Ithilden said, and the tightness in Legolas’s diaphragm eased a little. “The raft was on its way home, so the Elves on it were poling it along near the river bank, trying to keep out of the current as much as possible. Someone apparently hid in the trees there and shot one of them. Everyone else dove for cover or went to the aid of the injured Elf; the raft got out of control, and the current drove it hard into some rocks. Some of the Elves wound up in the river. By the time anyone could scramble ashore and look for the attacker, he was gone, but they could see his tracks leading back toward Esgaroth. They did not follow him far. He had a long head start, and they had a wounded Elf on their hands.”

“When did this happen?” Thranduil demanded.

“Early yesterday. It took them a while to get home. The raft was destroyed, I am afraid,” Ithilden added.

“Where were Esgaroth’s warriors?” Eilian asked. “I thought they patrolled that stretch of the river.”

“They did,” Ithilden responded grimly, “but Esgaroth’s forces have been busy keeping the Balchoth from venturing anywhere near the Long Lake. Two weeks ago, they pulled their warriors away from the river so they could put more of them into that effort. I cannot blame them. They have apparently lost a number of warriors.” He ran a hand over his tightly braided hair, a gesture that Legolas recognized as a sign of frustration. “They suggested that I send some of my warriors to aid them,” he added.

“We have problems of our own,” Thranduil said grimly, “and coordinating the command of two forces like that is not something I would ever wish you to have to do.”

Legolas knew immediately what his father was thinking about. Thranduil did not speak about Dagorlad often, but when he did, it was clear that he had come back with mixed feelings about Men, who had been courageous allies, but, unlike Elves, had also fought on the side of Sauron. And Thranduil had talked before about the problems inherent in commanding mixed forces. But Legolas had recently been studying the Last Alliance with his tutor and the thought had occurred to him that his own grandfather must have struck Gil-galad as an excellent example of just such problems, so he did not think that Men were the only people likely to balk at serving under a commander they were not used to.

He glanced from Thranduil to Ithilden, whose mouth was pressed in a tight line. “I could not spare the troops even if I wanted to,” he said. “That is why I did not send some of our warriors to patrol that part of the river after the Men left. It is in Esgaroth’s territory anyway.”

“That paint is too dry, Legolas,” said Thranduil suddenly, and Legolas realized that his father had noticed his absorption in their conversation. He looked in dismay at the drying paint on his brush. “You will have to finish tomorrow,” said Thranduil. “Go and bathe now.”

“I will finish cleaning up here for you,” Eilian volunteered, taking the brush from his hand. Recognizing his dismissal, Legolas rose and made his way toward his own chamber, thinking about the Men who lived to the east of his father’s realm. He had caught occasional glimpses of Men coming and going on the river, but he had never spent much time in their company, and from what he had seen, his father was right. It was hard to know how much any Man was to be trusted. They were such unpredictable creatures compared to Elves, he thought. Then he thought again of Eilian’s offer of the peacock feathers and forgot about all else in imagining beautiful arrows.

***

“One of the rafts was attacked on its way back from Esgaroth yesterday,” said Turgon, dropping to the ground between Legolas and Annael with his bow in his hand to wait for the archery master.

Legolas looked at his friend in surprise. How had Turgon known that? Legolas had been tempted to tell Annael about the attack on the raft. Thranduil habitually kept him so far away from talk about trouble that he seldom knew anything about such things before Annael had heard of them from his warrior father. But he had also been repeatedly admonished that what he learned at home about the realm’s business was private, so with some difficulty, he had held his tongue. And now Turgon, who never knew anything, already knew about the raft.

“How do you know about that, Turgon?” Legolas asked.

“The Elf who lives in the cottage next to ours was shot. I went to visit him and saw his wound.” Turgon sounded pleased by this accomplishment, and Legolas made a face. There were no warriors in Turgon’s family.  Legolas had already seen Eilian in particular come home wounded often enough to last him forever.

“Our neighbor says that the Men no longer guard their part of the river,” Turgon went on indignantly. “What cowards they must be!”

“Ithilden says they left because they are fighting elsewhere,” Legolas protested. “I do not think that makes them cowards.”

Turgon shrugged, but then his face brightened a little. “I heard that Men let their sons join their army when they are very young. That is how new warriors are trained. I think that sounds like a much better way to learn than taking classes like we do and then having to spend years as a novice.”

Annael frowned at Turgon. “Are you sure?”

Legolas wanted to ask the same thing. He could not imagine his father or brothers ever allowing him to do such a thing, not even Eilian, who could sometimes be talked into letting him do things that Thranduil would have strongly objected to had he known about them.

“Yes,” Turgon answered firmly, although Legolas doubted that he really had reliable information. But then that never stopped Turgon for long. “The young ones clean the weapons and care for the horses and do other things like that, and the Men like being waited on.”

At that moment, the archery master appeared, carrying a large bundle of arrows. “Come and look at what we will be using today,” he invited. With his two friends, Legolas got to his feet and joined the other students looking at the arrows that Penntalion was spreading out on the ground in front of them. Legolas could see that some of the shafts were heavier than others and that the length and position of the fletching varied.

“Until now, you have always used the same kind of arrow,” Penntalion said, “a kind that the armorers make for us. But since you are making your own arrows right now, I thought it would be interesting for you to try these and see how their differences affect their flight.”

Next to Legolas, Turgon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “An arrow is an arrow,” he muttered quietly enough that only Legolas could hear him. “I do not see what all the fuss is about.” Something in his tone made Legolas glance at him quickly, but Turgon was watching Penntalion and did not meet Legolas’s eyes. Legolas turned to look at the archery master too.

Penntalion picked up a slightly heavy looking arrow with long fletching. “If you think about it, you will realize that the feathers on an arrow stabilize its flight and balance the head. The heavier the head, the longer the fletching needs to be. But the longer fletching also slows the arrow down and shortens its range. When you are hunting in the forest, that does not matter so much though.”

He picked up another arrow and held it next to the first one. “Notice too that we have been using arrows whose fletching wraps around the arrow slightly, so that the front edge of the feather is not directly lined up with the back edge. Do you see how the feathers are attached to this arrow a little differently? They are straight. Like shorter fletching, straight fletching will give you a longer shot, but it will be less stable at a short range.”

Legolas listened intently, nodding as he recognized each point that Penntalion made. He had noticed most of this before when he compared the arrows he used for training or hunting to those his brothers had among their warrior gear.

“I have brought arrows with several kinds of heads too,” Penntalion said. “We have been using these broadheads, because they are good for hunting, but I also brought some bodkins.” He picked up an arrow with a long, narrow point on its tip. “You will not be using these routinely until you are novices, but you can try them today. They are good for penetrating armor.”

Legolas stared at the arrow in Penntalion’s hand. Until now, the archery master had talked about their training as if all they were learning to do was hunt, a skill that was necessary for almost anyone living in the woods. Even most of the maidens took archery classes, although they did it separately. But the lethal looking point in Penntalion’s hand left no doubt as to its purpose. Legolas was sobered by the thought.

“Take several different types of arrows, and we will practice shooting from different distances so you can get the feel of them,” Penntalion instructed, and Legolas moved forward to obey.

For the next two hours, he and his classmates tried out the various arrows, moving closer to and farther away from the target. Legolas found that he had to adjust his shot when the arrows varied from what he was used to, but he also found that he could do that, once he realized what was required. In the long run though, it seemed to him that what Penntalion was teaching them was that it was best to select the arrow you needed for the job you wanted to do. He wondered fleetingly if peacock feathers were good for the kind of shooting they did in class. He hoped so. He did not want to give up on the beautiful feathers. He would have to ask his father what he thought.

When Penntalion sent them yet again to retrieve their arrows and then had them stow them in two quivers propped nearby, Legolas was surprised to realize that their class time was up for the day. But then, he often found that with his archery classes. He only wished his time with his tutor would pass as quickly.

“Your brother is waiting for you again today,” Annael observed. Legolas looked toward the edge of the field to find Ithilden waiting to walk home with him for their mid-day meal. He was talking to the sister of Tonduil, one of Legolas’s classmates, who frequently came to walk him home too. Legolas eyed them critically. He was beginning to be suspicious about just why Ithilden had been so attentive lately.

“I will see you later,” he told Annael and Turgon and then approached the couple tentatively, having been scolded by Ithilden for interrupting only last week. Tonduil caught up with him, and the two of them walked the last few yards together.

Ithilden turned to face them. “Mae govannen,” he greeted them “Did you have a good class?”

“Yes,” Tonduil muttered, looking at Ithilden shyly from under half lowered lids.

“Mae govannen,” Legolas said politely. Ithilden had also scolded him for failing to greet Tonduil’s sister, and Legolas had to admit that Thranduil would have regarded that as a lapse of manners too, but Legolas was never quite sure what to say to her. She was very quiet.

“Mae govannen,” she responded, and then they all lapsed into silence. Legolas shifted impatiently. He felt awkward and wanted to suggest that he and Ithilden should be going home now, but he was reasonably sure how that suggestion would be received too.

“We must bid you good day, my lord,” Tonduil’s sister finally said, her face a little pink. She nodded to Legolas and then beckoned to Tonduil and set off toward their home.

“Did you see me shoot, Alfirin?” Legolas could hear Tonduil asking eagerly. “I am getting better.”

Legolas looked at Ithilden, who was watching the brother and sister depart. “Can we go too?” he asked. “We will be late.”

Ithilden sighed. “Of course. Come.” They began walking toward the palace, with Legolas having to trot occasionally to keep up with Ithilden’s long strides.

“Slow down,” he finally cried in exasperation. And then he could not help taking satisfaction in adding, “You are being very rude.”

Ithilden immediately slowed. “I beg your pardon,” he said and smiled at Legolas, who abruptly felt sorry for calling his brother rude.

“Do you know anything about the Men’s army?” Legolas asked, turning to a topic that he thought Ithilden would know far more about that Turgon did.

“Yes.” Ithilden turned to him questioningly.

“Is it true that they have boys in their army?” Legolas was still not sure whether he found this idea more thrilling or frightening.

Ithilden looked surprised. “Where did you hear that?”

“From Turgon. Is it true?”

Ithilden’s mouth tightened a little. He had said before that he did not think Legolas should be allowed to be friends with Turgon. “Yes, it is.”

Legolas blinked at him. “How old are the boys?”

Ithilden hesitated. “It is hard to guess ages in Men, but I have seen them in uniform when then are no bigger than you are.”

Legolas contemplated that idea, and then abruptly thought about the narrow bodkin arrow tip that Penntalion had said would pierce armor. He and Ithilden walked the rest of the way home in silence. Legolas was wrapped in his own thoughts, and Ithilden too seemed to have things to think about.

***

“Come in,” called Thranduil, and Nyndir entered the king’s office and bowed. Thranduil raised an eyebrow at his steward. “Yes?”

“I need to speak with you about replacing the goods that were lost on the raft that was attacked, my lord.”

Thranduil waved him into the chair in front of his desk. “What was on the raft?”

Nyndir consulted the list in his hand. “There were six barrels of wine and some foodstuffs, flour for the most part, but the largest part of the cargo was cloth. There were a dozen bolts of woolen fabric and three of silk.”

“How much of that was lost?”

Nyndir looked up at him regretfully. “All of it, my lord. The raft Elves were busy with other matters at first, and by the time anyone could have retrieved the cargo, it had been swept away. Most of the barrels broke up on the rocks near the entrance to the lake, and the others probably went over the falls.”

Thranduil grimaced. “I assume we had already paid for the goods?”

“Yes, my lord. They were ours.”

Thranduil tapped his forefinger moodily on the desk. He did not find it altogether just that Men would withdraw the guards for their part of the river and then require the Elves to pay Mannish merchants to replace any losses, particularly when the attacker had also been a Man. Still there was no point in stewing over what could not be changed. “You have my permission to buy replacements.”

Nyndir hesitated. “That might be more difficult to do than one would think. I can buy more flour and wine, I think, but the cloth will be harder to get. We contracted for it with a merchant named Rhoc. The wool was from the sheep raised around the Long Lake, and I believe we bought most of what he had this year. The silk came from the south and would have to be reimported.”

“Does no one else in Esgaroth have the goods?”

Nyndir grimaced. “I could check. There is another cloth merchant, but I no longer buy from him because his merchandise has sometimes been shoddy. The dyes in his last batch of silk ran as soon as the fabric became wet.”

“Do what you can,” Thranduil directed, and Nyndir nodded and took his leave. Thranduil turned his attention back to the dispatch he was writing. The loss of the goods on the raft was a minor irritation compared to the wounding of one of his people and the potential for continued danger along the river’s edge, but Thranduil could not help thinking that dealing with Men sometimes seemed more trouble than it was worth.

As always, thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

2. Visitors and Families

Ithilden bowed with his hand over his heart and then, at Thranduil’s signal, advanced toward his raised seat in the Great Hall.  “I wanted to let you know that the border patrol has seen representatives from Esgaroth approaching. They should be here later today.”

“Good,” grunted Thranduil. “At least they responded promptly when you told them you wanted to speak to them about the matter.”

From his position standing next to Thranduil’s chair, Galivion cleared his throat. “I know you are primarily concerned with military matters, my lord,” he told Ithilden, “but please remember that our trade with the Men must be preserved. We depend on them for many goods.”

“We have gotten along without the aid of Men before and could do so again if we had to,” Thranduil reminded his chief advisor crisply.

“You are undoubtedly correct, my lord,” Galivion hastily agreed, “but I would far rather not have to try to do without what we gain by trading with them.”

“In this case, preserving trade and maintaining security are inseparable,” Ithilden declared. “We cannot expect the raft Elves to make the trip if they are going to be shot at.”

Thranduil nodded grimly. “Tell the Men that we will send no more rafts until we know who made that attack four days ago.” That should raise some alarms in Esgaroth, he thought with satisfaction. By virtue of its position on the lake, most of the Men of Esgaroth lived by trade. They would be horrified at the thought of losing the Elves’ custom.

Galivion grimaced slightly. “What if the attacker is never caught?”

“He will be,” Ithilden interposed, turning to face the advisor squarely and narrowing his eyes a little. Thranduil nodded, regarding his threatening-looking son with a half-smile. He did not doubt Ithilden’s determination or capability for a second; the perpetrator of the attack would be found if Ithilden had to go to Esgaroth himself to see to it.

Galivion let out a little sigh and admitted defeat. “Of course, my lords.”

Ithilden bowed again. “By your leave,” he said, but before Thranduil could give him permission to depart, one of the door attendants approached and murmured into Galivion’s ear. The advisor looked up in surprise. “You have visitors, my lord.” He nodded to the attendant, who hurried back toward the doors.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Who?” Galivion kept track of what business was to be conducted in the Great Hall each day, but he normally spoke to Thranduil ahead of time about most of it.

Thranduil’s question was answered not by Galivion, however, but by the herald at the door of the Great Hall. “Mithrandir, and Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Master Elrond of Imladris,” he announced. And to Thranduil’s surprise, Mithrandir advanced into the room, flanked on either side by the tall, raven-haired twin sons of the lord of Imladris.

With a cry of welcome, he rose to his feet and strode to where they had stopped and bowed. “Mithrandir! As ever, you arrive unlooked for but most welcome. And,” he hesitated for only a second as he looked at the figure to his right, “Elrohir, we welcome you to the Woodland Realm, as we do you, Elladan.” The sons of Elrond both inclined their heads, indicating to Thranduil that he had identified them correctly. He had met them at the first meeting of the White Council a number of years ago and was pleased that he could still tell them apart.

“I have not been in your halls for far too long, my lord,” Mithrandir smiled at him.

Thranduil turned to invite Ithilden forward from where he hovered on the edge of their conversation. Ithilden had accompanied Thranduil to that first White Council meeting in Imladris and knew the twins rather better than Thranduil did, for they had spent time together as their elders argued around the council table. Ithilden bowed to Mithrandir and then grasped the arm of each twin in a warrior’s greeting. “Welcome,” he echoed Thranduil.

Ithilden smiled at them all, but while Mithrandir returned the smile, Thranduil was suddenly struck by the thought that the twins looked somehow subtly different than they had when he had first met them. Something in their eyes and the set of their shoulders made them look less open, more distant than he remembered them being. And when Thranduil glanced at Ithilden, he could see that his oldest son too was studying the sons of Elrond. He was not surprised. Ithilden was perceptive and had commanded troops for a long time now. He could read people’s attitudes quite well.

Thranduil turned to where Galivion stood. “Am I finished in here for today?”

“Indeed you are, my lord.” Galivion looked a little apprehensive, Thranduil thought, suppressing a smile. Mithrandir did not visit his realm often, but when he did, he usually brought news that somehow stirred things up. Thranduil did not understand it himself. All he knew was that he could never understand how Men could mistake Mithrandir for a helpless old man, as many of them seemed to do.

“Then we will adjourn to my office where we can have wine and be more comfortable as my guests tell me the news. But Galivion, you may tell Nyndir that we will feast in the Great Hall tonight in honor of our visitors.” The advisor nodded, and Thranduil turned to lead the way to his office.

“By your leave, my lord, I would like to return to my own office to await the arrival of the Men,” Ithilden said. Thranduil nodded his permission. “I look forward to seeing you all this evening,” Ithilden told the visitors and then took his leave, while Thranduil guided the others to his office, poured wine for all of them, and waved them into the comfortable chairs near the hearth, where a low fire burned against the chill of the autumn air. Mithrandir settled down comfortably, looking ready to chat, but Elladan and Elrohir both sat erect and somehow remote, as if ready to be off as soon as they could. Thranduil remembered them as warm when among friends, but now they looked preoccupied, with their thoughts elsewhere. What was the matter here? he wondered. Something in their attitude reminded Thranduil of someone else, but he could not quite put his finger on whom.

“I was on my way to see you anyway, Thranduil, when I met these two near the ford,” Mithrandir told him. “They graciously agreed to accompany me and see to my safe journey.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. He had never before heard Mithrandir express any sort of concern for his own safety and had always assumed that anything or anyone attacking him would soon regret it.

“But they have sad news for you, I fear,” Mithrandir went on and looked from one twin to the other.

They had both attended politely when Mithrandir mentioned them, and now they glanced at one another and shifted uneasily. Finally Elladan drew a deep breath and turned to Thranduil. “I regret to tell you that our naneth has sailed west.”

Thranduil felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Celebrían had sailed? How could that be? He would have staked his life on her remaining with Elrond for as long as he chose to stay in Middle-earth. The love between them had been palpable when Thranduil had seen them together. Elrond must surely be devastated. His mind darted to thoughts of his own dead wife as he felt for the loss of the lord of Imladris.

“I am so sorry,” he told the twins, suddenly understanding something of what he saw in their eyes.

Elladan stoically nodded his thanks for the sympathy. “Indeed, her sailing partially explains Mithrandir finding us near the ford. We accompanied our grandparents back to Lothlórien from the Havens, and leaving there, we saw a large number of Orcs sweeping from the Misty Mountains into the plains south of the woods.” Something in his tone as he mentioned Orcs made Thranduil’s breath catch, and his thoughts again flew to Lorellin. He glanced at Mithrandir and found the wizard watching Elladan with a look of deep pity.

“We rode out to aid the Men of Gondor,” Elrohir picked up the story as his brother’s mouth tightened and he lapsed into silence. “Fortunately the Éothéod came as well.” He shrugged, but his eyes narrowed and his mouth curved slightly in satisfaction. “We drove the Balchoth away and killed the Orcs.”

There was a second of silence, and suddenly Thranduil realized whom these two reminded him of in their obvious grief and rage: Eilian in the days after his mother’s death, and Legolas too in his more childish way. Ithilden had retreated into responsibility and guilt, but his two younger sons had both been angry and Eilian in particular had been vengeful. A terrible certainty crept into his mind. He rose, drawing everyone else to their feet too, and went to pull the bell rope near the fireplace.

“I can see that you are weary,” he said, as a servant came to the door in response to his summons. “The servant will show you to guest rooms so that you can refresh yourselves before this evening’s feast. I would welcome your staying with us for as long as you can. And I know that Ithilden will want to learn whatever you have to tell him about the Men’s war.”

The twins exchanged a glance. “Thank you, my lord,” said Elladan. “I believe our stay will be brief, but we would be happy to discuss these matters with Ithilden.” They bowed and followed the servant from the room.

Thranduil waited until the door had closed behind them and then turned to Mithrandir who had shown no sign of leaving. “Allow me to guess,” he said, seating himself again and taking a deep drink of his wine. “Whatever drove Celebrían to sail had something to do with Orcs.”

Mithrandir reseated himself. “Yes,” he said heavily. “They attacked her in the Redhorn Pass as she was on her way to visit her parents. Elrond and his sons rescued her, but she had been tortured and she simply could not stay.”

Thranduil let his head fall back against his chair and closed his eyes so that Mithrandir would not see the bone-deep pain his words had evoked. For a moment, Thranduil thought he might have to leave the room. Then he shoved thoughts of Lorellin’s last moments into the dark corner of his mind where he usually managed to keep them and drew a deep breath.

“What about those two?” he asked, jerking his head toward the door through with the twins had gone. The emotion he had read in them disturbed him more than he liked to admit. It had been far too familiar for comfort.

“They are having a hard time,” Mithrandir said. “Elrond knew I was coming this way and asked me to keep an eye out for them. When I met them, they were on their way into the mountains to hunt further for Orcs. Elrond would like them at home, and it seems to me too that they would be better off there.”

Thranduil swirled his wine in its cup and stared at the purple liquid. “You are right. The family will need one another.” He thought about his own sons in those first few terrible months, and then he put his cup down and rose. “Perhaps you too would like to rest a bit before this evening, Mithrandir.”

Mithrandir smiled and allowed Thranduil to steer him to the door and turn him over to the servant who waited outside it. “Is Lord Eilian here?” Thranduil asked the servant as he was about to escort Mithrandir away.

“I believe he just returned from training, my lord.”

“Send him to me.” He went back into his office and waited with his hand braced against the mantelpiece and his eyes on the fire.

There was a light tap at the door and Eilian entered. He was still in the sweaty tunic he had probably worn to train in, a sign of how recently he had come home. “You wanted to see me, Adar?” He sounded cautious and Thranduil suppressed a grimace.

“Yes.” Thranduil turned to face him. “Mithrandir has arrived, and the sons of Elrond are with him.” Eilian’s face brightened. He liked Mithrandir and was always interested in meeting new people. “I have favor to ask of you, however, that will keep you from the welcome feast.” Eilian’s mouth tightened in annoyance, but Thranduil pressed on, giving him no time to protest. “I had intended to help Legolas finish his arrows tonight. He leaves on a camping trip with the woodcraft master tomorrow and needs to have them finished before he goes because he is supposed to have them ready for use almost as soon as he returns. He would not have gone to the feast in any case, since it would be too late for him, but would you eat with him and help him finish the arrows?”

Eilian looked mollified. Thranduil knew that Eilian treasured Legolas as he did few others and probably saw this request as a welcome one. “Of course.” He grinned suddenly. “I will tell the kitchen to send us only the best of the feast.”

Thranduil laughed. “Go ahead.”

“By your leave,” said Eilian, his usual cheer restored, and he left the room at Thranduil’s nod of permission.

Thranduil picked up his wine and took a sip. He felt sorry for the sons of Elrond, but he was appalled that they had brought their all-too-obvious anguish into the presence of his own sons, where it might resurrect pain that all three had struggled to deal with. Ithilden would have to confer with the sons of Elrond, and Thranduil probably could not prevent Eilian from meeting them eventually, although that thought did not make him happy. But Legolas was still young enough to be vulnerable, and Thranduil had seen him stiffen when Ithilden had spoken too openly about the attack on the raft. Fortunately, with the camping trip scheduled for the next day, Thranduil could probably keep him away from them and what was likely to be their contagious sorrow.

Legolas knocked on the door of Turgon’s cottage, and a moment later, Turgon jerked the door open. “You are so late!” he exclaimed, as he almost always did. Legolas’s lessons were longer than those of his friends, and he was always the last to arrive in the afternoons. “We are in my room making arrows,” Turgon said, leading Legolas down the hallway.

The door to the family’s sitting room was closed, so Legolas assumed that Turgon’s father was working in there. He was a minstrel, and when he was writing a new lay, he would shut himself away for hours and everyone else was supposed to be quiet. More often than not, Turgon, Annael, and Legolas forgot and made too much noise, and he would come rushing out of the room and scold them. Then either he would leave the cottage to seek peace elsewhere, or he would send them outside to play. Today they were making arrows though, and that was quiet work. Moreover, Legolas saw no sign of Turgon’s mother or his five-year-old brother, so he thought that Turgon’s father would probably remain undisturbed.

He entered the room Turgon shared with his brother to find Annael working at a small table that had been set up near the window. Annael was frowning in concentration as he wound thread about the fletching on an arrow that was still without its point. Dropping his cloak next to Annael’s on Turgon’s bed, Legolas blinked at the shafts spread out on the table and then picked one up to inspect it more closely.

Like everyone else they knew, Legolas, Annael, and Turgon had made arrows for their own use from the time they first picked up a bow, but none of them had ever done the whole task himself and none of them had ever painted crests on their arrows before. Given that the practical function of a crest was to allow an arrow’s owner to identify it among many others, they had never needed to use one because they had used arrows from the armory when in class and had used their own only when hunting with one another or their fathers. They were marking their arrows now because, for the first time, Penntalion had instructed them to bring arrows of their own making to class.

The crest that Legolas was using was a simple, elegant pattern of colored lines that he had designed with the help of his father. In contrast, the arrow he held in his hand was a riot of colors that twined around the shaft in an intricate series of spirals. Legolas had never seen anything like it.

He looked up to find Turgon watching him with his lower lip caught in his teeth. “Did you do this, Turgon?”

His friend nodded stiffly. “My adar helped me.”

Legolas looked at the shaft again. “It is beautiful.” Suddenly, he could feel himself starting to grin. “And there will be no doubt at all that these arrows are yours. They could belong to no-one else.”

Turgon’s posture relaxed a little. Legolas turned the arrow to look at the newly cut nock and his grin faded. The cut was off center and not oriented properly against the grain of the wood. “My adar is busy now,” Turgon said, still watching him, “so I made the nocks by myself. I just did them today. I have to hurry, or I will never finish.”

Legolas turned to exchange a look with Annael. The arrow Annael was working on was the first one to be fletched, a fussy, time-consuming task with which Legolas’s father or brothers always helped him. And after that, all the points would have to be attached. He did not see how Turgon could possibly have a dozen arrows finished before they left on their camping trip the next day. “Do you always fletch your arrows by yourself?” Legolas asked seating himself at the table.

Turgon shook his head. “Amelas used to help me, but he left.”

Wishing for some adult’s help now, Legolas began the tricky business of placing, gluing, and then tying feathers along the shaft. He knew who Amelas was. He had lived in the cottage on the other side of this one from the wounded raft elf. He was one of Thranduil’s couriers who had taken a message to the Havens and been caught by the sea longing. He had come home only to carry the return message to Thranduil and then bid his friends farewell and depart again, and his cottage now stood empty. Someone would move in eventually, or the neighbors would pull it down so the forest could grow there again, but no one had had the heart to do either thing yet.

Legolas could not imagine what it would be like to be drawn inexorably away from the woods. He was curious about the far-away places of Middle-earth that he had read about with his tutor, and he hoped to see them someday, but he would never want to live where there were no trees. The world must surely seem flat and lifeless without their constant whispering presence.

For a while, the three of them struggled with feathers, glue, and thread. Legolas was just peeling off a feather that had somehow become glued to one of his fingers when the cottage door opened and slammed shut again and quick footsteps came running down the hall. “No,” Turgon moaned, hastily sweeping his arrows toward the edge of the table that was against the wall, dislodging at least one feather in the process. The door to his room burst open, and his little brother, Amdir, came running into the room.

“Turgon!” he cried in gleeful greeting. He ran up to the table, peered over the edge, and then put a chubby hand up to grasp at a brightly painted arrow.

“No!” Turgon exclaimed, grabbing his wrist. “Naneth!” he shouted. “Naneth! Come and get him.” Legolas jumped up from his chair to rescue arrows, and across from him, Annael did the same. Legolas had seen Amdir’s arrival produce this kind of chaos before, but he could not help being appalled by it.

Turgon’s mother appeared in the doorway. She smiled vaguely at Legolas and Annael and said, “Come, my sweet,” to Amdir, who ignored her.

Turgon grasped his little brother by the waist and half-dragged, half-carried him from the room, protesting loudly all the way. Another door opened. “What is all this noise? How am I supposed to work?” came the voice of Turgon’s father. Legolas looked at Annael, who looked back with an anxiously puckered brow.

Turgon’s father appeared in the doorway next to his mother. He frowned at them. “All of you go outside and play,” he directed. “Take Amdir with you.”

“I have to finish my arrows, Adar,” Turgon protested over the sound of Amdir’s wails.

His father looked at the jumble on the table and made an exasperated noise. “Very well. I will go and work in the woods. That will be better anyway.” He stalked off, and the front door opened and shut yet again.

Turgon’s mother took Amdir from him. “Come, my sweet,” she soothed him. “There is bread and honey in the kitchen.” His protests softened to weak cries that seemed more a formality than anything else, and she hauled him away.

Turgon came back into the room and slumped in his chair. The three of them sat in silence for a moment. “Turgon,” ventured Annael, “I am sorry, but I have to go home now. I am not supposed to be late for our evening meal.”

Legolas started as he realized that Annael was right; it had grown late. Turgon poked at the unfinished arrows. “I suppose I can always use the armory arrows,” he said gloomily. “Penntalion said we could do that if we needed to.” The archery master had indeed said that, but his tone had been cool when he said it. Learning to make arrows was part of learning to be an archer.

Legolas grimaced and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Perhaps we can work on them again after the camping trip,” he offered. “We might not need them right away.” Turgon nodded, but he did not look particularly hopeful.

Annael picked up his cloak and handed Legolas’s to him. “We will see you in the morning,” Annael said, and he and Legolas left Turgon seated at the little table and let themselves out of the cottage, which was now quiet again. They paused outside the door and looked at one another. Legolas did not want to say that he felt sorry for Turgon, although he did. Saying it somehow sounded insulting. In silent accord, they began walking along the path, until they reached the place where Annael would turn off.

“I will see you in the morning,” he said and struck off for his own home, while Legolas walked the rest of the way to the palace.

As soon as he went through the Great Doors, he could see that something was afoot. Tables were being set up in the Great Hall, and servants were rushing about, looking harassed. His interest quickened. Some sort of unexpected feast was apparently going to take place, and the most likely explanation was that visitors had arrived.

“Has someone come?” he asked the guard at the doors to the Hall.

The guard nodded. “Mithrandir is here, and the sons of Elrond were with him.”

Legolas’s interest turned immediately to excitement. He had heard wonderful stories about Mithrandir, but he had never met him, at least not that he remembered. And he had heard equally wonderful stories about Imladris and its master. Glorfindel lived in Imladris! Elrond’s sons would be able to tell him about the Balrog slayer, whom they knew first hand. His father did not usually allow him to attend formal feast, saying he was too young and the ceremonies ran too late, but perhaps Legolas could talk him into making an exception this time.

He hurried into the family quarters and met Eilian coming down the hall toward him. “There you are, brat,” Eilian said. “I am sure you will be pleased to hear that I am going to help you finish your arrows tonight, while everyone else goes to the boring old feast.” Legolas stopped dead. He had forgotten about the arrows. Reluctantly, he concluded that he would need to surrender any idea of going to the feast.

“Come,” said Eilian and led him to the sitting room, where the table with the arrow-making supplies still stood. “We can finish the arrows and then get the kitchen to send up the best of the food for the feast.”

Legolas took his place at the table and Eilian sat down too. The only thing that remained to be done to his arrows was the attaching a few more points. “The guard said that Mithrandir and the sons of Elrond were here,” he said. “Do you think they will still be here when I get back from the camping trip?”

Eilian shrugged. “I do not know. One never can predict what Mithrandir will do, and I have never met Elrond’s sons.”

“Have you met Elrond?”

“No. Galeril once made me make a chart of his family ties. I believe he was punishing me for being difficult at lessons.” He grinned at Legolas. Galeril had been Eilian’s tutor before he was Legolas’s. “Ithilden met them all, of course, when he went to Imladris with Adar.”

“I would like to see Imladris,” Legolas said.

Eilian shrugged again. “It sounds rather boring to me. I would like to meet Glorfindel, but I think that everyone should come to the Woodland Realm.” He grinned again, but Legolas rather suspected he was only half joking. Eilian liked excitement, but he tended to see most other places in Arda as irrelevant to his concerns.

Legolas picked up one of the arrows, admiring again the dark blue peacock wing feathers that formed the fletching. “Where did you get these, Eilian?”

Eilian laughed. “I won them in a wager on a horse race, I am afraid. Do not tell Adar please. He has strongly suggested that I am too ready to place a bet and that I should mend my ways.” He winked at Legolas, who smiled back but squirmed a little at his brother’s dismissive attitude toward their father’s anger. Then he settled down to finish his arrows, with Eilian letting him do most of it himself and stepping in only when Legolas asked him for help. Legolas thought of the scene in Turgon’s cottage and was deeply grateful for his own family, troublesome though they sometimes were.

AN: In constructing this story, I am drawing on The Peoples of Middle-Earth, Vol. XII of HoMe. In that version of the Tale of Years, the account of the battle with the Balchoth in 2510 contains this information: “Elladan and Elrohir rode also in that battle. From that time forth the brethren never cease from war with the Orcs because of Celebrían.”

Thank you to everyone who is reading this story and especially to those who reviewed it. I always fear that people will grow tired of these stories, so I’m grateful to anyone who stays with them.

As usual, I owe Nilmandra a great deal for her patient, provocative help as my beta.

***

3. Learning from One Another

“My lord, two Men from Esgaroth are here to see you,” Ithilden’s aide said from the doorway.

“Send them in.” Ithilden set his pen down and rose to greet the two Men who now entered his office. The one in the lead held himself erect and met Ithilden’s gaze, but the other, who walked with a pronounced limp, scanned the room cautiously.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” the leader said smoothly, bowing as he spoke. Ithilden had never met him but years in his father’s court allowed him to recognize the type instantly: The Man could only be some sort of important advisor to Esgaroth’s master. His companion with the limp was presumably his guard, a soldier too badly injured to go back to the war, Ithilden guessed. “My name is Caridd, and this is Tiran.” He indicated his companion, who also bowed. “We have come at your invitation to confer on behalf of the Town Master.”

Ithilden held Caridd’s gaze just long enough that the Man shifted his eyes away, and then, satisfied, he gestured an invitation for his visitors to take the chairs in front of his desk while he settled himself behind it. He had found from experience that Men were often uncomfortable when meeting an Elf’s eyes, and he was usually careful to avoid prolonged eye contact, but Caridd’s use of the word “invitation” had led him to think that a little intimidation was called for. Invitation indeed! He had worded his message to the master to make it clear that he expected someone to hasten to him immediately.

He got right to the point. “What progress has been made on finding the Man who shot at one of our rafts?”

“I believe you know Beam?” Caridd said, and Ithilden nodded. He did know the master’s son who was also a captain among the town’s soldiers. “The master has put him in charge of the search,” Caridd said.

Ithilden considered that information. He had a great deal of respect for Beam, having seen him in action on one occasion when the Elves had chased Orcs from the forest to meet a troop of Men coming in the other direction. The result had been most satisfying, as Ithilden recalled. “What has Beam found?”

“As your own people probably told you, the attacker went toward Esgaroth, but unfortunately, his trail disappeared among many others going in and out of the town. Beam is talking to some of the less desirable element to see if any of them know who might have shot at the raft.”

Ithilden leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together and letting his eyes rove from Caridd to Tiran and back again. “In other words, he has learned nothing,” he said flatly.

“Not yet,” Caridd conceded.

Ithilden raised an eyebrow. “I could always send someone to help Beam,” he said coolly, watching as they both flinched slightly. “Indeed,” he added, with secret glee, “I could go myself, if it proved necessary.”

“There is no need for that, my lord,” Caridd said hastily. “Indeed, I believe we will get better information on our own.”

“Do you? I have sometimes found that Men respond well when I question them.” Ithilden was busy and did not really want to go to Esgaroth, but he did want the Men to know that he would do it if he had to.

Caridd began to speak, stopped himself, and then smiled slightly, with his gaze on Ithilden’s face. “I can well believe that, my lord, but I think that Beam has good sources and it would be wise to let him learn what he can from them without interference.”

“Very well,” Ithilden conceded, satisfied that Caridd understood the message he had sent as to how seriously the Elves took the incident with the raft. He decided to take advantage of the Men’s presence to raise the other topic in which he was interested. “Has the Master given thought to who will guard Esgaroth’s part of the river?”

Caridd grimaced. “We tell you truly when we say that we cannot spare the soldiers to do it, my lord. Our forces are stretched thin as they are.” Seated next to Caridd, Tiran tensed slightly, and Ithilden concluded he had been correct in assuming that the man had been wounded and sent home from the troops that were guarding the southern edges of Esgaroth’s territory. “If you wish to have some of your warriors guard our part of the river, I think the master would allow it.”

Ithilden hid his frustration. He was beginning to think he would have to do as Caridd suggested, although he had few enough warriors and the change would violate the terms of the agreement between the Elves and the Men. “I will speak to the king about extending our guards’ responsibilities,” he conceded. “He will undoubtedly want to negotiate with the town’s master about increasing the river tolls.”

Caridd frowned, although given that he was evidently an experienced advisor, he could hardly have expected Thranduil to give in on some of their terms of agreement without expecting concessions elsewhere. “I do not know how the master will respond to that.”

Assuming that the protest was simply for show, Ithilden shrugged. His father would deal with the town’s master, and Ithilden had no doubt that Thranduil would see to it that he at least had the means to buy more weapons to equip the warriors he would need to send.

“My lord?”

Ithilden looked up to find his aide in the doorway again. “Yes?”

“The king has sent an invitation for your visitors to be his guests at tonight’s feast and offers them his hospitality overnight as well,” said the aide. Ithilden glanced at the Men with one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

“The king is most gracious, and we accept his invitation with thanks,” said Caridd. Tiran looked at him from the corner of his eye but said nothing. If he had been with Esgaroth’s soldiers, he had probably not been to Thranduil’s stronghold before and was speculating on how he was to fulfill his responsibility for Caridd’s safety. Ithilden rose, and the Men rose too.

“My aide will escort you to the palace,” Ithilden said. He looked at the aide. “See to it that they are lodged next to one another, Calith.” The set of Tiran’s shoulders eased a little, as the aide nodded and gestured for the Men to accompany him. Ithilden sat down to finish reading the reports from his various captains, but it was not long before he followed the Men to the palace. He needed to bathe and change his clothes before the feast, and before he did that, he wanted to speak to Thranduil to see if Mithrandir or the sons of Elrond had brought news he should hear about.

***

Thranduil swept into the Great Hall, where his guests and many of his people were already assembled to dine together and celebrate the visitors in their midst.  The low murmur of many voices that he had heard from the antechamber ceased, and people bowed as he strode the length of the Hall to take his place in the center of the high table between Elladan and Mithrandir. Elladan wore formal robes and a circlet, as did his twin, who stood on Mithrandir’s left. Ithilden too was formally dressed and stood next to Elladan, with the Mannish advisor, Caridd, further to his right.

Thranduil picked up his goblet of wine and held it aloft. “Welcome, Mithrandir. Welcome, Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris. The stars shone upon us to mark your arrival. Welcome also to Caridd of Esgaroth.” He took a sip of his wine, as did everyone else in the Hall. He sat down and gestured for the minstrels to play and the servants to begin offering platters of food.

Thranduil turned to Mithrandir, who still wore his aged grey robes but who had at least brushed the worst of the dust of travel from them. Or more probably, Thranduil thought, one of the servants had taken the wizard in hand and dusted him down. “And where have you been since the last time you graced my halls, Mithrandir?”

Mithrandir shrugged. “Over most parts of the north, I think.” He paused as a servant put a helping of roast pheasant on his place, and Thranduil thought briefly of that last visit, which had taken place only two years after Lorellin had been killed. Thranduil seldom spoke of his loss to anyone, but Mithrandir had somehow become a welcome confidante, whose presence had been most comforting. “Is Eilian anywhere about?” Mithrandir asked. “And I believe your little one must be quite the young warrior by now.”

Thranduil smiled. “Not quite. Legolas is still too young for feasts like this one, and Eilian is helping him with a project he needs to finish before he leaves on a woodcraft training trip tomorrow.”

“I trust the child will be back before I leave,” Mithrandir said. “I would like to see him.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?” he asked a bit apprehensively. He was not sure that he welcomed Mithrandir’s interest in his youngest son. Mithrandir’s attention sometimes seemed to stem from premonitions that could bode ill for the one they concerned.

But Mithrandir simply smiled. “I am always interested in the next generation,” he said comfortably and turned his attention to his meal.

Thranduil ate some of the excellent pheasant, listening unobtrusively to Elladan, Ithilden, and Caridd talking on his right. “I am told that you and your brother have just come from the fighting in the south, my lord,” Caridd said to Elladan.

“We have,” Elladan agreed with well-mannered attentiveness. He and Elrohir were both quieter tonight than Thranduil remembered them being, but then, Thranduil could hardly blame Elrond’s sons for feeling out of place at a feast. Eilian had left the stronghold to return his patrol shortly after his mother’s death, and Legolas had been too small to go to feasts, although he had spent a goodly number of them huddled in his father’s lap nonetheless. But Ithilden had been determined to carry out his role as Thranduil’s heir and the commander of his troops and had therefore gone with grim determination to every ceremony where he might be expected.

Thranduil rather suspected that Ithilden’s presence had not always been welcome by those who wanted to forget sorrow for a while, and he knew that Ithilden had not always even registered what was happening around him, any more than Thranduil himself had. Now he recognized the way the sons of Elrond were holding themselves apart from those around them, almost as if they were puzzled by the way others could laugh and enjoy the small pleasures of music and good food, when they themselves were so devastated.

Caridd did not seem to notice any exceptional reserve on Elladan’s part, however. “Tell me how the battle went,” he urged. “Are the Balchoth really withdrawing?”

“They are,” Elladan answered and then gave the Man a succinct, careful analysis of what he had seen on the battlefield. Sitting between Elladan and Caridd, Ithilden listened intently, occasionally nodding his understanding or asking a question. Ithilden was an exacting commander when his own captains reported, but it seemed to Thranduil that he tried to curb his imperiousness with Elladan, whose report was well-given in any case. Glorfindel would have been Elladan’s commander, and Elrond’s sons were both, no doubt, well-trained.

“Do you think they are gone for good?” Caridd persisted. His concern over the Balchoth was natural, Thranduil supposed, given that the Balchoth had lived just south of Esgaroth’s territory and had driven any Men from that area north into the towns of Esgaroth and Dale. The war had been, after all, a war between Men for the most part, which made the twins’ involvement surprising when Thranduil thought of it. He saw Ithilden glance at Elladan and then frown slightly at Caridd. His son was apparently as aware as Thranduil was that Elladan was not fully himself.

But Elladan seemed serene enough under Caridd’s questioning. Thranduil noted with interest that he was easier even than Ithilden, who tended to be impatient with Men’s short-term thinking, which he saw as only too much in harmony with their short lives. Of course, Elrond had always had close relations with the Dúnedain, so his sons probably took the interests of Men to heart in the same way.

Thranduil peered into his goblet and swirled his wine. The words of the Wise told him that the Age of Elves would come to an end and the future of Arda would be in the hands of Men, a thought that occasionally filled him with despair. He was not hostile to Men, but he found them unreliable, and he was appalled by their callous treatment of one another and of Arda. He took a long drink of wine. The Age would do as it must, he thought grimly, but he would stay in these woods and fight Sauron for every inch of them if he had to.

Ithilden leaned across Elladan to speak to him. “My lord, would you mind if I invited Elladan and Elrohir to accompany me to my chamber and tell me more about the situation in the Misty Mountains?” Hearing his name, Elrohir turned to listen to the answer.

“Of course,” Thranduil said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He strongly suspected that Ithilden wanted to relieve the sons of Elrond of the duty of looking amiable at a feast, although there was no doubt that Ithilden would also want to know everything they could tell him about their encounters with the enemy. “You may go.”

Ithilden and the twins rose, bowed to Thranduil, and made their way from the Great Hall, drawing glances all the way to the door. As well they should, Thranduil thought, watching the three tall, strong figures disappear.

Thranduil glanced to his left again to see Mithrandir smiling at him. “Thranduil, have I told ever told you that you are sometimes a comfort to me?” Mithrandir asked.

Thranduil could not help laughing. “No, Mithrandir, I do not believe you have.” He offered the wizard more wine, which Mithrandir accepted, and then settled back to listen to the music.

***

Ithilden poured wine for Elladan and Elrohir, took some for himself, and settled into a chair in front of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated and then said, “My adar told me that your naneth had sailed. I am sorry.” It was easier to offer sympathy for Celebrían’s sailing than for what had happened to cause it.

Elladan’s jaw tightened and he continued to gaze into the fire, but Elrohir licked his lips and then bravely said, “Thank you. We are sorry about your naneth too, Ithilden.” He drew a deep breath. “Orcs are multiplying like cockroaches in the mountains,” he said bitterly, “and I know you have been battling them here since the Peace ended. We may not ever be able to wipe them out, but I assure you that Elladan, and I will be doing what we can.”

Ithilden glanced at him and inhaled sharply, for in this dark-headed figure before him, he suddenly saw Eilian in the months after their mother’s death. He remembered the heedless drive for vengeance that had made Eilian a deadly warrior who had come so near to getting himself killed that his captain had sent him home for Ithilden to deal with. “Battling the enemy is necessary,” he said slowly, “but I think that battling one’s guilt and grief is the more difficult thing.” Elrohir lowered his gaze to his wine. “If I had not had the support of my family,” Ithilden went on, “I do not know how I would ever have survived.”

The twins looked at one another, and the same faint smile appeared simultaneously on both handsome faces. “We are fortunate to have one another,” Elladan said.

Ithilden felt a sudden chill. He was not at all sure that these two identical, grieving warriors were wise supporters for one another just now. He tried to picture Eilian relying on someone like himself and had to swallow hard. “Your adar and sister will be looking for you,” he said.

“We cannot go home just yet,” Elrohir said. “Glorfindel has changed the way he deploys the patrols since you were in Imladris,” he said, firmly changing the subject to one that Ithilden had been interested in when he had gone to the White Council meeting with Thranduil.

Ithilden sighed and gave in, and they talked for a while about Imladris and then about the war between the Men of Gondor and the Balchoth, and the timely arrival of the Éothéod. Ithilden concentrated on learning what he could before Elladan rose, apologized, and took himself and his brother off to bed. Ithilden sat for a while longer, thinking about the past, and then shook himself and sought his own rest.

***

Eilian looked ahead to see the members of Legolas’s woodcraft class waiting in one corner of the training fields with their packs strewn on the ground around them. “Waiting” might be the wrong word, of course, given that two of them were slapping good-naturedly at one another’s hair, evidently trying to loosen each other’s braids, while the rest of the little group laughed and cheered. He glanced at Legolas. “Do you want me to leave you here?” he asked. When he had found his little brother this morning, Ithilden and Thranduil had both been hovering over him, intending to walk to the training fields with him.

“I do not need anyone to walk with me,” Legolas had finally protested. “I am not an elfling. And Adar, I do not want to hurt your feelings, but everyone gets all peculiar when you come.” Eilian had had to repress a grin. He remembered when he had first become self-conscious about his father being around his friends.

Thranduil must have remembered his experiences with his older sons too, because he had looked at Legolas resignedly and immediately yielded. “Very well, iôn-nín. I will say good-bye now then.” And he had pulled a grimacing Legolas into an embrace and kissed his forehead. “I would like to speak to you before you leave for your office, Ithilden,” Thranduil had said, turning determinedly from his youngest son to his oldest. “We need decide how to respond to the Men’s proposal that our troops guard the entire length of the river.”

For some reason that Eilian did not understand, Ithilden had, for a moment, looked vexed, but then he had recovered himself, bid good-bye to Legolas, and followed Thranduil into his office. “Do you mind if I walk with you, brat?” Eilian had asked tentatively. “I am going that way.”

“No,” Legolas had sighed. “Nobody is afraid of you.” Eilian had laughed and sauntered out into the glorious autumn morning at his little brother’s side.

Now, however, Eilian felt that he had to make the offer to let Legolas approach his friends alone. Eilian might not be the king or the troop commander, but he also did not want it to look as if Legolas’s family thought of him as an elfling. Legolas looked at him sidelong. “You do not have to leave. My friends like you, Eilian.”

Feeling absurdly warmed by the news that he was popular among the younglings, Eilian continued along the path until he and Legolas reached the little group at just about the same time that Sondil, the woodcraft master, did. As Legolas ran to join his friends, Eilian greeted Sondil.

“Are you the only one going with that lot?” Eilian asked, jerking his head toward the younglings, who, at the sight of Sondil, were shouldering their packs in preparation for setting off.

“Yes,” Sondil grinned. “We are staying close to the stronghold, and surely I can manage a half-dozen of them.”

Eilian laughed. “Better you than me,” he said. “Have a good time.” Sondil laughed too, having no trouble recognizing sarcasm when he heard it. Then he started toward the little group of younglings, who looked decidedly pleased to be setting off into the woods.

Eilian waved to Legolas and walked on toward the field where he planned to spend several hours engaged in sword work today. His leg was healing nicely, but he needed to work it if he expected the muscles to grow strong again. As he approached the field, he could see a small group of spectators watching a pair of warriors whom he did not recognize, dancing back and forth across the field, their swords flashing in the morning sun. As he looked from one of the combatants to the other, it suddenly dawned on him: These must be the twin sons of Elrond.

With his interest quickening, he leaned against the fence to watch as the sons of Elrond parried and struck at one another in what seemed to Eilian to be a controlled, graceful fury. The spectators occasionally cheered a particularly well-placed movement, but the brothers seemed not to notice, as all of their concentration was aimed at one another. As Eilian watched, one of them touched the other on the ribs with the tip of his sword, and they each pulled back for a second, but then, rather than stopping, they saluted one another and immediately began another bout.

“They waste movement,” said the warrior standing next to Eilian.

Eilian eyed the two battling warriors. He saw what the other warrior meant; the sons of Elrond tended to parry first and attack only when their defenses were assured. In contrast, most Wood-elves leapt to the attack, defending only when they had to and relying on quick, sure, powerful moves to finish off their foe rapidly and move on to the next one. Eilian’s own style was typical. It was decisive, sometimes bordering on impulsive according to the blade masters and captains whom he had occasionally exasperated over the years.

“They assume a more intelligent opponent than we usually have,” he answered the critical warrior. Eilian tingled with excitement as he suddenly guessed at who might have trained these two elegant, deadly-looking warriors. What if they had been trained by Glorfindel himself? Now there was someone who had fought enemies of every known kind! Perhaps Eilian was looking at the result of thousands of years of Noldor wit put to use in battle.

One of the brothers again touched the other with his sword, and by some unspoken understanding, this time they broke apart, stood panting for a moment, and then turned as one to seek the water bucket.

Eilian swung over the fence and walked toward them. In the act of passing the water dipper from one to the other, they looked up as he approached. He bowed with his hand over his heart. “I am Eilian Thranduilion,” he introduced himself and then grinned. “Is this a private party or may others participate?”

The two serious-faced warriors in front of him exchanged glance, and then the one on the left inclined his head slightly. “I am Elladan Elrondion, this is my brother, Elrohir. If you will allow us a few moments’ rest, perhaps we can try a bout.”

“I should not allow you too much rest,” Eilian said honestly. “You will beat me even without it. I can defeat any Orc I have ever met, as long as he does not have a dozen of his friends and relatives at his beck and call. But Orcs do not usually fight as well as you do.”

They eyed him thoughtfully. “Your brother tells us you captain the patrol in the southern part of these woods,” Elrohir said.

“I do.”

Elladan smiled wolfishly. “Then perhaps we have things to teach one another.” He tossed the dipper back into the bucket with a small splash. “Come,” he said and led Eilian back out onto the training field.

Thank you, Nilmandra. What an amazingly patient beta you are!

*******

4. Animals in the Forest

Eilian leaned back against the beech tree and wrapped his arms around his left knee to pull it toward him. His calf ached, but it was a good ache, testifying to the hard work he had just done, trying and failing to make his speed with a sword compensate for the greater defensive strength of Elladan and Elrohir. “We must do this again while you are here,” he suggested hopefully. He did not have many opportunities as good as this one to improve his blade work.

Elrohir nodded but said nothing, and Eilian glanced at him. He was staring vacantly across the training field, but Eilian could have sworn he saw nothing of what was in front of him. Beyond Elrohir, Elladan was poking at the dirt with a twig. Eilian knew that the twins had been fiercely concentrated on what they were doing while they were parrying and striking at him, but both of them seemed to have mentally absented themselves from the field the minute that the sparring session had ended. He shifted uncomfortably.

“How long do you expect to be in the Woodland Realm?” he asked.

Elladan shrugged. “Not long,” he said, looking up. “We came as an escort for Mithrandir, but we must be on our way soon.”

Eilian hesitated. The twins’ manner did not invite prying, but his curiosity was now aroused. “Are you on some sort of mission then?”

Elladan flung the twig away hard. “You might say that.” He drew a deep breath. “You evidently have not heard that our naneth was attacked by Orcs about a year ago. We have just come back from escorting her to the Havens.”

For a moment, Eilian stopped breathing as an overwhelming pain wrapped around his chest. “I am so sorry,” he managed to gasp and then shook off his lack of breath and turned to look at the two beside him.  A year ago. The twins’ mother had been attacked a year ago, Elladan had said. They must have watched her suffer for a year. How could they have borne to see that? And yet, how could they have thought about or looked at anything else while it was happening? How would he ever have stood it if his own mother’s torment had lasted for a year instead of what he could only hope were a mercifully few minutes?

“It is over now,” Elrohir declared, his voice hardening. “She will heal in Valinor, and we will do everything we can to wipe out the filthy creatures that hurt her.”

“Even in the forest here, there are a great many Orcs,” Eilian said slowly. “They are not easy to eliminate.” Something in Elrohir’s tone had sent a frightening spurt of joy through his heart. Wiping out Orcs struck him as a task worth doing.

“Tell us about them,” Elladan invited, facing him squarely with what once again seemed to be deep concentration. “We have fought the beasts in the mountains, but we want to know what you have seen and learned about them here.”

Eilian drew a deep breath. “You surely know a great deal already,” he began, “but you might not be aware of the way they guard and hunt from a central stronghold.”

***

“Those tolls are only fair,” Thranduil said coolly. “My people keep the river passable, and now you expect us to keep the entire length of it safe, despite the fact that it was one of your people who attacked mine when they were simply transporting goods that we had purchased from some of your merchants. If you expect to profit from our trade, you will have to make some accommodation.”

Across the table, Caridd pretended to consider Thranduil’s argument, although Thranduil was sure that the Man would eventually give in. The offer was fair, and in any case, Caridd had no more choice about the tolls that Thranduil and Ithilden had about the guards.

A discreet knock sounded, and an attendant appeared in the door of the conference chamber. “A messenger has come for Lord Ithilden.”

“Excuse me,” Ithilden said and left the room.

“The master would decide, of course,” Caridd sighed, “but I will recommend that he agree.”

“Good,” Thranduil said. The door opened, and Ithilden reappeared, accompanied by one of his warriors and an alarmed looking Tiran, who had been standing guard outside the conference chamber, although Thranduil could not imagine what danger he thought would threaten Caridd when was alone with Thranduil and Ithilden.

“My lord,” Ithilden said, “I have received a message from the Eastern Border Patrol that I think both you and Caridd will want to hear.” He gestured to the warrior, who bowed to Thranduil.

“My lord, three days ago, a band of Orcs attacked one of Esgaroth’s patrols that was camped on the edge of the woods just beyond the southern edge of our territory. They killed most of the Men, and the survivors are badly wounded.”

Caridd’s face paled, and Tiran too looked distressed. “We were chasing spiders,” Ithilden’s warrior continued, “and, as it happened, we had ventured farther than we usually do, farther than we are supposed to really.” He slid a sidelong glance at Ithilden whose face betrayed nothing of his reaction to this piece of news. “At any rate, the trees were troubled enough that we knew something was wrong, and we went to their aid. We summoned more of Esgaroth’s soldiers, and they have taken the wounded home, as well as the bodies. Those they could find, that is,” he added. “Two of the bodies are still missing. The Men are searching.”

Thranduil grimaced and saw Caridd and Tiran wince too. They knew as well as Thranduil did that the searchers were unlikely to find anything other than bones.

Caridd visibly braced himself. “Have you found the Orcs?”

The warrior glanced at Ithilden again. “We did not look. We were busy with the wounded, and the Orcs went southwest in any case, so they are out of our area.” Ithilden nodded once in grim approval.

“What do you mean, you did not look?” Tiran burst out. Caridd frowned at him, and he pressed his mouth shut. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly.

“I cannot send warriors to attack every Orc in the forest,” Ithilden said, his impassive face giving no indication of how much he regretted that fact, although Thranduil knew that he did. “My first responsibility is for the defense of the Woodland Realm, and sending warriors after passing Orcs will weaken that defense and leave my people open to attack.”

“Our people were already attacked,” Caridd said, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly. “And those Orcs came out of your forest.”

“There are twenty-five warriors in the Eastern Border Patrol,” Ithilden said sharply, “and their area runs from thirty miles north of the Forest River to thirty miles south of it. I cannot send any of them off to hunt a passing Orc band, particularly given that I am now going to have to send someone to guard the river.”

Caridd rose to his feet. “I will be going home, my lord,” he told Thranduil, his voice under control again. “The master will send word on the matter of the tolls.” Thranduil nodded, and Caridd swept from the room, taking Tiran with him.

“Wait in the antechamber,” Ithilden told his warrior. “I will have a dispatch to go back to Todith.” The warrior bowed and withdrew. Ithilden sank into a chair and sighed heavily.

“There is nothing you can do,” Thranduil told him bleakly. “We have problems of our own.” Ithilden nodded but looked unhappy nonetheless.

***

“What do you see?” Sondil asked. “Do you see the differences?”

Along with his companions, Legolas squatted near the edge of the small area Sondil had had them clear soon after arriving at their campsite. As they did every time they came camping, they had removed all rocks, transplanted the plants, dug down about two inches, and smoothed the soil. Then Sondil had taken a stick and made five marks in a row, starting by barely touching the soil and going progressively deeper until the last mark was half an inch deep. They had looked at the marks every few hours since then, noting the way they changed with age and the shifting wind and weather.

Next to Legolas, Annael hummed lightly to himself. He was exceedingly good at woodcraft and always had been. Moreover, he loved it. He nearly always had a similar patch with marks made in the area near his family’s cottage. Legolas had no doubt that Annael knew exactly how tracks aged in this kind of soil under the conditions that would exist on their two-day trip. He would be able to say with certainty when any animal had made a track he saw.

“We will go for our afternoon walk now,” the woodcraft master told them. “I think we will travel closer to the river this time.” He set out, assuming that Legolas and the others would follow. Legolas and Turgon hurried to catch up to Annael, who was right behind Sondil. Tonduil trailed behind them, and Galelas and Isendir brought up the rear.

“I wish we could hunt,” Galelas muttered just loudly enough for Legolas to hear. “We have seen so much game.”

Of course they had seen game, Legolas thought. Sondil seemed almost magical in his ability to find it. But hunting was not the point of this trip, despite the fact that they all had their bows with them. Indeed, none of them was allowed to enter the forest unarmed, but that did not really have anything to do with hunting game.

Ahead of them, Sondil came to a sudden halt and pointed at a beech tree. “What do you see?” he asked.

They all crowded around the tree. “Claw marks,” Annael answered. “Bears.”

“Right,” Sondil nodded approvingly. “How big are they, Isendir?”

Isendir stepped tentatively forward, pulling out the stick that he, like all of them, had marked as Sondil had told them to do. He rolled the stick carefully over the claw mark. “Almost five marks,” he said, his eyes growing large. “That is a big bear!”

Again Sondil nodded. “Look at all the marks left from previous years too. This bear and his family have been feeding on nuts from this tree for generations. We should be able to find other signs of bears too. Take a look around.”

Along with the others, Legolas began scanning the area for twenty yards or so around the tree. “Here,” Tonduil’s excited voice came from the other side of the tree. Legolas trotted over to him. “Look,” Tonduil said, pointing at an overturned stump striped with claw marks. “I think the bear was looking for insects underneath it.”

“I think you are right,” Sondil agreed. He looked around at them. “Notice that we are not tracking down the bear from one spot to another, but we are tracking the bear. If we learn to read the signs he leaves us, we will get a picture of the bear’s movements and behavior, of how he feeds, where he takes shelter, how he interacts with other bears. We are tracking the whole life of the bear, its whole life process. If you spend all your time searching for the next track, you will have learned much about finding tracks, but not much about the animal. But if you spend your time learning about the animal and its ways, you may be able to find the next track without looking for it.”

Legolas nodded, and he could see Annael looking enthralled by what Sondil was saying. Then Sondil turned his back, and Galelas sidled up behind Annael and muttered, “How does it feel to be the master’s pet dog?”

Annael flushed and turned sharply, and Legolas caught at his arm. “Shut up, Galelas,” said Turgon.

“Turgon, we are going this way now,” called Sondil, frowning at them, and Turgon reluctantly turned back to follow the woodcraft master, while Galelas laughed softly behind them.

The sound of horses’ hooves came from their left, and they all turned to face the path that ran near where they were walking. “How many horses?” Sondil asked quickly.

“Two,” said Legolas tentatively, and Sondil nodded. Legolas saw two horses come into sight, bearing the two Men who had come to see Ithilden the day before. They were evidently returning home to Esgaroth. Legolas thought they had come to talk to his brother about the attack on the raft, and the Men looked serious now and sped past the little group without greeting them.

“They did not even see us,” said Galelas scornfully.

“Of course they saw you,” Sondil admonished him. “You would be able to hide from them if you wished, but you are out in the open now, and they are not blind, even if their eyes are much less keen than those of Elves. The chances are their minds were on things other than a group of elflings.”

Legolas saw Turgon make a face at being called an elfling, but he himself was still preoccupied with the grim looks on the Men’s faces. He hoped that nothing else bad had happened.

Sondil turned his attention back to the ground in front of him. “Ah!” he said with satisfaction. “What is this?” He pointed to tracks in the soft earth, and they all edged forward to look at them.

“A fox,” said Isendir.

“Male or female?” Sondil asked.

Annael bent over the tracks. “Female,” he announced, “the back paws land outside the front ones.” Sondil nodded, obviously pleased, and set off again. Legolas fell into step behind him, forgetting the Men and Galelas and all other doubts and irritations in the pleasure of being out in the woods and knowing that that night he would sleep under the stars. Sometimes, life was almost overwhelmingly sweet.

***

Eilian entered the public dining chamber to find that Mithrandir and the sons of Elrond had preceded him.  Household servants and guards were also assembled at the tables running along either side of the room. Only Ithilden and his father were missing. They would not feast in the Great Hall tonight, but neither would Thranduil allow their guests to dine in the small family dining chamber. He guarded his family’s scarce privacy zealously.

Eilian took what he assumed was his place to Elrohir’s left. “Good evening,” he greeted their guests. The sons of Elrond both nodded, and Mithrandir smiled at him.

“I have scarcely seen you, Eilian,” he said. “I hear you are a captain now.”

“I am,” Eilian agreed. He liked Mithrandir and hoped to hear about his travels since the last time he had been in the Woodland Realm. Next to Eilian, Elrohir suddenly tensed, and when a surprised Eilian looked for the cause, he saw Ithilden just entering the dining chamber and coming toward the head table.

He had scarcely taken his seat when Elrohir leaned across Mithrandir to speak to him. “Is it true that Orcs attacked a Mannish patrol at the edge of the woods?”

Ithilden grimaced, although Eilian privately thought that his brother should have anticipated the twins’ interest. News of the attack had been all over the warriors areas that afternoon, and Eilian had to admit that he too wanted to know what had happened.

“Yes,” Ithilden said. “The Men were camped just outside of our border patrol’s territory, and an Orc band surprised them and killed most of them.”

“We would like to be part of the force that goes after the Orcs,” said Elladan.

Ithilden turned to him. “There will not be any such force. The Orcs have left the areas that we keep safe.”

Elladan frowned. “They are still Orcs,” he said. “You cannot mean to let them roam free. They will only come back.”

Ithilden let out an exasperated sigh. “That may be true, but we cannot go after every Orc we hear about.”

“You could go after these,” Elrohir insisted. “You know they are there, and their trail will still be fresh.”

Suddenly Eilian heard himself say, “That is true enough.”

Ithilden turned to look at him sharply. “Leave it alone, Eilian.”

Eilian pressed his lips together, looked down at his plate, and toyed with his spoon. When he led the Southern Patrol, he and his warriors sought out Orcs all the time, and he had frequently thought that the border patrols and Home Guard were too likely to wait to be attacked before they acted. He did not want to quarrel with Ithilden if he could help it however. His brother was, after all, his commanding officer. And Thranduil would be most displeased if they argued in public in any case.

As if conjured by Eilian’s thoughts, Thranduil strode through the door, drawing everyone to their feet. One eyebrow lifted as he ran his eyes over the faces ranged along the head table and then seated himself and waved everyone else to their chairs too. Eilian grimaced slightly as his father glanced over at him. Thranduil was entirely too perceptive sometimes.

“I am told that there was an Orc attack along the forest’s eastern reaches,” Elladan said to Thranduil, as servants began offering trays of food. Eilian saw Ithilden stiffen at the other end of the table.

“Yes, there was,” Thranduil said, accepting a serving of roasted root vegetables. To Eilian, it was plain that Thranduil did not want to talk about the attack.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Elladan went on. “Fortunately, I am told that the band was small, fifteen or so perhaps?”

Thranduil stopped in the act of lifting his wine to his mouth and turned to look at Elladan, who withstood his gaze for a moment and then looked down at his plate. “I was admiring that grey stallion of yours this afternoon,” Thranduil said. “Did you train him yourself?”

“Yes, I did. My lord,” Elladan went on smoothly, “you have been very hospitable, but I fear that my brother and I need to be going about our own affairs, so we will not be imposing on your hospitality beyond tomorrow.” Next to Eilian, Elrohir turned his head quickly to look at his brother.

Thranduil, too, eyed Elladan. “We enjoy having the sons of Elrond as our guests. I would have you stay a little longer if you can.”

Elladan’s mouth smiled, but his eyes looked strained. “You are most gracious, my lord, but we will be leaving tomorrow.” He toyed with his bread and then set it carefully down on his plate. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I find I am not very hungry, and I need to pack.” Thranduil nodded his permission, and Elladan rose and made his way out of the room, dodging servants as he went.

From the chair next to Eilian’s, Elrohir too got to his feet. “By your leave, my lord,” he murmured and went after his brother.

Thranduil looked meaningfully at Mithrandir, and the wizard sighed. “I know. I brought them here. I will see what I can do for them.” He too rose and left the room.

Thranduil beckoned to a servant. “See to it that food is sent to our guests,” he instructed, and the servant nodded, set his tray on a sideboard, and left by the doorway leading to the kitchens. Thranduil looked across Mithrandir’s and Elrohir’s empty places at Eilian. “Move closer, Eilian,” he instructed. With a sigh, Eilian slid into Mithrandir’s chair, and a servant hurried to move his food and wine.

Thranduil held his peace until everyone else had moved away from them. Then he said, “They are grieving, Eilian, and they are striking out at what hurt them. You remember feeling that way, I think. Do not forget what you learned when your own grief was fresh.”

Eilian bit his lip and said nothing, and after a moment, Thranduil picked up his wine. “I wonder how the camping trip is going,” he said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

Eilian could not help smiling. “Sondil is a brave Elf.” Thranduil laughed and the meal took its normal course again.

***

“Come in,” called Elladan in response to Mithrandir’s knock. Mithrandir pushed the door open and, as he had known he would, found both brothers. Elrohir was seated near the fire, and Elladan had plainly just paused in pacing back and forth.

Elrohir got to his feet and offered his chair to Mithrandir, who did not scruple to take it. The autumn nights were growing colder, and he found the fire exceedingly pleasant.

“May I ask where you will be off to tomorrow?” he asked.

Elrohir leaned against the mantelpiece and smiled skeptically at him. “Do you really need to ask?”

Mithrandir grunted in reply. He had known these two a long time. “Your affairs are your own, of course, but I would ask you to recall that there are people who love you who long for your company.”

Elrohir’s face sobered, and he turned to look into the fire with his hand on the mantle. “We cannot sit idly at home, Mithrandir.” The sound of Elladan’s footsteps pacing behind him told Mithrandir exactly how hard the twins would find it to stay quietly in Imladris.

“I would be the last person to ask you to cease acting as warriors,” Mithrandir said, “but surely it would not be so bad to go home and spend your time hunting Orcs in the mountains and letting your adar and sister see you every now and again.”

There was a moment’s silence. “There are memories and vacant places at home that I fear will be very hard to face,” Elladan said from behind him. Elrohir turned with a slightly surprised look to gaze over Mithrandir’s head at his brother, although whether his surprise was at what Elladan said or at the fact that he said it, Mithrandir could not have said.

Mithrandir sighed. “Promise me that the two of you will not go off alone to seek the Orc band you were speaking of at dinner.”

Elladan came to stand in front of him. “We cannot promise you that,” he said flatly. “We appreciate your concern, Mithrandir, but we must make our own decision.”

“If Thranduil will send some of his people with you, that is one thing,” Mithrandir urged, “but to go by yourselves is foolish.”

The twins exchanged a look. “We will not go without knowing what we would be facing,” Elladan finally said. Mithrandir nodded reluctantly. He was unlikely to get any greater concession.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” Elladan said, and the door opened to reveal a servant with a tray containing a covered dish from which the aroma of stew rose enticingly.

“Ah!” said Mithrandir in satisfaction. “We will eat after all. Come and join me.” The twins glanced at one another again and then, with faint smiles, drifted toward the table where the servant was laying out the plates.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this story.

*******

5. Alliances

“Good morning, my lord,” said the aide.

“Good morning.” Ithilden handed over his cloak as he went past the aide’s desk on his way to his own office, his mind already busy with the details of his morning. He would have to look at his duty rosters again and see where he might be able to get a few warriors to patrol the river. He did not like to leave any other patrol more shorthanded than they already were, but the rafts were a vital source of supplies that the Wood-elves did not produce for themselves, so the river really had to be kept passable.

He seated himself behind his desk and reached for the rosters as his aide came in with a handful of the day’s dispatches. “There is one from Todith,” the aide said, “telling you about the Orc attack in greater detail.”

Ithilden grimaced. “Thank you.” The aide went back to the outer office as Ithilden picked up the dispatch and read it. He had lain awake thinking about this attack for part of the previous night. It had taken place outside of the Elves’ territory but not far enough outside to make him happy. And seven Men had died. Two of the bodies were still missing. Ithilden closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He tried to picture how he would feel if it were his warriors, perhaps Eilian, whose body was now missing, but his mind shied away from the idea.

He opened his eyes and stared out the window at the red and gold autumn treetops. Calidd had been right yesterday. He should try to track down the Orcs who had slaughtered these people. But how could he? He was not even sure he could find enough warriors to patrol the river.

“My lord?”

He snapped back to the present to find his aide standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“The sons of Elrond are here to see you.”

A sudden, rather appalling thought occurred to him. “Send them in,” he said slowly. Be careful, he admonished himself. Do not let your wishes override your good sense.

The twins walked into his office, inclined their heads to him, and accepted the chairs he indicated. “We wondered if you would be willing to share some information with us about the Orcs’ attack on the Men,” Elrohir said.

Ithilden fingered the edge of the dispatch, thinking hard. “Why do you want the information?” he finally asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.

“We want to go after them,” Elladan said.

Ithilden regarded him for a moment, feeling a faint smile forming on his face. He had found the twins to be polite and diplomatic when he had met them in Imladris at the White Council meeting, and he had been aware that they found Thranduil and probably Ithilden himself to be rather amusingly blunt. But no one could accuse Elladan in particular of being overly delicate now. His smile faded. He should not really be surprised. Grief had a way of stripping life down to essentials, as he knew only too well.

“Hunting them by yourselves would not be wise,” he finally said, “and as I said last night, I do not have enough warriors to send any with you.”

Elladan leaned forward, but Elrohir spoke first. “We understand that some of Esgaroth’s soldiers are stationed near that area. Indeed, I believe that some of them might still be searching for the bodies of their dead. We thought that some of them might be willing to join us.”

Ithilden blinked. “Men do not usually go very deeply into the forest,” he said, turning the idea over in his head as he spoke. “They hunt along its edges, but they seem to find the deeper parts frightening.” As well they might, he admitted to himself, particularly those parts that were not patrolled by the Wood-elves.

“They might be willing to go this time,” Elladan said shortly.

“I suppose they might,” Ithilden conceded, suddenly wondering why he had not thought of this possibility before. He knew that Thranduil thought that mixing warriors from different forces was an invitation to confused command, and in general, Ithilden agreed with that. But surely in a temporary situation such as this one, Men and Elves ought to be able to cooperate.

A slight motion in the doorway caught his eye, and he looked up to see his aide, with Eilian just behind him. “Lord Eilian wishes to join the discussion, my lord.”

Ithilden took one look at his brother’s face and had to suppress a groan. Surely Eilian could not be here for the reason Ithilden suspected! The twins had turned their heads to look at Eilian too, and now both sets of grey eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Come in and sit down, Eilian,” Ithilden sighed, and his brother slid around the aide and pulled a chair away from the wall to sit next to the twins.

“You are talking about whether our guests should hunt for the Orcs who attacked the Men,” he said pleasantly. “I have time on my hands just now. If they are going hunting in our woods, I would like to join them and serve as a guide.”

Ithilden barely let him finish. “No. You are not fit for active duty yet.”

The twins exchanged a glance and then sat back to watch, apparently well enough trained to recognize how unwise it would be to interfere in this discussion between warrior and commander.

“I went to see the healers this morning,” Eilian said, his tone still carefully controlled, “and they told me that I may not return to my patrol just yet, but I could undertake missions nearby and then return in a few days to see how my leg is faring. This seems to me to be an ideal way for me to make myself useful while remaining close enough to home to return to the infirmary.”

Ithilden stared at him, with dismay blossoming somewhere in his chest. What Eilian was proposing sounded much too plausible. He thought of Thranduil and cringed. His father had accepted the idea of Eilian serving in the realm’s dangerous Southern Patrol, and this mission should be less perilous than that posting. But with Elladan and Elrohir sitting before him, Ithilden was not at all sure that his weighing of the relative dangers was accurate. These two radiated an eagerness for blood that frightened him, for he had seen it before in warriors under his command, including Eilian.

“I will wager that the healers assumed you would be undertaking these missions with the Home Guard,” he said. He wondered what persuasion Eilian might have brought to bear on the healers. Eilian  had too great a sense of self preservation to lie to Ithilden, or at least Ithilden hoped he did, but he was not above deceiving the healers.

Eilian shrugged. “Do you not think that this is more important than having an extra warrior with the Home Guard for a few days? You do not usually sent patrols after Orcs because you do not have enough warriors. Well, by some what would seem to be the grace of the Valar, you now have me and Elladan and Elrohir at your disposal.”

“We had planned to ask the soldiers of Esgaroth to join us too,” Elladan informed him, and to Ithilden’s irritation Eilian nodded approvingly.

“We would not be acting carelessly with that many warriors with us,” Eilian said. “I am told there were fewer than twenty Orcs in the raid.”

“There were enough to kill seven people and wound everyone else,” said Ithilden.

“They succeeded only because they surprised the Men,” Eilian argued. “I had that judgment straight from the border patrol warrior who brought the dispatch yesterday.”

Aware that he had allowed himself to be unsettled by his brother’s arrival, Ithilden bit back the sharp answer he wanted to make, drew a deep breath, and tried to consider the proposal being made as objectively as possible. Unfortunately, he had seen the sense of it even while Eilian was still speaking. People who were far too close to his home had died at the hands of these Orcs, just as his mother had done twenty years earlier. He had not hesitated to hunt down that band. Did he owe the same effort to the dead soldiers of Esgaroth?

He became aware that the twins and Eilian were watching him closely and that on Eilian’s face excitement was beginning to bloom, although Eilian hastily became impassive when he saw Ithilden looking at him. His brother could read him well, Ithilden thought wryly.

“Very well,” he said. “I will allow it. I will provide you with what information I have and send word to Esgaroth of our plans.” The eyes of all three of those in front of him glittered with triumph. “But,” he said, holding up his hand, “we will do this in a way that will be most likely to serve our purposes and get you all back safely. If the Men will not cooperate, you are to come home immediately, and you are to take no unnecessary risks.” He fixed his eyes on Eilian, who looked at him stubbornly for a moment and then reluctantly nodded his acceptance of the order.

Then Ithilden looked at Elladan and Elrohir, who had glanced at one another. “We fully recognize your right to command your own warriors, Ithilden,” Elladan said, “but we are not under your rule, and we must make our own judgments about whether to go on with the hunt.”

Ithilden drew a deep breath and ran his hand over his hair, thinking ruefully of Thranduil’s doubts about the difficulties of mixing warriors from different forces. In the moment before Eilian had arrived, Ithilden had decided that he was willing to allow the sons of Elrond to lead a force of Men in pursuit of the Orcs, but he found that throwing his volatile brother into the mix had changed his mind about what he wanted to do. He did not think that he wanted the twins to lead Eilian anywhere.

For a second more, he hesitated. Despite his youth and impulsiveness, Eilian is a good captain, he assured himself. Command steadies him. He would take risks on his own that he would never take if he was responsible for the lives of others. “Eilian, I will tell the Men of Esgaroth that you are in command of this mission,” he said.

All three of them gaped at him for a moment. Then the twins turned to look appraisingly at Eilian, who paused for a stunned second longer and then smiled. “I would be happy to lead it.”

“You had better be,” said Ithilden warningly. “It is the only way I will allow you to go or ask for the cooperation of the Esgaroth forces.”

The twins were both regarding him now. Elrohir smiled lightly. “I am sure we can manage.”

Ithilden looked at him hard and then raked his eyes over Elladan. “I have no doubt at all that warriors of Imladris are able to understand the importance of following orders.” He made sure they both were meeting his gaze and then picked up the dispatch that had come that morning and began to lay out what he knew about the size and location of the Orc band, the direction in which they had gone, and anything else that might help this patrol to find them.  And already, in the back of his mind, he was preparing the argument he would make to Thranduil about the wisdom of this decision.

***

“All we need to do now is gather food for our mid-day meal,” said Sondil. “Then I am sorry to say we have to head home.”

Legolas was sorry the trip was almost over too. He loved being in the woods and sleeping under the stars and got to do both things far too seldom to suit him.

“Split into two groups and go see what you can find,” Sondil said, smiling at them. “Annael, Legolas, and Turgon, you go west. Galelas, Tonduil, and Isendir, you go east. Stay within our bounds, all of you. Meet back here in an hour.”

Legolas saw Tonduil make a little face. He felt sorry for Tonduil having to go with Galelas. Isendir was all right when he was not trying to make Galelas like him more, but Legolas was very grateful that Sondil had put him with Annael and Turgon today. He had had enough of Galelas the day before.

Legolas rose to his feet and turned west and followed his friends into the woods, smiling a little to himself over something that Sondil had said that morning. The woodcraft master had told them that Men sometimes needed a tool to tell them the direction in which they faced. Legolas found that almost inconceivable. He could tell directions even inside his father’s caverns, and so could all of his friends.

“We should see if we can find more huckleberries,” Turgon said. “I liked the ones we had last night. And there should be mushrooms too.”

“We should also look for chestnuts,” Annael said. “I thought I saw a clump of the trees, and we can roast them.”

Legolas trailed after them, happily listening to the trees. They had brought no food with them, and Sondil had not allowed them to hunt, even though they carried their bows, so foraging was important, but he had faith that the forest would provide. It had certainly done so thus far.

“Here,” said Annael pointing to a mushroom patch, and the three of them began gathering mushrooms into the basket Sondil had given them. After a while, they moved on, and when the time to start back to their camp site grew near, the basket was heavy with their contribution to the mid-day meal.

“The other group will probably dig some cattail roots,” Legolas said with satisfaction. “That nice marshy area is in their direction.”

Annael did not appear to be listening however. He had stopped short and was frowning at a bush on the side of the small trail they were following. He reached out to touch the broken branch tips. “This is fresh,” he said. “It is high off the ground too. I wonder what animal passed.” He began to scan the ground around them and crouched to examine a stone that had been turned over to expose its dirt-stained underside.

“We do not have time for this now,” Turgon said impatiently, swinging the basket. “I am hungry.”

Ignoring Turgon, Annael poked at some leaves and suddenly froze. He looked up, with his brows draw together anxiously. “Legolas, will you look at this too?”

His interest quickening, Legolas squatted next to Annael to look at the track he had found, and his breath caught. He reached out a tentative finger to touch the indentation made by a boot heel. “Could it not have been made by an Elf?” he asked urgently. “One of the Home Guard perhaps?”

Annael looked at the track again and slowly shook his head. “It is too deep, and,” he added, cocking his head, “does it not look small to you?”

Drawn by their conversation, Turgon drew near and peered over Legolas’s shoulder at the track. “A Man? You think a Man has been in this area?”

Legolas stared at the track. “I think maybe someone our size has been here.”

“What would a Mannish child be doing here?” Annael asked.

Turgon’s face had lit up. “We should find out,” he declared. “That track is recent, is it not? We could follow him.”

“Maybe we should tell Sondil,” Annael said hesitantly.

Turgon shook his head irritably. “Why? If it is someone our size, then there is nothing to fear. Come on, Annael! Are you not curious?”

Legolas stood up and stared off in the direction the track had been leading. He had to admit that he was curious and had no wish to go back to camp and get Sondil. “We can look for a few minute, Annael,” he urged and began working his way along, scanning for bent grass or compressed spots on the leaves. To Legolas’s relief, Annael rose with a sigh and began seeking for signs of the Mannish child’s passage. He thought he could track the intruder on his own. Men were, after all, rather heavy footed. But they stood a better chance of finding the child quickly if Annael helped.

They had moved through the underbrush for only a few minutes before a small sound made all three of them stop dead and stare at a hawthorn thicket. Despite Turgon’s assertion that they had nothing to fear, all three of them reached for their bows and fitted arrows to the strings. It is a child, Legolas reminded himself, his heart pounding, and there are three of us.

Turgon stepped forward. “Who is there?” he demanded. “Come out and show yourself.”

An expectant silence stretched out. “We will not hurt you,” Legolas added.

For a long moment, no answer came, and then someone spoke so suddenly that all three of them jumped. “If you do not mean to hurt me, you should lower your bows.” Legolas blinked as the voice broke in mid-sentence, a phenomenon he recognized only too well. Glancing sideways at Annael and then at Turgon, he drew a deep breath and lowered his weapon. After a second of hesitation, his friends followed suit.

“Come out,” coaxed Legolas. And after another second’s pause, the thicket began to shake, and finally a figure emerged and stood, looking at them defiantly. It was a boy of about their own size, although he was more broadly built than any of them. His hair was wild and his face and hands were filthy, as if he had not been washing regularly. He had a bow on his back, and for a minute, Legolas wondered why he had not taken it in hand, but then he realized that the quiver on the boy’s back was empty. And most interesting of all, he suddenly noticed that the boy wore a uniform, one Legolas recognized, for he had seen it on grown Men when they came to visit Thranduil or Ithilden: The boy was clad in the uniform of the army of Esgaroth.

The four of them stared at one another. “What are you doing here?” Legolas breathed.

The boy looked at him stiffly. “I am simply passing through. I am not doing anything wrong.”

“Passing through to where?” Annael asked. “Are you going to Esgaroth?” He must have recognized the uniform too, Legolas thought, a fact that was not surprising given that Annael’s own father was in the Home Guard and often dealt with the Men of Esgaroth.

“No!” The boy’s answer was emphatic. He bit his lip and then drew a deep breath and went on more calmly. “I used to live in Esgaroth, but I don’t any more.”

“Then where are you going?” Legolas asked.

The boy paused. “I do not know yet,” he finally said. “I am just going.”

Legolas frowned. The conversation was growing more confusing by the minute. “Come back to our camp with us,” he invited. “The master can help you.”

“No!” Once again the boy recoiled.

“But you cannot stay here,” Legolas reasoned. “The Home Guard warriors might accidentally shoot you. And how will you get wherever you are going?”

And suddenly, the boy’s tired face crumpled, and he looked as if he were going to cry. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to go back to Esgaroth, and your master would probably try to send me.  My parents are both dead.” He swallowed hard and Legolas’s stomach tightened. “And I’d have to beg or try to get some sort of work. And besides, they would probably –.” The boy stopped abruptly. “I cannot go back,” he declared after a moment’s pause. “I won’t go back. I have to leave.”

Legolas, Annael, and Turgon exchanged looks. “Maybe we can hide him,” Turgon suggested tentatively. “And then we can help him get away.”

Legolas nearly groaned. The suggestion was so typical of Turgon and so likely to get them all in trouble. The phrase “get away” sounded only too apt, and Legolas did not believe that people tried to escape unless something bad was going on. And yet, when he looked back at the boy, he felt his heart twist at the faint signs on hope on the dirty face. “Where would we hide him?” he heard himself ask before he knew he was going to.

Turgon chewed on his lip for a moment. “Our flet?” he suggested, but Annael shook his head immediately.

“My parents would know right away,” he said, and Legolas had to agree. Their flet was in a tree about thirty feet from the back door of Annael’s cottage.

Turgon mused for a moment longer and then his face lit up. “In the cottage next door to mine,” he said excitedly, “the one that Amelas used to live in before he got sea-longing.”

“How would we get him there?” Legolas asked, considering the possibility in spite of himself.

“I can come back tonight and bring a cloak to cover his –,” Turgon hesitated, “his clothes,” he finished, showing that he too had noticed the uniform and was aware of some of the complications it might suggest. “And I can lead him to the cottage. We are not really very far from home.”

Legolas considered the suggestion and had to admit it had merit. Of all of them, Turgon was the least closely supervised. He probably could leave his cottage at night and find the boy. He looked at the boy. “My name is Legolas. This is Turgon. That is Annael. What is your name?”

The boy regarded him and then drew a deep breath. “Rodda. My name is Rodda.” He had evidently decided to trust them, at least for now.

Annael was eyeing the boy closely. “Are you hungry, Rodda?” Rodda hesitated and then gave one sharp nod, and Annael picked up the basket from where Turgon had dropped it when he seized his bow. He approached Rodda, sorting through the basket’s contents. “You can have the mushrooms and the berries. The chestnuts would have to be cooked, and I do not think it is a good idea for you to build a fire. Someone would notice.” He held out a handful of mushrooms, and Rodda hurried to extend his cloak to hold them. Annael continued to load the berries and mushrooms into it until he had transferred them all. Rodda scooped up a handful of the berries and stuffed them in his mouth.

“We need to go now,” Legolas told him, suddenly realizing how late it had grown. “But if you wait here, Turgon will be back for you.”  The boy nodded, still shoving berries into his mouth. Legolas glanced at his friends. “We could each give him an arrow,” he suggested. “Sondil will never notice if we are each missing one, and we should not leave him by himself unarmed.”

“Good idea,” Turgon approved, and they each did as Legolas had suggested, handing an arrow to the boy, who wiped his berry stained hand on his tunic and stowed them in his quiver.

“We are late,” Annael finally said, turning and beginning to move hastily back toward the path. “Sondil will be looking for us.”

Legolas backed away from Rodda and then turned and hurried after Annael, with Turgon at his heels. He looked back just once to see the boy dropping to the ground with his legs folded under his and his hand pawing through the mushrooms. Then he broke into a trot.

They were late, and just as Annael had predicted, Sondil was waiting for them looking worried.  When he saw them, his anxious look turned to an angry one. “Where have you three been?” he demanded.

Legolas could not think of how to answer, but Turgon grabbed the basket back from Annael and shoved it into Sondil’s hands. “We were looking for chestnuts,” he said.

Sondil frowned. “Is this all the food you found in an hour?” He looked sharply at Annael, who flushed and lowered his eyes. Annael usually found food enough to feed them all within half an hour of leaving the campsite. Sondil looked from Annael to Turgon and Legolas, who shifted uneasily. “What have you been doing?” Unable to meet Sondil’s eyes, Legolas looked down, just as Annael had done. “Very well,” Sondil finally said, his tone grim. “If this is all you found, then we will simply have to make do, and if we are all hungry, you will know best whether you are to blame.”

He turned and began preparing the chestnuts for roasting. Legolas stole a glance at Annael, whose cheeks were still burning. “Never mind,” Legolas comforted him and then went to help prepare the cattail roots that the other group had found. Galelas, Tonduil, and Isendir all eyed them curiously, but no one spoke. Sondil was still radiating disapproval, and none of them wanted to provoke him. They cooked and ate their scant meal with very little talk and then broke camp and started for home. Legolas stomach felt funny, but he could not tell if that was because he had not had enough to eat, or he was nervous about the orphaned boy they were leaving in the woods.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

6. Comings and Goings

Eilian patted his horse’s neck, and the animal stamped his foot and snorted. “You seem anxious to be off,” Eilian laughed. “In truth, Meldir, so am I.” Eilian had exercised the horse regularly once the healers had allowed him back on his feet, but Meldir had spent far more time in the stable that he usually did, and like Eilian, he was feeling confined. He had pricked his ears up with interest the minute Eilian had appeared with a pack flung over his arm.

“And what, may I ask, is this all about?” asked a skeptical voice behind him.

Eilian grinned and turned to face the older Elf who stood behind him, dressed for travel and looking annoyed. “Good afternoon to you too, Maltanaur.”

His bodyguard snorted, sounding remarkably like Meldir. “My wife was looking forward to having me home for an evening meal for a change, before I joined one of the Home Guard patrols tonight.”

“This will be better than a Home Guard patrol,” Eilian told him cheerily. “We are going after the Orcs that attacked the Esgaroth patrol four days ago.”

Maltanaur blinked. “Who is? You and I? I do not believe that Ithilden would allow any such thing.”

“We will be accompanying you,” said a new voice, and Eilian turned to see Elladan and Elrohir approaching from the other end of the stable, where Thranduil’s guests’ horses were cared for. “And we will ask the Esgaroth soldiers in the area to join us,” Elladan went on.

Maltanaur looked from one twin to the other with slightly narrowed eyes. “I have seen you on the training field,” he said, a little stiffly. He bowed and introduced himself. “Maltanaur. I am this one’s keeper.” He jerked his head toward Eilian, who smiled and looked up at the rafters.

“I am Elladan. This is Elrohir.” The twins inclined their heads. “We were told we could expect you, and we are sorry to take you away from home so late in the day, but we did not want to waste time and allow our prey yet more time to elude us.”

Eilian’s smile deepened. Although the twins had obviously chafed at the situation, Ithilden had indeed “told” them all that they would wait for Maltanaur before they left. Judging from the long session that Ithilden had had in Thranduil’s office, Eilian suspected that their father had objected to this mission, even with Maltanaur going along. Despite the faith in him that Ithilden had shown by appointing him as this patrol’s leader and the considerable weaponry skill that the twins had exhibited, Eilian knew that he would never have been allowed to undertake this Orc hunt without his bodyguard to watch his back.

Maltanaur eyed Elladan appraisingly. “Are you in command, my lord?”

“No,” Eilian interposed at last. “I am.”

Maltanaur turned to look at him with one eyebrow raised. Then he sighed. “As always, I look forward to serving with you, Captain.”

Eilian nearly laughed. He knew perfectly well that Maltanaur was speaking for the benefit of the twins, not him. “Shall we go?” He led his horse toward the open door of the stable, with the others following him. As they emerged into the cool sunlight of the autumn afternoon, he spotted the very person he had been looking for earlier. “Wait just a moment,” he told his companions and trotted over to where Legolas stood with his friends, their heads bent together in conversation.

“Legolas,” he said from a few feet away, and all three of them jumped and turned to look at him with alarm on their faces. He stopped in his tracks. “If you three are plotting something, you will have to learn to look cooler than that!” he laughed.

“We are not plotting something,” Legolas protested.

Eilian grinned. “Whatever you say, brat.” He knew better than to embrace Legolas in front of his friends, so he contented himself with ruffling his hair. “I wanted to say good-bye. I am going to be away for a few days.”

“Where are you going?”

“On a special mission for Ithilden,” Eilian said. Legolas frowned slightly. “Do not worry,” Eilian reassured him hastily. “I will be back before you know it.”

“Take care,” said Legolas, with the pucker still between his brows.

“I promise I will,” Eilian said and found that he meant it. He had curbed his behavior more than once at the thought of Legolas’s reaction should anything happen to him. He turned and ran back to where Maltanaur and the twins waited. “My little brother,” he told the twins, with a grin, as he swung up onto horse’s back. Then he urged the animal forward, and they set off to get as far as they could this day, planning that in the morning, they would search out the Esgaroth soldiers who had been left to hunt for the bodies of their dead.

***

Legolas’s eyes followed Eilian as he hurried back toward where some other warriors waited for him, mounted, and rode off in a clatter of hooves. A little anxiously, Legolas wondered where his brother was off to this time. Eilian had been evasive about his mission, and he was never like that unless he was doing something dangerous.

“Legolas, did you hear me?” Turgon’s tone suggested that this was not the first time he had tried to get Legolas’s attention.

Legolas tore his eyes away from where Eilian had just disappeared among the trees. “What did you say?”

“We will need to feed him,” Turgon said. “I can take some food without my naneth noticing, but not enough. Can you bring some to our sword lesson tomorrow morning?”

“Probably,” Legolas agreed, dragging his mind back to the business at hand with an effort. He was not sure how he would do it yet, but the palace fed so many people that there was always food to be had.

“I do not think I can bring food from home,” Annael said, sounding a little worried, “and foraging is hard unless I can get a little way off into the forest.” Legolas thought Annael was probably right. His mother kept an eye on what he ate and on what Legolas ate too, when he visited there.

“Turgon and I can do it,” Legolas assured him. He ran his thumbs under the straps of his pack. “I should probably go now. I hope all goes well tonight, Turgon.” Turgon nodded, and he and Annael started down the path that would take them to their families’ cottages, while Legolas turned and made his way to the palace.

When he went through the Great Doors, he found his father just crossing the antechamber, and to Legolas’s delight, a bearded figure who could only be Mithrandir was by his side. In the pleasures of the camping trip and the excitement of finding the boy, Legolas had forgotten that the wizard was visiting.

Thranduil broke into a smile upon seeing him. “Welcome home, iôn-nín.” He drew Legolas into an embrace. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Yes. We saw bear claw marks.” Legolas decided that it would be better to avoid going into greater detail about the camping trip. He felt guilty that he was keeping the news about Rodda from his father, and Thranduil had an alarming ability to tell when Legolas was hiding something. “Mae govannen,” Legolas bowed politely to the visitor.

Thranduil smiled. “Ah yes. This is not quite the first time you have met our guest, but you probably do not remember him from the last time. Mithrandir, you remember Legolas.”

Mithrandir inclined his head. “Mae govannen, Legolas.”

“Legolas,” said Thranduil, “you will be happy to know that Mithrandir is going to dine privately with you, me, and Ithilden tonight.”

Legolas immediately thought of the scene by the stable. “Where has Eilian gone?”

“He went with the sons of Elrond to meet some of the Men of Esgaroth,” Thranduil answered easily. “Go and bathe and then come join Mithrandir and me in the sitting room.”

Legolas knew that his father was not telling him everything, but then he seldom did. He went obediently off to ready himself for the evening meal, and when he entered the family sitting room an hour or so later, he found his father and Mithrandir sitting near the fire, with cups of wine in hand.

“Come and sit down, child,” Thranduil invited, pouring a little wine and a great deal of water into a cup that Legolas accepted before seating himself on a low stool near Mithrandir. The wizard smelled of exotic smoke, suddenly evoking in Legolas vague memories of lying in the grass in the garden watching shapes made of smoke float through the air. He had had his hand on his father’s foot, he thought suddenly. The elegant shoe had felt smooth beneath his fingers as he slid them back and forth.

Mithrandir smiled at him, and he found himself watching the way the wizard’s extravagant grey beard moved as his mouth did. “I understand you like stories about distant lands,” Mithrandir said, and Legolas nodded, a little shyly. His favorite lessons came on the days when his tutor gave him things to read about Arda’s faraway places.

“Did you come from Imladris?” he asked eagerly, thinking that the fact that Mithrandir had arrived in the company of the sons of Elrond made that likely.

“I did,” Mithrandir said, exchanging a small, uninterpretable glance with Thranduil, who, to Legolas’s surprise, had stilled at his question. Was something wrong with talking about Imladris?

“What is it like?” Legolas asked, his curiosity overcoming his confusion. “Did you see Glorfindel and Master Elrond?” He would have given almost anything to meet these legendary figures from his lesson books.

“Imladris is beautiful,” Mithrandir said, “and peaceful in a way that almost no place else is these days. It is full of the music of voices and falling water.” He smiled at Legolas. “As I recall, your adar missed the great forest here when he was in Imladris, and I suppose you might feel the same way, but those who need healing find it in the house of Elrond Half-elven if it is to be had anywhere east of the sea.” As he finished speaking, a shadow flitted over his face, but it was gone almost before Legolas had noticed it, and he could not really be sure it had been there.

The door opened, and Ithilden entered the room. “Good evening,” he greeted them all and then poured wine for himself. At a nod from Thranduil, he sat down. “I have heard from Esgaroth that they have made no progress in learning who attacked the raft.”

Thranduil nodded curtly. “That does not surprise me. A villain could hide quite well among his fellows in Esgaroth. There are times when I wonder whether there is such a thing as a ‘good’ Man left.”

“Men are a mixed lot,” Ithilden agreed carefully. “But they have been our allies in the past, and I believe we can be allies again.”

“I do not doubt that we can become allies,” Thranduil said sharply. “I only ask whether doing so will cost us too much.”

Legolas looked from Ithilden to Thranduil and back again. Something in their tone was faintly off. If Eilian had been here instead of Ithilden, Legolas would have assumed that he and Thranduil had quarreled and were trying to keep that fact from him. But Ithilden and Thranduil never quarreled. Legolas could not imagine what this was about.

Thranduil took a drink of his wine. “I do not see Men leaping to our aid,” he added.

“And yet,” said Mithrandir mildly, “Elrond has foreseen that one of the descendants of Isildur will play a great part in the last deeds of this age.”

Thranduil eyed him. “I had not heard that before.”

Mithrandir smiled. “It is worth thinking about, do you not agree?”

A rap sounded at the door and a servant appeared. Thranduil rose. “I see that our meal is ready. Come. Legolas says he saw the marks of bear claws while on this trip. Perhaps he will tell us more about them.”

Legolas had risen when his father did, and he tried to look eager at the idea of talking about his trip. He would just have to be careful, he though dismally. His father had asked whether helping Men was costly, and when Legolas thought about helping Rodda, he had to agree that that was a good question. But how could he refuse to help this warrior child whose parents were both dead? He shuddered slightly and did not pull away when Thranduil put his arm around his shoulders, even if he was too big to be hugged in public.

***

“I will leave you here,” said Ithilden, his attention apparently on the slender form of Tonduil’s sister as she waved to Tonduil and then walked toward the path that would take her home. Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off, leaving Legolas thoroughly irritated. Ithilden had happened to leave home at the same time Legolas had that morning and had dropped into stride with him to walk to the training fields together. Legolas has feared he would ask what was in the small sack of apples he carried and had had to prepare an almost non-lie about sharing with his friends after class. Fortunately, Ithilden had seemed preoccupied and had not noticed the sack.

Legolas trotted over to where Turgon stood, idly swinging his practice sword and watching Galelas and Annael select their swords from the rack. “How did it go?” Legolas asked, keeping his voice down as much as his eagerness would allow.

“He is in Amelas’s cottage. I took him some bread this morning.” Turgon’s eyes flashed with excitement. He was enjoying himself mightily.

“I brought apples.” Legolas stowed the sack carefully in the embrace of the roots of the oak near which they always gathered.

“We will go and see him right after class,” Turgon said quickly, as Annael came up to them, trailed by Galelas.

“Did you hear that Orcs attacked some of the Mannish soldiers a few days ago?” Galelas asked, his eyes wide with the thrill of his story. “My brother told me that the Orcs surprised them. He is in the Eastern Border Patrol, and he came home on leave last night.”

Legolas’s stomach twisted at the mention of Orcs. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Some of the Men were killed,” said Galelas, “but none of our warriors was hurt. My brother says the Men must have been careless.”

Legolas found that he rather hoped Galelas’s brother was right. Surely Ithilden’s warriors were never careless and thus would never let Orcs surprise them. The arrival of the sword master interrupted his worries.

“Get a sword, Legolas,” called the sword master, as he approached. “It is time to start.” Legolas hastened to try to find a practice sword with a balance he liked and fell into line between Turgon and Annael for the footwork drill they always did at the start of class. He lifted his sword into the standard guard position and stood with his knees slightly bent, his weight on the balls of his feet, and his right foot a step in front of his left. The sword master walked down the line, checking their stances. He nudged Legolas’s left foot with his own, angling it a tiny bit further outward. Then he moved aside and ordered, “Advance. Again.”

In a line with the other students, Legolas moved his right foot forward, recovered the distance with his left, and then repeated the movement.

“Sidestep left,” ordered the master. “Sidestep right.” Legolas shuffled rapidly over the ground.

“Retreat.” The master spat the orders out quickly now. “Pass back. Pass forward.”

Legolas automatically stepped back with his left foot and covered the space with his right, sword held ready to block any blow from an imaginary opponent. He stepped back and forward again, changing his stance.

“Jump advance.”

He stepped forward slightly on his left foot, sprang lightly, and switched his feet quickly, landing with his knees softly bent.

“Defensive stance,” the master ordered, and Legolas stepped back with his left foot and slid into a defensive pose. He looked at the master, motionless, waiting for any correction.

The master nodded. “Good. Be careful not to let your feet cross when you sidestep, Tonduil. Let me see you do it.” Tonduil screwed his face up in concentration as he shuffled left and right. The master nodded again and then began issuing directions for the set of sword forms on which they were currently working.

Ordinarily, Legolas enjoyed sword training, especially the sparring in which they engaged for the last part of class, but today he found it hard to concentrate as his thoughts kept darting to the boy, hidden away nearby. The master set him to spar with Isendir, who was small but very quick. He found himself retreating repeatedly and was scolded for inattention just before the class ended.

With relief, he slid his practice sword into the rack, ran to get the sack of apples, and looked around for Turgon and Annael. They exchanged a single, wordless look and then began walking hastily toward Turgon’s cottage, breaking into a trot before they were a hundred feet away from the field.

Turgon led them around to the back of his own cottage and through a small stand of trees to the next one. He knocked twice on the back door and then thrust it open to enter the dark hallway that ran down the center of the cottage. “It is us Rodda,” he called, darting through the first doorway on the left into what proved to be a sleeping chamber. The shutters were closed, but even in the dim light that filtered through the chinks between them, Legolas could see that the narrow bed and a small chest were still there, although the bed had been stripped of its blankets. He assumed they had been given to neighbors when the cottage’s owner departed for over the seas.

And there was Rodda, standing tensely next to the bed with his bow in his hand and a standard training arrow fitted to the string. When he saw them, he lowered the bow and the tightness in his face eased slightly. For a long moment, they all stood staring silently at one another. “I brought you some apples,” Legolas said, holding out the sack.

Rodda hesitated for only a second before propping his bow against the wall next to his quiver and all but snatching the sack. “Thank you,” he mumbled around a mouthful of apple.

Legolas watched in fascination as the boy wolfed down the fruit. Annael’s eyes were wide too, but Turgon had evidently achieved some degree of comfort around the boy on his trip to retrieve him the previous night and settled cross-legged to the floor. Suddenly aware that he was staring, Legolas sat down next to Turgon, and after a second, Annael followed suit. With the last apple in his hand, Rodda sat on the bed, his eyes running over the three of them.

“Are you really a soldier?” Turgon asked abruptly, making Legolas bite his lip at the way Rodda flinched at the question. Like Turgon, Legolas wanted to know more than Rodda had told them the previous day, but the boy’s discomfort in talking about whatever had sent him into hiding in the woods was obvious to Legolas, even if it was not to Turgon.

“I’m a squire,” Rodda answered, a little stiffly. “I was a squire,” he amended.

“Have you been in battles?” Turgon persisted eagerly.

Rodda licked his lips. “Squires don’t usually go into battle. We take care of the horses and the weapons, and we clean up and do things like that.”

“So you have never been in a battle?” Turgon’s disappointment was obvious.

For a second, Rodda stared at him, and then, unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around himself, bent over, and vomited onto the floor. Horrified, Legolas, Turgon, and Annael all scrambled to their feet and out of the way. “I’m sorry,” Rodda gasped and then retched again and then one more time. At length, he flopped back against the wall behind the bed, panting and wiping at his face. There were tears on his cheeks, Legolas realized and looked away, embarrassed.

“We need to clean it up,” he said. He had once infuriated his father enough that he had had to spend a month working in the infirmary, where he had mopped up more than his share of vomit.

“I will get some water,” Turgon said hastily and bolted from the room. Annael skirted around the puddle to sit on the bed next to the boy and pat his hand comfortingly. Legolas crossed the hall to the kitchen, found the mop, and came back to wait for Turgon’s return. After an awkward few moments of silence, he heard the back door open and close, and Turgon entered, lugging a bucket of water. Legolas set about the unpleasant task of cleaning the floor, while Turgon edged toward the bed, holding out a small water skin. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.

Rodda opened his eyes, drew a deep breath, and sat up and took a small sip of the water.

“Turgon!” called a small voice from outside. “Turgon, are you in there?” Someone rattled the door latch but did not seem to be able to grasp it.

“It is Amdir,” Turgon moaned. “We have to get him away.” Legolas exchanged a look with Annael. They both knew only too well that Turgon was right. If they did not immediately get his little brother away from the cottage, Amdir would soon draw far too much unwanted attention.

Annael hopped off the bed. “We will be back after our lessons,” he assured Rodda. “Maybe you will feel better then.” The boy nodded and lay down on the bed, curled up on his side with his face to the wall. To Legolas, he did not look as if he expected to feel better any time soon.

*******

AN: The fact that Elrond foresaw that one of Isildur’s line would do great deeds at the end of the Third Age is given in The Silmarillion, in “Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age.”

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter for me.

*******

7. Seeking a Hiding Place

Contrary to Legolas’s expectations, Rodda did look a bit better when he went back to the cottage in the late afternoon to find Turgon, Annael, and Rodda all on the floor in the cottage sitting room. To his surprise, Amdir was hopping around the little room and singing to himself. Legolas handed Rodda the bread and cheese he had gotten from the palace kitchen. Jerking his head toward Amdir, he asked Turgon, “Will he not tell your parents?”

“He will forget,” Turgon assured him. “And even if he does say something, my naneth will not believe him. He makes things up.”

Legolas sat down near Rodda, who was eating a little more cautiously this time. Legolas had tried to remember what the healers gave people to eat after they had been sick, but all he could think of was broth, and he could come up with no convincing reason to ask the cooks for that, so he had had to settle for the bread and cheese.

He had had a hard time paying attention to his tutor that afternoon because he had been unable to stop thinking about the boy. When they had found Rodda on their camping trip, Legolas had thought only of the fact that the boy was obviously in trouble and that he and Turgon and Annael could help him find shelter and keep him from being sent back to Esgaroth, a fate that Rodda obviously feared.

Rodda had begged them not to tell any adults about him, and it had seemed only common sense to do as he asked. Legolas thought that Thranduil or Ithilden would be reasonably sympathetic because Rodda was, after all, a child. But he also thought that they were very likely to send the boy back to the care of other Men. They would not want to be responsible for him, and while Thranduil probably would not care how the Men of Esgaroth reacted, Ithilden’s comments on the previous evening suggested that he seemed to be thinking of the Men as potential allies, and he would not want to anger them. So Legolas had seen hiding Rodda as the only thing he and his friends could do.

In the cold light of day, however, Legolas was beginning to worry. He had heard that Men were subject to terrible diseases, and Rodda had been sick that morning. What if he were ill and needed a healer? And beyond that, for how long could they keep him concealed? What if Amdir told his parents about the boy and they actually paid attention? And really, Rodda could not live in this cottage forever. Probably even Turgon could see that, although he might never confess it.  But Legolas could not think of what else to do with the boy. If Eilian had been home, Legolas thought he might have asked him for help, but then again, Eilian sometimes surprised him and acted like all the other adults, so perhaps he would not have done that either. He and his friends were on their own, Legolas thought. They needed to know more about him, and then maybe he and Turgon and Annael could think of some way to help him.

“You are from Esgaroth?” Legolas made a tiny gesture toward Rodda’s uniform. Noticing it too directly seemed somehow indiscreet.

“Yes.” Rodda slowly lowered the hunk of bread to his lap. He was plainly uncomfortable with being questioned, but Legolas pressed on determinedly anyway.

“Where are you going?”

Rodda bit his lip. “I have not decided yet.”

“Is there someone who will take care of you?” Annael broke in. “Besides us, I mean.”

Rodda shook his head.

Legolas hesitated. “Maybe there is someone is Esgaroth, someone you have not thought of.”

Rodda jumped to his feet, inhaling sharply and spilling the bread onto the floor. “No! I told you, I can’t go back there. I--.” He gulped. “I’ve done something bad. They would hang me.”

Legolas’s heart missed a beat. The Men of Esgaroth would hang this boy? How could they do that?

“What did you do?” asked Turgon, his eyes wide.

“I can’t tell you. You’d hate me.” Rodda looked ready to burst into tears.

“No, no,” said Annael soothingly, reaching up to catch the boy’s hand and pull him down again. “You do not have to tell us. We will think of someplace else for you to go, and we will help you get there too.”

Amdir trotted over, picked up the bread from the floor, and began to nibble at it. “Can we go outside?” he asked hopefully.

Turgon sighed. “No. Not now.”

Legolas tried not to look too worried. What were they going to do with this frightened boy?

***

Drawn by the smell of wood smoke, Eilian led Maltanaur and the twins into the little clearing where three Men were gathered, roasting rabbits for their evening meal. It had taken them longer than they had anticipated to find the Men because this campsite was much closer to the edge of the forest than Eilian had expected. He had thought the Orcs would have led the Men deep into the forest by now, probably in the direction of the forest mountains, from which he guessed they had come. The Men’s presence here puzzled him.

All three Men were on their feet with their bows in hand when Eilian’s group appeared, but they did not look unduly alarmed, probably because the woods’ most dangerous inhabitants would not arrive on horseback. Their eyes widened at the sight of Elves. Thranduil’s people went to Esgaroth often enough that most of its inhabitants had seen Elves, but most never approached close enough to speak to them.

Eilian slid from his horse’s back. On the ride here, he had thought carefully about how to approach these Men. He needed them to accept his leadership. He needed the twins to do so too, for that matter, and during the trip he had become increasingly uneasy over the degree of their reserve with anyone but one another. He was used to being able to read his warriors at a glance, but he found he did not know what the twins were thinking. His inability to sense their intentions had shaken him a bit, and now he was a little worried he would not be able to understand the Men either. Away in the south as he usually was, he had had only occasional contact with them.

“Mae govannen,” he said, bowing with his hand over his heart. The three Men all nodded a little self-consciously. “The Elvenking has sent us to render what aid we can in recovering your dead and in hunting down the Orcs who killed them.”

The Men blinked, and then one of them stepped forward with his hand extended. “I’m Lared, and these are Drecan and Arend.” For just a second too long, Eilian stared in perplexity at Lared’s outstretched hand, but fortunately Elrohir stepped forward and shook it.

“I am Elrohir, and this is my brother, Elladan. These are Maltanaur and Eilian, our captain.” He slid his eyes toward Eilian, smiling blandly.

A little vexed at his own slowness, Eilian too shook hands with Lared. “Are you this group’s leader?” he asked.

“I’m its sergeant,” Lared said. “Our officers couldn’t stay. We’re only supposed to recover the bodies,” he added, as if trying to justify his officers’ absence. “And we’ve had no luck doing that. In truth, if we’d found nothing tomorrow, we’d have had to go home empty-handed.”

“Have you found signs of the Orc band?” Eilian asked.

“Yes, but they’ve not done as we expected and retreated to the mountains. Instead, they’ve been moving about in this area, occasionally shooting at our troops but mostly just seeing what we’re up to.”

“Scouts of some sort?” Eilian asked with a frown.

Lared nodded. “We think so.”

Eilian looked at the ground to hide any sign of his own thoughts. If the Orcs were scouts or spies, then they had probably not been supposed to provoke the Esgaroth troops by attacking their patrol. But the discipline of Orcs was always chancy, and if they had seen a chance for easy meat, they might have taken it. If that were the case, then the seven deaths had been a product of pure misfortune. And if the Orcs were scouts, then it probably would not be wise to allow them to report on whatever it was they were investigating. He felt a little thrill low in his belly and recognized the familiar warmth of battle lust. He had missed the excitement that came only when he leapt deliberately into the path of danger.

“They’ve been retreating to some hiding place deeper in the forest during the day,” Lared continued. “That’s probably where they took the bodies, but we’ve been able to follow them only so far before they disappear into rocky ground. They probably have a cave there. Twice we’re run into spider colonies and had to seek a way around them. And of course we’d have had to get to their den by night while they were out. The three of us couldn’t have engaged the whole band, not that we were supposed to anyway.”

Eilian realized he need not have worried about being unable to understand the Men. Compared to the faces of Elves, those of these Men were open for anyone to read. Lared fairly radiated unease about the forest that darkened as it stretched away to the west. Unease, shame at their failure, and anger, Eilian thought. He regarded the Men closely for a moment. They wanted to go after the Orcs, not just the bodies, he realized with a stab of satisfaction, and they were angry that they had not been able to.

“Our commander has written to yours, asking that you be seconded to us, so that together we can avenge your warriors’ deaths,” he told Lared.

He had been a little concerned that the Men would insist on hearing from their commander before they agreed to join him, but apparently it never crossed Lared’s mind that his leaders might refuse Ithilden’s request. His face settled slowly into lines of satisfaction. “We want the bodies too, if there’s anything left of them,” he warned. “There’s a young wife waiting for one of them.”

Eilian tensed. “We can destroy the Orcs tonight,” he told Lared. “But if you want the bodies, we will have to let them go so we can follow them back to their den. We will not be able to attack them until tomorrow night, when they come out again.”

“We want the bodies,” Lared repeated, “or at least any belongings we can recover.”

“We understand,” Elladan intervened. He glanced at Eilian. “We know how important it is to Men to see the remains of those they have lost. The Orcs will be just as dead if we kill them tomorrow.”

Eilian drew a deep breath. “Of course.” He kept his tone sympathetic, trying not to let his disappointment show but rather to make it clear to these Men that he understood their concern, although he was not entirely sure he did. When an Elven fëa fled a damaged body, the body crumbled rather quickly, a sign that what mattered was gone. “We will begin the hunt as soon as you have eaten,” Eilian said. He caught a glimpse of Elladan and Elrohir exchanging a satisfied look and assumed that the twins approved of his plan for immediate action, even if it would bear no fruit until the next evening. For a second, he wondered what the twins would have done if they had not approved, but he shoved that thought aside as pointless.

Lared raised an eyebrow. “It will be dark soon.”

Eilian smiled. “We know the forest and our eyes will penetrate the dark. We will find the Orcs, and when we do, we will hunt them to their den and then make sure that this particular band never harms either of our peoples again.”

Lared hesitated for only a second, regarding Eilian with his eyes narrowed appraisingly. Then he gave a slow, answering smile. “We’re at your service, Captain.”

As Eilian turned, intending to see to his horse and retrieve the bread, cheese, and apples that were still in his pack, he found Elladan looking at him with gleaming eyes before he too turned to reach for his pack. Eilian paused and then walked thoughtfully toward where Maltanaur was standing with both their horses. He admired the twins’ skill with weapons and had looked forward to hunting with them. On some visceral level, he echoed their desire for vengeance and their eagerness for a fight. He thought he understood them. The pain of his own mother’s death had not disappeared, but merely muted over the last twenty years, and the twins’ presence had called it to the fore again.

Oddly enough, what made him nervous was not a fear that the twins would lose control of themselves in a fight, as he himself might have done in the first black months when his loss had made him unsure if he wanted to go on with his own life. No, what worried him about the twins was their tight, single-minded concentration on their goal. They would be hard to manage if they decided that his leadership was not serving them well, and that could be dangerous for everyone concerned, not least of all the twins themselves.

He found Maltanaur too watching the twins. “Take care, Eilian,” Maltanaur murmured. “Those two strike me as a very bad mix of you and Ithilden at your worst.”

Eilian glanced over his shoulder to where Elladan and Elrohir had seated themselves among the Men, who in turn were edging slightly away from them. He saw what Maltanaur meant. Ithilden had that same immovable look sometimes, and the Valar only knew how often Maltanaur had seen Eilian spoiling for a fight. “They are extraordinarily good with swords,” he said, although he was uncertain whether he was reassuring Maltanaur or himself.

“I was not questioning their skill,” said Maltanaur and turned to tend to his horse.

Eilian took his pack and sent his horse off to graze. He would not need the animal tonight, for tracking would be easier on foot. He went back to where the fire burned, pulled out his food, and offered it to the Man who was tending the roasting rabbits. Drecan, Eilian thought. That was his name. The Man hesitated. “We have the meat, Captain. We could pool our supplies and share it all out, I suppose.”

Eilian glanced at the few rabbits and knew that what was enough for three would never stretch to feed seven. “No,” he said hastily. “We would not take your meat.”

“Then I don’t think we need your bread and fruit,” Drecan said. For a moment, Eilian wondered if he had offended Drecan, but there was no help for it now. He nodded and went to sit with his back against a beech tree, watching the Men and considering his plan for that night. Someone slid soundlessly up next to him and sat down, and he turned to see Elladan.

“The Men spoke truly when they said they would have trouble seeing after dark,” Elladan said quietly.

Eilian nodded. He had assumed that Lared was being realistic in doubting the Men’s ability to scout after dark, but he was glad to have Elladan’s confirmation. From what Eilian could tell, the twins had had a great deal of experience in fighting alongside Men. “They can show us the most recent tracks they have seen, and then we can scout without them and come back and get them later.” He looked at Elladan. “Can you and your brother travel through the trees?”

Elladan smiled slightly. “Not as fast as you undoubtedly can, but surely we will scout on the ground in any case.”

“Yes, of course. I was thinking more about how to summon the Men and then manage the battle tomorrow evening.”

Elladan turned toward him. His brows were drawn down, and tense lines had appeared around his mouth. “Elrohir and I are to be in the thick of the fight,” he said flatly.

Eilian blinked at him. “I will arrange it if it makes sense to do so,” he said slowly. “Your skill with swords will be welcome. But we usually use bows first, from the trees if we can. I need to see the terrain to decide how to deploy everyone, and we will also have to make good use of the Men.”

Elladan drew a deep breath and turned to look straight ahead. Then he leaned his head back against the beech trunk and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his face had resumed the almost expressionless mask he usually wore. Across the fire, Eilian could see Elrohir watching them intently. “Very well.” Elladan rose and went off to sit near his brother.

Eilian looked down at the apple in his hand, struck by a sudden vivid memory of his own despair in the time just after the Orcs had killed his mother. It had taken him months to learn that he could ever be happy again, even for brief moments. And he did not know how he would ever have survived if his captain had not sent him home where Legolas’s demanding childish sorrow distracted him from his own. That and Celuwen, he thought, but turned away from the thought of her. They were not on good terms just now.

He grimaced slightly. He had been looking forward to pursuing these Orcs. The Orcs’ attack on the Men coupled with the suppressed rage of the twins over the fate of Celebrían had somehow made it seem as if on this hunt, all need for restraint was temporarily suspended. Even now, knowing he would have to wait, his blood sang with excitement at the thought. But somehow he had come to feel responsible not only for avenging these Men, but also for seeing to the safe return of the sons of Elrond. His mouth twisted in a wry smile. Ithilden was sometimes far too clever.

They all ate quickly, and the Men scattered the remains of their fire. “We are ready,” Lared told Eilian, taking his bow in hand in a movement that was echoed by the other Men.

“Show us the most recent traces you have found.”

The Men may have hesitated to go into the forest, but they were efficient enough trackers in this part of the woods, and they led Eilian, Maltanaur, and the twins to an area about two miles in from the forest’s border. Drecan pointed to the ground, where the signs of heavy feet disappeared into a rocky ravine that had probably been cut by a river that must have run down from the forest mountains at one time. “We followed them to this spot this morning. We’ve been avoiding them when they’re out, and trying to follow their tracks back to their den during the day, intending to go back at night when it was empty. As Lared told you, the three of us alone were not a big enough force to engage with them, although we’ve shot at them once or twice and killed one.”

Lared flinched a little at Drecan’s disclosure. “We weren’t supposed to do even that,” he said, a little apologetically, “because, of course, the Orcs came after us, and we had to do some smart maneuvering to get away. They might have found us even then, but there was a leader who seemed to have good control of them and called them back to whatever scouting they were doing.”

“You could not track them farther?” Elrohir asked. Eilian glanced at him. His tone was neutral but something in his voice suggested that he was surprised.

Lared stiffened a little. “No. The ground is very rocky.” Elrohir nodded and then drifted forward a little and bent to look at the stony ground.

“We will see what we can find,” Eilian told Lared. “Wait for us at your campsite. We probably will not be back until morning because we will want to make sure they are safely tucked up in their den before we leave them.” Lared nodded and then, a little reluctantly, signaled for the other Men to go with him and started back toward their campsite.

Eilian walked up to Elrohir, who was looking at a pebble whose damp underside was showing. “We need to get as close to their den as we can before dark so we have the best chance of finding them.”

Elrohir nodded. “We can track them easily enough until full dark. It will be harder then.”

Elladan and Maltanaur approached. “These Men are less competent trackers than the Rangers who patrol near Imladris,” Elladan observed. “I had not realized that there would be such a difference.”

Eilian shrugged. “It does not matter. We can find the Orcs, and the Men can join with us to destroy them.” Like Elrohir, he bent to inspect the ground, and before long, the four of them were making their way deeper into the forest, following the trail of the Orc band.

They had gone only a mile or so, however, before the last of the evening light faded, and the tracks became harder to spot, even with Elven eyes. Eilian sighed and straightened up. “They will be on the move by now.” He glanced around. They were in a rocky ravine, with brambles growing up its sides and trees leaning out over the tops of its edges. He had no way of knowing on which side of the ravine the Orcs would travel. He glanced at the twins and considered what to do with them.

If they had been Wood-elf warriors, he would have sent them to search one side while he and Maltanaur searched the other, assuming that whichever pair found the Orcs first would notify the other. But the twins were unfamiliar with the forest; moreover, despite their understanding of the Men’s desire to recover the bodies of their dead, he was not entirely certain he trusted them to do the sensible thing and leave the Orcs alone until the next night, when they were all together, including the Mannish soldiers. He had to suppress a sudden smile at the idea that he doubted someone else’s good sense when it came to danger. Maltanaur would fall over laughing if he knew what Eilian was thinking.

They would have to stay together, he decided, and get up into the trees to start sweeping the area, letting their eyes, ears, and noses tell them if Orcs were nearby. “Up there.” He pointed to the right-hand bank, and they all made their way to the top, fending off the brambles as best they could. He turned to the sons of Elrond. “We get a better vantage point and find it quicker to move through the trees. Is that true for you too?”

The twins exchanged a look. “Yes,” Elrohir said, with a small smile. “A bit more exciting, but quicker.”

Eilian blinked. He was uncertain what Elrohir meant, but he supposed he would find out soon enough if the twins were up to the task he was setting. “Good. You two move off three hundred yards or so that way. Stay close enough to signal Maltanaur and me if you find anything. Watch for spiders too, and let us know if you run across them, so we can avoid them.” He demonstrated the bird signals he wanted them to use, and they nodded and trotted off. He watched them long enough to see them swing up into the branches and begin working their way along through them. They were less sure-footed than Wood-elves, but they made the leaps from tree to tree well enough.

“We will have to go more slowly than usual,” Maltanaur murmured, watching the twins.

Eilian shrugged. “We have all night. We can just go forward more slowly, moving apart and then together again, searching a wider area at once.” He leapt into the nearest tree, and the two of them began the familiar task of scouting for Orcs. He and Maltanaur scoured their area, keeping the twins within hearing, if not always within sight through the thick, leafy treetops. Gradually, Eilian became convinced that they were on the wrong side of the ravine. Not only did they see no signs the Orcs, but also the trees here were too placid for there to be Orcs among them. He beckoned to Maltanaur and sounded the signal that called the twins to them. Evidently thinking he had found what they sought, they came racing recklessly through the branches and grabbed for their bows the minute they stopped moving.

“They are not here,” Eilian said. “We need to go back to the other side of the ravine.”

Elladan glanced at his brother, with one eyebrow raised. “You sound so certain.”

“The trees are undisturbed here,” Eilian said.

They turned identical skeptical looks upon him. “The trees?” Elrohir asked.

It occurred to Eilian with a shock that the twins could not hear the song of the forest trees. Perhaps they could only hear the trees of their own valley, he thought. Perhaps he would not be able to hear the trees’ song there. He rejected that idea at once. He was a Wood-elf. He would hear the trees wherever he went. “Yes,” he said firmly. “The trees. We will go back.” With Maltanaur at his side, he turned to retrace their path, and after a moment’s hesitation, the twins followed.

They dropped from the branches to cross the ravine, and then began to search again on the other side. And here, Eilian knew almost at once that they were on the right track. He could feel the disturbance in the forest’s night song in his very bones and blood, and his pulse quickened. Soon! Soon they would find their enemy. Stalk them only, he reminded himself. Tomorrow night will come surely, if not quite as soon.

And then, like poison dripping into a pool, the stench of Orc wafted toward him on the night air. He turned toward its source, and then paused for a moment to call the twins to him. Once again, they came flying rather more recklessly than their skill in the treetops made advisable, and Eilian again felt a spurt of sympathy for Maltanaur, who must have watched Eilian make similar journeys more times that he could count.

“That way,” Eilian murmured, but the twins had already caught the same smell he had and had turned in the direction that would surely lead them to the Orc band. Eilian touched Elladan’s arm. He could feel the tension in the muscles underneath Elladan’s tunic sleeve. “We will stay concealed and follow them back to their den,” Eilian reminded him. Grimly, Elladan nodded, and the four of them set off toward the Orcs, circling slightly to keep downwind of them, where the Orcs’ scent would be noticeable and their own would be swept away.

Within minutes, they could see signs that clumsy feet had passed through the forest below them. The bushes were trampled, and here and there, low branches had been snapped off the trees, apparently for the simple pleasure of hurting them. The trees here were agitated. Eilian occasionally patted their trunks as he moved through them, murmuring words of comfort. And then, he caught sight of a darker shape in the darkness under the trees in front of them, and immediately, he signaled a halt.

With a visible effort, Elladan and Elrohir reined themselves in to come to his side. He gestured them to move off a little to his left, and then, keeping pace with the band, they began the cautious task of shadowing the Orcs without being seen. In his years as a warrior, this was a task that Eilian had rarely had to do, and even though he knew why it was necessary, he chafed at it now. Every instinct he possessed drove him to attack at once, to wipe the forest clean of the creatures who were befouling it. He could only guess at what the sons of Elrond were feeling and kept glancing over at them to make sure they were following his orders. For now, they seemed to have their fury under the cool control in which they were usually wrapped, but even from a distance, Eilian could see what it cost them, and felt his own desire for action throbbing through his veins in answer.

Glancing to his right, he found Maltanaur watching him in what he assumed was an echo of his own scrutiny of the twins. He smiled weakly and turned his attention back to the Orcs. Attacking now would be stupid, he thought fiercely, silencing the voice in his head whispering that the four of them would be more than a match for these brutal but crude fighters.

He redoubled his efforts to assess the band, counting them and looking for bows on their backs, because the presence of many archers would make the trees an unsafe refuge for him and his companions. Of course, using the trees might be a problem for the Men in any case, he reminded himself. He counted seventeen Orcs, eight of them with bows.

As they moved through the dark woods, Eilian also began to see the odd pattern of behavior that the Men had described. The Orcs trotted along the forest’s edge, apparently scouting out the positions of any Esgaroth soldiers. Twice, Eilian became aware of Men moving on horseback over the grassy lands beyond the forest’s borders, and it was evident to him that the Orcs registered their presence too. Each time, he reached for his bow, intending to shoot if the Orcs gave the slightest sign of going after the Men. But both times, the Orcs only paused for as long as the Men were within hearing, and then moved on. Eilian could see that, just as Lared had told them, the Orcs’ leader was keeping a tight control over them, on one occasion even snarling and snapping at an underling who put his hand to his bow.

Although they followed the Orcs for what seemed like an eternity, the night had been more than half gone by the time they had located them, and Eilian was nearly caught by surprise when the Orc captain barked an order and the band wheeled around and began to make its way back into the woods. He sounded a low call and hastily began to retreat. If they were to stay downwind of the Orcs, they would have to travel ahead of them now, and keep an eye out for any changes of direction. To his relief, he saw Elladan and Elrohir respond immediately, and he was reminded of the fact that they were experienced warriors, even if they were off balance just now.

The trip back was slowed by the fact that the Orcs stopped to stalk and kill a deer that they then threaded on a branch to carry back to their den. Dawn was nearly upon them by the time Eilian stood on the lip of the ravine and looked down to see the troop enter a cave that was well hidden behind some rocks. He let out a long breath. Here then, they would stage their battle when the day faded again. He would have all day to rest and make plans.

He beckoned to Elladan, who was looking hungrily down at the cave entrance with Elrohir at this shoulder. “Take your brother and go back and get the Men,” Eilian murmured.

Elladan’s head jerked around toward him, and Eilian immediately knew that Elladan had reached the end of what he could endure. He could no more walk away from his prey than Eilian could fly to Imladris. Ah well.  That the sons of Elrond were under his command had always been a fiction.

“You and Maltanaur move much more quickly through the trees,” Elladan said evenly. “And you would know how to manage the spiders too, should you and the Men come across them. We have no experience with them.”

Eilian looked at him for a long moment, seeing Maltanaur standing behind Elladan with disapproval written large on his face. “The Orcs will not emerge until nightfall,” Eilian said.

Elladan nodded. “I know.”

Eilian sighed. Unfortunately, Elladan had a point about the spiders. “Very well. Maltanaur and I will go. We will be back as quickly as we can.”

Elladan nodded and turned his attention hungrily back to the cave mouth.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this for me.

*******

8. Setting Plans in Motion

“What have you managed to arrange?” Thranduil asked.

His steward consulted the list he held in his hand. “As I expected, I have managed to replace the flour quite easily. Many merchants in Esgaroth sell it, and there was a good harvest this year. It will arrive tomorrow.  I have purchased more wine, although it will not be here for two more weeks. The wine-merchant is waiting for a shipment from the south and will send our share to us as soon as it arrives. We have enough wine on hand that I do not believe the delay will be a problem.”

Thranduil nodded, at the same time wondering why his steward was bothering him with these details when he usually ran the royal household quite efficiently on his own. “What of the cloth?”

Nyndir grimaced. “That is a little more difficult and is really what I wanted to talk to you about.” Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Just as I feared, I cannot get the cloth from the merchant with whom we usually deal. His stock is exhausted. There will be no more wool until next year, and he imports the silk from the south and is not expecting more for at least three months. I can get both the wool and the silk from the other merchant, the one we no longer deal with. It turns out he has exactly what we need. I am doubtful of the quality, but even more of a concern, he is charging three times what we originally paid.”

Thranduil stared at him incredulously. “He is trying to take advantage of us.”

“Yes.” Nyndir nodded unhappily. “He evidently heard about the attack on the raft and decided he could gain from it. He sent me a message offering the cloth for sale within hours after our loss became widely known in Esgaroth.”

“I will not be robbed twice,” Thranduil said emphatically. “We will do without before we allow that.”

Nyndir hesitated. “We can probably do without the silk, my lord, assuming you and your older sons continue to use the same formal robes you have been using. Legolas has grown enough that he needs new ones, but he could probably wait three months until the new supply of silk arrives. The wool is another matter, however. It was to be made into cloaks and other warm clothing for this winter. A number of your people will go cold if we do not replace it.”

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Men!” he snorted. He stared at a tapestry that hung on the opposite wall, depicting the gardens of Menegroth with nightingales trilling in the trees. Mortals will do almost anything for gold and jewels, he thought bitterly. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes as a thought occurred to him. He turned back to Nyndir.

“What is this merchant’s name?”

“Cudry.” The steward tensed, evidently seeing that Thranduil had some purpose in mind but unable to guess what it was.

“Summon him,” Thranduil ordered. “Tell him I wish to speak to him about our purchases.”

Nyndir blinked. “Of course, my lord.” He opened his mouth as if to ask a question and then thought better of it. “With your permission, I will do it now.” Thranduil nodded, and the steward took his leave. For another moment, Thranduil sat, frowning down at his desk. What would his people do this winter if they could not obtain a sufficient supply of usable wool cloth?

A knock sounded at the door, and a servant opened it. “The mid-day meal is ready, my lord.” Thranduil rose and made his way to the small dining room, where he found Ithilden, Legolas, and Mithrandir waiting for him. Legolas was just stowing his quiver of crested arrows in one corner of the room. Today was the day he was supposed to use the arrows he had made in his archery class, and he had evidently gotten home late and had no time to put his gear away before he ate. He had been admonished about being late for meals before and no doubt did not wish to be scolded again, especially with Mithrandir present.

“How did you do with your arrows, Legolas?” Thranduil asked, when they had all seated themselves and the servants had placed the food on the table and withdrawn.

Legolas scowled. “We did not have an archery class today. Penntalion had to do something with the novices, so we had an arrow hunt instead.”

Thranduil could not suppress a smile. “I thought you enjoyed arrow hunts.” All of his sons had enjoyed the days when the weapons’ masters hid arrows and sent the students to find them with a series of clues.

“I do, but I wanted to use my arrows, and now we will not have archery again until the day after tomorrow.”

“They will keep,” Thranduil said peaceably. He looked at Ithilden. “Has something happened with the novices to draw Penntalion away?”

Ithiliden smiled. “I believe the oldest group had what Penntalion considered an unsatisfactory lesson yesterday. They were learning the error of their ways today.” Thranduil nodded. The masters who taught the elflings also worked with the novice warriors, and the novices’ needs usually took precedence.

“I gather you have weapons training in the mornings and lessons in the afternoon, Legolas,” Mithrandir said.

“Yes,” said Legolas, spooning up stew with a gusto that suggested that the treasure hunt had at least sharpened his appetite. “I am studying Elu Thingol.”

“Ah,” said Mithrandir. “A complicated king.” Thranduil toyed with his bread. His own memories of Doriath were such a mixture of wonder and pain that he had always found it difficult when his sons studied it.

“I learned about Thingol before when I was small,” Legolas said, “but now I am reading about him again, and really, I do not think he was very nice to Beren.”

“He loved his daughter,” Mithrandir said, “and did not wish to lose her.”

“Yes, but she loved Beren,” said Legolas, “and also my book says that Thingol wanted the Silmaril with him day and night. That seems greedy to me.”

Thranduil frowned. “Thingol was not a Dwarf or a Man, Legolas. He did not covet the Silmaril for its worth; he loved it for its beauty and the light of trees within it.” Really, what was Legolas’s tutor letting him read?

Legolas looked as if he would say more but contented himself by scooping up his last spoonful of stew and looking longingly at the tureen of it that sat in the center of the table. Thranduil beckoned for him to pass his bowl to the head of the table and gave him another serving.

“Is there really such a difference between becoming too attached to gold and too attached to a beautiful jewel?” asked Mithrandir thoughtfully. “Elu Thingol’s love of the Silmaril was certainly disastrous for his realm.”

Thranduil pressed his mouth closed. He had no wish to argue with a guest, and he never talked about the ruin of Doriath if he could help it. For a few moments, they all ate in silence, before Ithilden spoke, in what was, to Thranduil, an obvious attempt to change the subject.

“Did you see any of the Woodmen when you were on the western side of the forest, Mithrandir?”

“I visited one village,” Mithrandir said. “All the talk was of the departure of the Éothéod for the grasslands to the south.”

Legolas looked up from his meal. “What are the Woodmen like? Are they kind people?”

Mithrandir smiled at him. “They are much like your neighbors in Esgaroth, and I would say they are kind when they can afford to be.” Legolas frowned slightly.

“They are fierce fighters when they need to be too,” Ithilden said. “Living that close to the Misty Mountains, they have had to defend themselves with increasing frequency. And like the Men of Esgaroth, they are friendly to us.”

“Down through the Ages, Men and Elves have often been allies,” Mithrandir said approvingly.

Thranduil suddenly recalled Elrond’s prophecy that a Man would play an important role in the last events of the Age. He sighed. Men were a puzzle sometimes. One always had to judge them each separately, for they were a far more mixed lot than Elves. Suddenly, he thought of Doriath again and grimaced. In all truth, he supposed that Elves were not always so straightforwardly noble either.

***

Legolas trotted down the path toward Turgon’s cottage, clutching the skin of cider and the loaf of bread he had been able to beg from the cooks after his lessons. They had joked about how hungry he was these days, and he did not know how much longer he was going to be able to keep up the pretense that he was eating all this food himself. As he emerged into the small clearing where Turgon’s cottage stood, he saw Amdir running around in front of the cottage on the opposite side from the empty one, the cottage in which the wounded raft Elf lived. The Elf sat on a bench near his front door listening to Amdir’s chatter.

“This is my sword,” Amdir said. “A boy lives next door to me. He is a warrior, and I am too. We are going to fight Orcs together.”

“That will be nice,” said the raft Elf, dodging the stick as Amdir waved it too close to him.

Concealing his dismay, Legolas waved to the Elf and darted around behind Turgon’s cottage to find his friend just emerging from his back door. Legolas skidded to a halt. “I thought you would be with Rodda,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.

“I was working on my arrows,” Turgon scowled, “but I have decided I do not care if they are finished or not.”

“You have two more days,” Legolas offered.

“I do not care,” Turgon said emphatically.

Legolas sighed, once again feeling a stab of pity for Turgon. “Have you given Rodda any food at all today? I was so late getting home after the arrow hunt that I did not have time to bring him any then.”

“No, I have not been to see him yet today either.”

Legolas bit his lip. Rodda must very hungry. They hurried through the trees to the cottage where the boy hid and entered to find Annael and Rodda in the sleeping chamber. Legolas immediately handed over the food and the cider, and the boy’s face lit up.

“I am sorry I did not bring it sooner,” Legolas apologized. He dropped to the floor next to Annael and watched Rodda tear into the bread.

Annael turned to Turgon. “Did you finish your arrows?”

“No! Stop talking about them!”

Annael and Legolas exchanged looks and then both of them shrugged. “Turgon, on my way here, I heard Amdir telling your neighbor that a boy lived next to him,” Legolas said.

They all turned startled faces toward him. “No,” Rodda breathed.

“The neighbor was not listening to him,” Legolas assured him, “but I am getting worried. I do not think we can hide you forever, Rodda.”

“I can’t go back to Esgaroth,” Rodda protested.

“But today, my brother was talking about Men who live on the western side of the forest,” Legolas said. “And I thought that maybe you could go and live with them.”

There was a moment’s silence while they all considered that suggestion. “How far is it?” Rodda asked.

“Pretty far,” Legolas admitted. “I looked at the map during my lessons, and it is at least fifty leagues to the forest edge and then you would have to find a village.”

They all thought about that. “The forest is dangerous,” Annael ventured, his brow puckered in worry.

Rodda drew a deep breath. “I can do it,” he said stoutly. “I have a knife and my bow.” Legolas looked sideways at the quiver with its three lonely arrows. Rodda chewed his lower lip. “I think it would be better, though, if I did not wear my uniform.” He looked at them hopefully.

“I have extra clothes,” Legolas said slowly. He had many more clothes than his friends did. If he gave a few of them to Rodda, he did not think they would be missed. “I can bring them tomorrow morning. I will try to come before training if I can, although you probably should not leave until it gets dark.”

“He will need food for the trip too,” Annael said.

Legolas and Turgon both nodded. “I will bring extra when I come,” Turgon said.

“Me too,” said Legolas. For a wild second, he wondered if it would be possible to steal a horse, but he knew immediately that that would cause a great deal of trouble, and a horse would be hard to hide if Rodda had to conceal himself in the forest. He tried not to think about everything that could happen to Rodda, alone in the forest. Rodda had to leave. What else could he do?

***

From behind a boulder, Eilian watched the mouth of the cave in which the Orcs had taken shelter from the sun. Elladan crouched at his elbow. “It will be dark soon,” he murmured.

“I know,” Eilian said. He had gone over his plan with Maltanaur, the twins, and the three Men, and he knew that they all understood what they were to do. It was time for everyone to get into position. He started to slip further away from the edge of the ravine to where the others waited, but Elladan stopped him.

“Remember that the Men’s eyes will become more easily confused in the dark,” he warned Eilian. “I know you want us to begin the battle with our bows, but they may have an easier time with swords, which allow them to be close to their enemy.”

“There will be time for sword work,” Eilian said grimly. “But we will reduce the odds against us as much as possible first.” Elladan shrugged but said nothing further, so Eilian assumed he had made his point.

They reached the little group hidden among the trees, standing with their bows in hand. One of the Men was pacing a little. They had all rested as much as they could during the day, but they were alert now, their postures tense, their minds on what was to come. “It is time,” Eilian announced. “Lared, you take Arend and go that way. Elladan, you and Elrohir go the other way. Be sure to keep far enough down the ravine that you will be ahead of the Orcs that emerge first.” They were all on the move before he had finished speaking.

Eilian motioned to Maltanaur and Drecan, and they spread out to either side of him and stationed themselves, sheltered behind rocks on the edge of the ravine, a little way down it, but still within sight of the cave. With his bow in hand and arrow fitted to the string, Eilian settled down to wait. Suddenly aware of tension in his shoulder and diaphragm, he deliberately loosened his muscles. He would shoot better if his body was relaxed.

He scanned the ravine but could see no one moving. That was good, he supposed. The absence of trees in the ravine had made one decision easy at any rate: They would all fight from the ground, but he hoped that the elevated position of the ravine’s edge would still give him and his warriors an advantage. The Orcs would have to shoot them or come charging up the side of the ravine, and that would be slow. They would be easy targets if he and the others had enough arrows.

The evening light gradually faded, until it reached a point that Eilian recognized as dark enough. His fingers twitched on his bow string, as he concentrated on the cave mouth, willing the Orcs to emerge. And as if he had caused it, an Orc lumbered out into the open, scratching at his side. Then a second and a third followed. Eilian controlled his slightly quick breathing and counted. He wanted all of them out of the cave and a little away from the entrance before his warriors attacked. He did not want to have to order anyone to go into the cave to dig out an Orc, and he certainly did not want to have to do it himself.

The Orcs milled around in front of the cave entrance, kicking at stones and speaking gruffly to one another. One of them laughed, and a chill ran down Eilian’s spine, even though he had not been able to make out what the Orc’s companions had been saying. Then a larger Orc emerged, barked an order, and waved his hand to send them off to Eilian’s right, on their way to their night’s work.

From the corner of his eye, Eilian could see Drecan shift his weight, apparently eager to use his bow lest these creatures escape. Eilian fervently hoped that the Men and the twins would hold their positions as they had been told to do. He continued counting. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He all but crowed with relief. Now! He sounded a piercing bird cry and rose to his feet with his bow already drawn and his arrow aimed at one of the Orc archers. The shaft flew through the air to land in the creature’s neck. For a second, the Orc stood, as if too surprised to acknowledge that he was dead, and then he crumpled to the ground. The Orc leader shouted, and the rest of the seemingly paralyzed band dove for cover.

Eilian took a second shot and then dropped back from the edge and ran to his right to take up another position. Even Orcs were capable of shooting an archer who shot from the same place time after time. He slid behind another rock to see a second Orc’s body draped over a rock with Maltanaur’s arrow in his chest. An unfamiliar arrow missed an Orc who was sheltering behind the same rock. Drecan’s, Eilian thought, and wondered fleetingly if Elladan had been right and the Men were going to have real problems shooting in this light. Already, the scene in the ravine was confused by the dark, the Orcs’ unpredictable movements, and the dust they had kicked up.

Now he could hear the Orc captain’s orders. “Go! Up the hill! After them!”

To Eilian’s great satisfaction, the Orcs hesitated for only a second before they came roaring up the side of the ravine, zigzagging to make themselves more difficult targets and seeking whatever cover they could find as they came. Eilian sounded a second signal, and then shot another Orc archer, watching all the while for movement to either side in the ravine.  And then, he heard rather than saw Lared and Arend charging in behind the Orcs from the left, cutting off any retreat to the cave. Three Orcs jerked around toward them, only to fall to the arrows of the sons of Elrond, who had approached in deadly silence from the right.

Eilian’s heart leapt in a moment of vicious joy. The Orcs were caught among three sets of archers, and no matter which way they turned, they were leaving their backs exposed. He shot again.

The scene below became even more chaotic as the Orc leader shouted frantically, trying to group his warriors with their bows all turned outward, but panic had already seized them in its gut-wrenching grip. For an instant, they wavered, torn between fear of their captain and terror at the death they saw sailing toward them from the bows of their enemies.

Then one of them made a break for it, running toward the exit from the ravine, which unfortunately for him, lay behind Elladan and Elrohir. The twins sent a pair of arrows into his face. The other Orcs were apparently too frightened to care. Despite the shouts of their captain, they began to run after the first one and simply ran faster when he fell.

Suddenly, Eilian paused in his rapid loosing of arrows, for an unexpected sound had reached him: the clank of swords. He turned his head and to his dismay saw that the sons of Elrond had charged headlong to meet the fleeing Orcs. For a second, he stared, fascinated by their whirling, lethal movements. They were so fast that their swords were only a blur.

Then he swore, shouldered his bow, and sounded the signal that would send them all into the Orcs with swords drawn. They could not risk using their bows with the twins in the middle of the band. He drew his sword and scrambled down the hillside to run its tip into the back of the nearest Orc, jerking it free when the Orc fell. The stench of black blood filled his nostrils. Beneath the raised arm of another Orc warrior, he caught a glimpse of Elladan and Elrohir, standing back to back and echoing one another’s movements in a cold, eerie, fatal dance. A sudden spurt of gleeful rage erupted in his gut, and he ducked under the Orc’s arm, wrestled him close, and shoved the tip of his sword into the Orc’s belly.

He had been aware of Maltanaur moving like a shadow beside him, watching his back, and now he saw the three Men sprinting into the fray. Lared nearly collided with an Orc but whirled aside at the last minute and slashed his sword across the Orc’s throat with a ferocity that surprised Eilian. Good, he thought grimly and then brought all his concentration to bear on his enemy.

Within minutes, the battle was over. Eilian stood for a moment, panting, with his sword arm hanging in exhaustion and his heart still pounding with the fever of battle. He drew a quavery breath. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed a battle that much, he realized a little uneasily.

He turned to find Maltanaur nearby, watching him. “Are you all right?” his keeper asked.

“Yes,” Eilian breathed. Then he took another deep breath and marched across the blood soaked ground to where Elladan was wiping his sword in the grass, with Elrohir standing beside him. “What was that about?” he snapped.

They turned to him, their faces impassive. Elladan raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Do you not care if you live or die?” Eilian demanded. “Because even if you are willing to meet Namo now, I am not. My little brother would be most unhappy if I were to go home dead, and I would not be pleased about it myself!”

“Are you suggesting that we somehow endangered you?” Elrohir asked.

“You engaged with swords when we could have continued using bows!”

Elladan glanced at Eilian’s quiver. “You have two arrows left,” he said dryly.

“Exactly!” cried Eilian. “I could have killed two more Orcs before any of us had to go near them.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” Elladan observed, “but the Orcs were escaping, and the Men were having trouble seeing their targets. There were not so many of them left that engaging was foolish, and surely Elrohir and I were the only ones in any danger.”

“The Orcs were going nowhere that we could not find them,” Eilian cried, “and I am sure of myself for a reason. Moreover, let me tell you something else: I have been where you are now, and, in the long run, it occurred to me that I was being a selfish ass. Is your family ready for more loss? I assure you that mine was not! Your naneth has chosen to try to heal, to be happy again. You might consider doing the same.”

His eyes flashing, Elladan took a single step toward him, and Elrohir grabbed his brother’s arm. “You are presumptuous,” Elladan said coldly.

Someone touched Eilian’s arm lightly, and he glanced aside to see Maltanaur. “What is it?” Eilian snarled.

“The Men are ready to explore the cave,” Maltanaur said.

Eilian suddenly realized that he was shaking. He looked over Maltanaur’s shoulder to see Lared, Drecan, and Arend watching him. Arend was bleeding from a wound to his left arm. “Is anyone else hurt?” Eilian asked, trying to steady himself. Maltanaur shook his head. “Then we will go in,” Eilian said and led the way to the cave without a backward glance at the twins.

Although he was sure that all the Orcs had come out of the cave, Eilian flattened himself on one side of the entrance while Maltanaur did the same on the other, and they both went in with drawn bows. We might as well make use of our remaining arrows, Eilian thought grimly.

The cave stank of Orc but it was empty, just as he had expected. At least, it was empty of living Orcs, but the signs of their presence were scattered around the den. Eilian immediately saw the remains of the deer the Orcs had killed the previous night, and other bones, too, had been kicked into corners. The Men immediately began searching through them, and Eilian was happy to leave them to it. He was still shaken by his reaction to the twins, who now moved to help the Men. They had frightened him, but in truth, he had to admit that even more, he had frightened himself. He had thought he had left the deepest degree of battle frenzy behind him. I am not like that any more, he vowed fiercely. I will not be.

Lared stooped to pick up a belt, with a sheathed sword still attached. “This is Jossa’s,” he said sadly. “The attack was so sudden that the poor fool never even had time to draw his sword.” He sighed. “His wife will be grateful for it, I suppose, although it’s a poor substitute for a living husband.” He nudged a scattering of bones with the toe of his boot. “I think she will be better off without these,” he said soberly.

“I see no sign of the boy,” Drecan said.

Eilian blinked. “Boy?”

Lared nodded. “Yes. The lad had just turned twelve and was finally old enough to squire for his father.”

Eilian’s stomach lurched as he suddenly realized that one of the missing Esgaroth “soldiers” was a child. What in Arda were Men thinking to allow such a thing? And then another thought froze him in place. How would he feel if it were Legolas’s body lost to a band of Orcs? If he had not understood the Men’s preoccupation with finding the missing bodies, he thought he understood it now.

“His poor parents,” Maltanaur murmured.

Lared shook his head. “His mother died last winter, and his father was one of those killed in the attack. There’s no one waiting for him, and I suppose that’s a kind of blessing anyway.”

“Do you have what you need?” Eilian asked, and Lared nodded. “Then we should retrieve what arrows we can and be on our way,” Eilian said and led the way from the cave. He was sick of grieving families and sick too for this child who had no one to grieve for him. He wanted to go home.

As he began gleaning arrows, Maltanaur came up beside him. “The attack went well,” he murmured. “We have what we came for, and the Orcs are dead.” He glanced over at the sons of Elrond, who were searching for their own arrows. “Let them be, Eilian. They are old enough to work this out for themselves. And even if it takes them a while, that does not change the fact that you have chosen to go on with your life.”

Eilian nodded but said nothing. Perhaps the fury of the twins belonged to them and not to him, but he had felt its alluring embrace. Maltanaur was right. He needed to leave them alone.

Thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter for me.

*******

9.  Revelations

Moving as quietly as he could in the early morning dimness, Legolas crept around the back of Turgon’s cottage and made his way to the one where Rodda hid. Slipping out of his own home without his father or Ithilden seeing him had been nerve-wracking enough, and he would still have to explain himself when he went home to his mid-day meal. He did not want to have Turgon’s parents, or even worse, Amdir come out to ask what he was doing out so early carrying an awkward, cloth-wrapped bundle.

He lifted the door latch, and then, abruptly, froze. From somewhere inside the cottage, he heard what sounded like a strangled cry of alarm. Without pausing to think, he shoved the door open and ran along the hall, dropping his bundle and grabbing for his knife as he went. The noise seemed to be coming from the sleeping chamber, and he burst through the door to stand just inside the room, his knife waving, his heart pounding wildly.

It took him a second to realize that there was no one in the room but Rodda, who lay curled up on the bed, moaning and crying, “No! No!”

Legolas stared at him. His eyes were completely closed, but Legolas could see them twitching under their lowered lids. His face was flushed, and his arms jerked slightly. Legolas realized with a start that Rodda must be walking a dream path.

Cautiously, he drew near the bed. “Rodda.” The boy stilled as if listening, but did not waken. “Rodda,” Legolas said again, touching the boy’s shoulder lightly, and Rodda cried out and leapt away as if Legolas’s fingers had been fire. His eyes opened, and for a moment, he lay panting and rigid, staring at Legolas in confusion. Then he blinked, drew a deep breath, and collapsed back on the bed. “You were dreaming,” Legolas said.

Rodda flung his arm over his face but said nothing. Legolas was not entirely sure the boy could have spoken if he had wanted to, because his breath was still coming in ragged gasps. Legolas’s heart contracted as he looked at him. What had happened to send this Mannish child into hiding in the forest? He was so frightened that at times he gave off the same smell as a rabbit caught in a snare. Legolas had been taught to take the life of forest creatures gently and only when he needed the meat to survive, and he far preferred shooting a rabbit to trapping it and letting it struggle alone in terror for who knew how long. Suddenly he decided that he could not bear to leave Rodda alone with his fears any longer. Seating himself on the foot of the bed, he asked, “Rodda, what happened to you in the forest?”

They sat in silence for a long moment. From outside the window, Legolas could hear the morning song of birds, and then the back door of Turgon’s cottage slammed, and Amdir’s voice chirped, “Mae govannen, birdies!” He heard the whir of wings as the birds rose into the air.

Legolas had just decided that Rodda was not going to answer his question, when the boy whispered, “I was asleep. We were all asleep except the watch, and I don’t know what went wrong, but I woke up, and people were shouting, and there were Orcs in the camp. I’d never seen them up close before.” The words came out in a torrent, as if having held them in for so long, Rodda could do so no longer. Legolas felt a familiar tightness in his stomach. He did not like to think about what it would be like to have Orcs descend upon you, to see those who were supposed to protect you dying and doing so in vain.

“One of them dragged his scimitar through a soldier’s belly.” And despite the tremor in Rodda’s voice, the words came even faster now. “His insides came out. And then my father jumped between me and the Orcs, and I couldn’t see anything, and then he groaned, and he fell right on top of me.” Tears streamed down his face, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were seeing, not Legolas, but the things in his head. “I pushed him off,” Rodda said, “and I shook him, but I knew he was dead. He looked dead.”

Legolas could not keep himself from moaning. He felt as if he might choke, and he grasped Rodda’s ankle, as much to have something to hold on to as to sympathize.

“Everyone was dying.” Rodda was sobbing now and gasping out the words only when he could manage. “And I could have done something. I should have done something. But I was too afraid, and so I crept away and I ran. I could hear the Orcs howling, and I knew what they were doing, but I left my father there, and I ran.”

“What could you have done?” Legolas cried. “You are just a child.”

“I am a soldier,” Rodda retorted fiercely. “My father would never have left me, and I left him. And what if he wasn’t really dead? I ran. I deserted, and that is the most cowardly, disgraceful thing a soldier can do. They will hang me if they catch me, and they will be right.”

Legolas could not help himself. He was too big, and Rodda was a soldier, but he did it anyway: He slid further up the bed and wrapped his arms around the boy. “Surely they would not do that,” he protested. “You would have died too. Running was the only sensible thing to do.” But even as he said it, he wondered if he was right. Elves would never treat a child so, but then Elves did not allow children to be warriors either. Rodda dropped his head on Legolas’s shoulder. He did not argue, but his face was a mask of grief and despair. For a moment or two, they sat together, while Legolas realized that he was trembling almost as much as Rodda was.

Finally, Rodda straightened up. “It doesn’t matter,” he said dully. “I’ll go away and find somewhere else to live where they don’t know about what I did.” He looked at Legolas, and a small flush crept up his neck. “Will you still help me?”

“Of course,” said Legolas, sliding off the bed. “I brought some clothes.” Glad to be able to move, he went out into the hallway to retrieve the bundle he had dropped, carried it back into the room, and dropped it on the bed. “I brought two tunics and leggings and a cloak.” With hands that still shook slightly, he held each garment up as he named it. Then he looked at the things that had clattered softly to the bed as he shook out the bundle. “And I brought you these.” He picked up a handful of the elegantly crested arrows with deep blue peacock feathers for fletching and showed them to Rodda.

The boy stared at them and then put out a tentative finger to touch one. Even in his distress, he was plainly struck by their beauty. “They are wonderful,” he breathed.

“You might need them,” Legolas said stiffly. A gift had to be given freely, he knew, and he did want to give these arrows to Rodda, but he still felt his chest constrict as he placed them carefully in the boy’s quiver, which was propped against the wall. He gazed at them and then straightened one so that its fletching would not be crushed. He turned to look at Rodda. “I have to go to my sword fighting lesson now. I could not get any food for you this morning, but I will try to bring some after my lessons this afternoon. You probably should not try to go until tonight anyway.”

Rodda heaved a huge sigh and nodded, wiping at his dirty face with his fingers. He looked so miserable that, for a moment, Legolas was tempted to stay, but his absence from class would be noticed and that would trigger uncomfortable questions at home. With one last glance back at the arrows, he left the cottage and trotted away to the training fields.

“Mae govannen, Legolas,” called Amdir brightly, but Legolas did not answer. He was busy wiping with his sleeve at his own damp face.

***

Ithilden rose from one knee and walked forward when Thranduil beckoned. He waited for his father to finish scanning the parchment he was holding and then nod to the advisor at his side. “Good. You may go.” The advisor bowed and left the Great Hall, and Thranduil turned his attention to Ithilden. “What is it?”

“You asked me to come to you when the guards reported that the Esgaroth cloth merchant was drawing near,” Ithilden said. “I have been told that he should be here shortly.”

His father’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. “Good.”

“A warrior is with him,” Ithilden added. “Apparently the captain of the Esgaroth guards is still worried about travelers being attacked.

Thranduil snorted. “They know best,” he said rather cryptically. Ithilden was just considering whether he should ask what his father meant when there was a stir at the door and they both looked to see entering the room, not the Mannish merchant, but Eilian.

“Lord Eilian,” the guard announced, “Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris, and Maltanaur.”

With growing relief, Ithilden glanced quickly at each of the four who entered the Great Hall, dropped to one knee, and then rose and advanced at Thranduil’s pleased invitation. Ithilden had been worrying about them since they had ridden out of Thranduil’s stronghold, for the decision to let them go had been his alone. Not that he had had much choice with Elladan and Elrohir, he admitted to himself. Now here they were, returning in the same state they had been in when they left.

His eyes settled on Eilian, and suddenly he came alert. Not quite the same shape, he thought. Eilian’s shoulders were tense, and he was turned slightly away from the sons of Elrond, who stood calmly next to him, wrapped in their customary tight reserve. Ithilden glanced at Maltanaur, who stood a little behind and to one side, his face impassive. A story lay here, Ithilden thought and wondered what chance he had of getting it out of Eilian. Asking Maltanaur would be pointless. He never talked about what he saw while guarding Eilian.

“Welcome home, iôn-nín,” Thranduil said, moving to embrace Eilian and nod to the others.

His father must have been worried too, Ithilden thought. He had been extraordinarily displeased by Ithilden’s decision to let Eilian go with the sons of Elrond. But how could Ithilden have done otherwise? The Men were their neighbors, and they were in need. And if he were honest, he would admit that the Elves were in need too. If Ithilden could bind them to him as allies, he would be foolish not to do it, no matter how angry at him his father became.

“Ithilden’s aide told us he was here,” Eilian said. “I wanted to report on our mission and be done with it, so we came here. I hope you do not mind, my lord.”

“How did you fare?” Thranduil asked, returning to his chair.

“We tracked the Orcs to their den, and then, with some of the Men’s help, we attacked them at nightfall yesterday,” Eilian said, with uncharacteristic lack of detail. “They will trouble us no further.”

“The battle was troublesome?” Thranduil suggested, and Ithilden realized without surprise that his father had seen the same strained relations that he had in those who stood before them.

“No, my lord,” said Eilian, after an almost imperceptible hesitation. “The Orcs were few in number, and with the Men to help us, we were able to pen them in and kill them with small difficulty.” Standing just to Eilian’s left, Elladan gave the ghost of a smile, and Ithilden felt a chill run down his spine. He glanced at his father, and Thranduil nodded his permission to speak.

“Did you have any trouble persuading the Men to join you?” Ithilden asked. He needed to know just how willing the Men of Esgaroth would be to fight alongside Elves.

Eilian relaxed slightly and grinned, looking for the first time as gleeful and exuberant as he usually did when he had been in a successful fight. “They were straining at their tethers to do it,” he crowed. “There were only three of them, but they fought valiantly once their blood was up, despite the fact that they do not seem to do well in the dark. Their officers had not allowed them to go after the Orcs before because they were too few, and they were annoyed about it, I can tell you. But then we ran into one of their captains as we were setting out home at daybreak today, and when I thanked him on your behalf for loaning us his warriors, he said that it was he who owed us thanks.”

Ithilden found himself smiling back at his brother. He still had no idea what had happened between Eilian and the sons of Elrond, but whatever it was must be a small matter next to the forming of this link in the chain of connections between the Woodland Realm and its Mannish neighbors.

He glanced at Thranduil, trying to see how he had reacted to this information about the Men, but he found his father eying the sons of Elrond from under slightly lowered lids. “We thank you for your help in this matter, good sirs.”

Elladan and Elrohir both bowed slightly. “It was our pleasure,” Elladan said. Eilian looked suddenly aside, and Ithilden could have sworn that he grimaced. Maltanaur seemed to have caught the look on Eilian’s face too, and for some reason, he abruptly looked pleased.

“All of you are welcome to go and refresh yourselves,” Thranduil told them. The four warriors bowed and left the Great Hall, with Thranduil keeping a thoughtful eye on them as they went.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Ithilden murmured.

Thranduil shrugged. “I do not know, but whatever it was, it seems to have left Eilian distinctly less charmed by the sons of Elrond. I cannot say I am sorry. He is still far too young to deal on anything even resembling equal terms with the likes of them. And Legolas will be glad to have him home again. The child seemed worried at mid-day meal.”

The guard entered the room again. “Cudry of Esgaroth,” he announced, and Ithilden turned to see a Mannish merchant entering the Great Hall, trailed by an Esgaroth soldier, who was plainly trying to keep in the background. Cudry, however, looked eager for his meeting with the king. Ithilden glanced at his father and blinked. A look of wolfish satisfaction had settled on Thranduil’s face.

***

“Is that as far as you have gotten with those math problems, Legolas?” The tutor sounded exasperated, and Legolas supposed he could not blame him. Legolas’s attention had not been on his lessons this afternoon. “I expect you to finish them on your own before I see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, Galeril.” Legolas tried to sound submissive. He did not want the tutor to take it into his head to keep Legolas working longer than usual. He needed to get food for Rodda to take with him when he left that night. Waybread would be best, if he could get it from the warriors’ stores. And he had no time to waste. At mid-day meal, he had told his father than he had awakened and eaten early that morning and then had wanted to be outside, and his father had seemed to accept that explanation, but if he were late for evening meal, Thranduil would almost certainly suspect that he was up to something.

The tutor eyed him for a minute and then sighed. “Do you want to talk about whatever it is you have on your mind?”

Legolas immediately dropped his gaze to the table. Was he really so transparent? “No,” he said cautiously. He looked up. “I have nothing on my mind.”

The tutor smiled wryly. “You do not have your lessons on your mind at any rate.” He reached to tidy the books scattered across the library table. “You may go. Just remember to finish the math.”

“I will. Thank you.” Deeply relieved, Legolas jumped up from his chair and started for the door.

“Wait!” called the tutor, and when Legolas turned around, he held out the math paper which Legolas had left on the table. “By tomorrow,” the tutor repeated firmly.

“By tomorrow,” Legolas pledged, took the paper, and fled. He paused only long enough to leave the math paper in his room and take his cloak. Then he hurried out of the palace and ducked into the gardens through which lay the shortest path to the warrior training grounds. He trotted along the graveled path, his mind on what he might say to the Elf who managed the warriors’ supplies. Could he just say he needed waybread for a journey, implying that he would be the one making the trip without actually saying so? And if he did say that, would the Elf believe him? A small part of his mind kept whispering that all of this was pointless because the danger that lurked in the forest would end Rodda’s journey long before hunger did.

“Good afternoon, young Legolas.” A gruff voice startled him out of his preoccupation, and he looked to see Mithrandir seated on one of the garden benches, puffing on his pipe. He skidded to a halt, knowing he was bound by politeness to speak to their guest, but agonizing over the lost time.

“Good afternoon, Mithrandir.”

The wizard raised a bushy eyebrow. “Are things as bad as that then?” he asked.

Legolas blinked. “As bad as what?”

“As bad as your face suggested when you came along that path. Come. Take a moment to sit with an old man. Some time on a garden bench may be just what you need.”

Legolas doubted that very much, but he did not see how he could politely refuse. He seated himself on the edge of the bench. Mithrandir smiled at him. “I am not sure that perching counts as sitting on a garden bench. Sit back and talk to me for a few minutes while I smoke. I promise you I will not keep you long. Just talk about whatever you like to help me pass the time.”

An idea occurred to Legolas. Mithrandir did not seem overly concerned about what Legolas was doing. Perhaps, if Legolas was cautious, he could learn something. “Mithrandir, you have gone about among Men, have you not?”

“Yes, I have.” Mithrandir took a long draw on his pipe, apparently willing to wait for Legolas to lead their conversation.

“Ithilden says they have soldiers who are no bigger than I am.”

“They have squires,” Mithrandir corrected. Legolas considered asking him to clarify the difference but decided he did not have time.

“What would happen to a squire who deserted?” He held his breath to wait for the answer.

Mithrandir frowned slightly, took his pipe in his hand, and looked at it thoughtfully. “I suppose that would depend on who the men were and what you mean by deserted. One who fled from his duties might be beaten or confined for a time, I suppose.”

Legolas considered this. “What do you mean, ‘his duties’?”

“I mean the service he provides for his master.”

“What if he ran away from a battle?”

“A younger squire, one your size, would not usually be expected to go into battle,” Mithrandir said. “Only those who are nearer the age at which they would become warriors themselves do that.”

“You mean a younger squire would not be hanged?” Legolas scarcely dared to move as he waited for Mithrandir’s answer.

Mithrandir looked at him sharply. “Hanged? No. It is true that Men often hang soldiers who desert, but a boy your size would not be punished in that way.”

Legolas’s heart leapt, and he struggled to keep his elation from showing in his face. Rodda would not be hanged! He might be beaten though, Legolas suddenly thought. He bit his lip. Was that what Mithrandir had said? Legolas did not think he could bear the thought of someone hurting Rodda any further. And would he be able to persuade Rodda to go back to Esgaroth, even if he would not be hanged? He found he was uncertain. Rodda had no reason to trust Mithrandir and no family to draw him back to Esgaroth. Who would he live with?

“Is there some reason in particular you want to know about squires?” Mithrandir asked.

“No. I was just wondering,” Legolas said hastily. Mithrandir continued to look at him steadily. “Ithilden told me about them, and I was just wondering.”

At length, Mithrandir looked down and then turned his pipe upside down and knocked it against the edge of the bench so that some burned stuff that Legolas could not identify fell out. Taking this as a sign that he had done as Mithrandir asked and sat with him while he smoked, Legolas got to his feet. “I must go now, Mithrandir. I need to talk to someone.” And before the wizard could answer, he had sped off along the path. What should he do? he wondered. It seemed to him that there was only one thing he could do.

***

A pleasant heat flamed in Thranduil’s guts as he watched Cudry make his way into the Great Hall, smiling with what he no doubt thought was ingratiating charm. The merchant bent one knee to the floor and started to bob up before he realized that Thranduil had not yet given him permission to rise. He hesitated, met Thranduil’s gaze, and then dropped down again with a heavy and, with any luck, painful thud of knee against stone floor. Thranduil waited until Cudry’s smile had faded completely before he gestured for the Man to rise and approach.

“Our steward tells us that you are able to replace the cloth we lost in the attack on one of our rafts,” Thranduil began. He kept his voice soft, but he was aware of the sharp glance that Ithilden sent his way from where he stood at Thranduil’s right hand. Ithilden’s eyes shifted quickly from Cudry to Thranduil and back again, but he said nothing and Cudry appeared to notice nothing.

“I’m happy to say that I can replace it, my lord,” Cudry bubbled, his smile returning. “Fortunately, I just happened to have what you wanted on hand, and while I have other customers who wanted that cloth, I know how much you need it, and I’ve decided to sell it all to you.”

“How generous of you.” Thranduil heard the edge in his own voice and paused to get himself under control again before saying, “Your prices are rather high.”

Cudry lifted his hands in a pantomime of regret. “I’m sorry about that. I really am, but as I say, I have other customers who want the cloth. I have to have some compensation for angering them. After all, it’s possible they won’t buy from me again.”

“True enough,” Thranduil agreed, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn up. Cudry stared at him and then smiled back a bit uncertainly.

“We do wish to ask you some questions before we agree to have you replace our cloth,” Thranduil said, leaning forward a little. Next to him, Ithilden tensed slightly. They had sat through enough rounds of diplomacy together for him to know when Thranduil had finished with preliminary niceties. “We noticed that you seemed to know almost at once that our raft had been attacked and our goods lost,” Thranduil said, and suddenly Ithilden let out a small breath.

“Everyone in Esgaroth knew,” Cudry said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I tell you it’s a scandal that honest folks can’t even travel the river in safety any more.”

“Honest people have indeed been treated scandalously.” Thranduil let his voice harden. “We also thought it a very great coincidence that you happened to have on hand exactly what we wished to buy.”

Cudry blinked at him, opened and closed his mouth, and then drew himself erect in offended dignity. “Just what are you implying, my lord?”

Thranduil rose, descended the step from his chair, and began to circle around Cudry, who kept turning to face him, eyes suddenly widening like those of an animal at bay.

“Tell us, Cudry. Have the Men of Esgaroth taken to wearing formal robes of green and brown silk now. Is that why you have so much on hand?”

From the corner of his eye, Thranduil could see the guard who had accompanied Cudry stirring uneasily, although whether his discomfort was due to Cudry’s possible peril or to suspicions aroused by Thranduil’s question, Thranduil could not have said. The guard would not do anything here in the Great Hall in any case.

“The mayor wears silk sometimes,” Cudry said. Beads of sweat had appeared on his upper lip.

“Is he the other customer of whom you spoke?” Thranduil asked, continuing to prowl around the Man. “If so, we will have to send him our apology. Shall we write to him?”

“No!” Cudry licked his lips. “The mayor is not the customer.”

“Who then?” Thranduil stopped circling and instead drew nearer the Man, forcing him to crane his neck to meet Thranduil’s narrowed eyes. Cudry took an involuntary step backwards only to find himself up against the substantial chest of Ithilden. He gave a little start and turned to find Ithilden smiling nastily down at him.

“I can’t tell you the other customer’s name,” Cudry croaked.

“Of that we have no doubt,” Thranduil snarled. “You cannot tell us the customer’s name because there is no other customer. You had the cloth on hand because you fully expected us to need it, and you knew about the attack on the raft because you were the one who carried it out!”

“No!” the man wailed, looking toward the guard for help and finding none. The guard stared at him, appalled. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“The attacker was not a thief,” Thranduil went on relentlessly. “He did not try to take the goods that were on the raft. He only tried to stop it from returning to us. You were the only one who benefited from that attack, you with your supply of silk in the colors worn by Wood-elves. Did you think we were such fools that we would not notice?”

For a second, Thranduil thought that the Man would go on denying his guilt. And then Cudry burst out, “That contract should have been mine! It was stolen from me, and I had a right to take it back.”

Thranduil drew back in disgust. “You lost that contract because you provided us with shoddy goods.” He turned his back on the Man and went to seat himself in his chair. When he looked again, he saw that Cudry’s face was ashy, as he stood with Ithilden’s hand lightly on his shoulder. “But we are going to do something that should delight you, Cudry. We are going to allow you to replace the cloth that was lost when the raft was destroyed.”

Cudry looked uncertain. “You are going to buy my cloth?”

“Ah, no. We did not say that.” Thranduil leaned back, feeling a vicious satisfaction. “What we said was that you are going to replace what we lost. Indeed, you are going to give us two extra bolts of the wool in order to atone in some part for the crime you committed. And we warn you that the quality of the cloth had better be good, or we will see to it that you are exceedingly sorry.”

Cudry closed his eyes for a moment, as if to deny the reality of what was happening. Thranduil waited until he opened them again and then, from the small table at his left elbow, picked up the letter that his advisor had prepared for him earlier. “This is a message to the head of trade council at Esgaroth. It tells him what you have done and also what we require of you in atonement. It makes clear that if you do not do as we say, all of our trade with Esgaroth will be withdrawn. We will get what we need elsewhere. Indeed I will shear the sheep and weave the cloth myself if I have to before I will deal with the likes of you again!” Ithilden raised an eyebrow, but Thranduil ignored him. If Esgaroth’s trade council did not hold Cudry accountable, Thranduil was so furious that he was willing to send Elves as far as he had to in order to find other marketplaces. He slapped the letter down on the table again.

“There is also one thing more. You shot one of our people.” For Thranduil, injuring the raft elf was clearly the most terrible crime that Cudry had committed, and only the knowledge that a blow to the merchant’s pocketbook would probably be more painful than a blow to his body had kept Thranduil from wreaking a retaliatory wound. “Lord Ithilden will find escorts for you now, and they will take you to the wounded elf’s cottage, where you will confess your crime and offer him whatever he asks in the way of compensation.”

Cudry’s mouth dropped open. “My lord, please!” he moaned, but Ithilden was already moving toward the door to summon the guards.

“Get out of our sight,” Thranduil hissed. “We expect delivery of the cloth within three days. If we do not have it, we will come after it, and you will find that very unpleasant indeed.”

Cudry hesitated for a second and then turned to stumble toward the door, where two of Ithilden’s warriors stood, waiting to escort the Man. The guard who had come with Cudry turned to follow him, and then turned back. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said in a strained voice. “I will see to it that the authorities in Esgaroth know about this.” Thranduil nodded, and the guard hurried out the doors, through which Cudry had now disappeared.

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily, the fury still flooding his body. Suddenly, he noticed a slender figure standing to one side just within the doors. “Legolas! What are you doing here?”

Legolas looked uncertainly from Thranduil to the antechamber outside the doorway. Thranduil could hear Cudry protesting against the guards’ grip on him and realized that Legolas must have witnessed some of the scene with the merchant. He frowned. Legolas was forbidden to come into the Hall unless invited when Thranduil was conducting the business of the realm. “You know better than to bother me in the Great Hall,” Thranduil snapped.

Legolas swallowed and began to edge toward the doorway. “I am sorry. I should go.”

And abruptly, Thranduil realized that the child was upset, probably over something in addition to the incident with Cudry. I should have realized, he thought in dismay. He felt a spurt of guilt. Legolas had never before interrupted him without good reason, and he probably was not doing so now. In sudden concern, Thranduil rose and started toward his youngest son. “What is it, child? Is something the matter?” Their eyes met, and Legolas stared at him for a long moment. “Do you need something, my heart?” Thranduil prodded softly.

Then Legolas’s face shifted slightly, and he drew a deep breath. “Adar, I have something to tell you.”

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter for me.

*******

10. True Colors

Aghast at the story his youngest son had just told him, Thranduil stood for a moment in stunned silence, with his hands grasping Legolas’s shoulders, where he had grabbed him when Legolas had first announced that he and his friends had been hiding a Mannish child. Thranduil had let out a single exclamation of dismay, and then choked back the rest of what he wanted to say when Legolas faltered in his tale. “Go on,” Thranduil had urged in the calmest tone he could muster, and Legolas had bitten his lip and then continued telling about the boy and what had happened to him.

Now Legolas squirmed a little, and Thranduil became aware that he was gripping his son’s shoulders too tightly. He loosened his hands immediately and drew a deep breath. “Legolas, how could you do such a foolish thing? You do not know this child at all. Anything could have happened! He could have panicked and hurt you! He could be ill! And encouraging him to cross the forest by himself is just madness!”

“Adar, he is so frightened.” Legolas’s voice trembled slightly, and Thranduil realized the child was close to tears. He swallowed the rest of the scolding he had been about to deliver and drew his son into an embrace, cradling the back of Legolas’s head in his hand and letting the beat of his own heart slow down a little. There would be time enough to try to make Legolas aware of how poor his judgment had been. And in the meantime, he apparently needed to deal with a terrified Mannish child who had seen his only parent killed and now was about to wander off into the forest by himself. What in Arda was Thranduil going to do about this boy who was apparently a citizen of Esgaroth and member of its army?

“Please help him,” Legolas begged, his voice muffled in Thranduil’s robe. “You can do it, Adar, and he has no one.” His tone of voice left no doubt of how deeply he felt the horror of the Mannish child’s loss.

Thranduil stroked the blond head comfortingly, even as he grimaced at Legolas’s faith in his power to help. He sighed and released Legolas slightly. They could not very well leave the boy where he was. Thranduil would have to see what he could do. “He is in the cottage next door to Turgon’s?” Legolas nodded, and Thranduil looked to where Ithilden stood in the doorway, watching them in consternation almost equal to Thranduil’s and plainly ready to move. “Go get him,” he ordered.

“No!” Legolas cried, jerking away from Thranduil’s hands. “No, Adar! Rodda does not know Ithilden. He will be scared, and he might do something foolish.” He threw an apologetic glance at his brother. “Let me go and get him.” He took a step toward the door, looking pleadingly at Thranduil.

Thranduil could see Ithilden halt and raise a questioning eyebrow at him. He looked down into Legolas’s troubled face. Had his older sons ever been as willing to fight their friends’ battles as this one was? he wondered in half-amused despair. “Not by yourself,” he said firmly. “We will go together.”

Legolas’s face lit up, and Thranduil pulled off the formal robe he had donned over the tunic and leggings he had worn to go riding earlier in the afternoon. He went to the door and handed the robe to a servant. “Get my cloak,” he instructed and then turned to Ithilden. “Make sure that the guard who came with Cudry does not leave yet. Cudry can go home by himself if he needs to, given how unlikely he is to meet an attacker.” Ithilden grinned at his dry tone, picked up his own cloak from the bench outside the door, and went off to do Thranduil’s bidding.

“Are you going to make Rodda go back to Esgaroth with the guard, Adar?” Legolas asked worriedly. “Mithrandir said the other soldiers might beat him for running away.”

Thranduil could feel exasperation rising. He did not yet really know what he was going to do with Rodda. Surely the boy’s fate should be decided by other Men. And yet Thranduil found he felt the same way Legolas did about the idea of a terrified child being beaten for his fear-driven acts. However reluctant he might be to interfere in Men’s affairs, he knew he could not let that happen. “I will not allow the child to be hurt, Legolas.” His son let out a long, tremulous breath, as Thranduil turned to let the returning servant drape the cloak over his shoulders.

“Come,” he said and strode out the Great Doors and down the steps, with Legolas trotting anxiously along beside him. They passed the raft Elf’s cottage, but no one was in sight. Cudry had either finished confessing to the Elf or was still within, moaning at the idea of giving away whatever the Elf had demanded by way of compensation. Thranduil took grim delight in picturing the scene.

“This way, Adar.” Legolas led him around Turgon’s cottage and then through a small grove of trees to the back door of the abandoned one next to it. Without hesitation, Legolas pushed the door open and entered the cottage. “Rodda,” he called. “Rodda, I am back again, and do not be afraid, but this time I brought my adar.”

He darted through a door on the left, and Thranduil followed into a musty room to find a thin, dark-haired boy just scrambling up from where he had evidently been lying on the bed, alarm blossoming in his face. He turned wide eyes on Thranduil and shoved himself back into the corner in which the bed was wedged, wrapping his cloak tightly around his drawn up knees as if it would protect him. Thranduil was aware that his size and simple presence intimidated most Men, a fact he normally found quite useful, but he grimaced at the effect he was having on Rodda, who suddenly seemed to Thranduil to be not a member of the sometimes troublesome race of Men, but only a child in need of an adult’s protection.

“No, no,” Legolas soothed. “My adar will help you. And I asked Mithrandir and he said that the Men would never hang you, and my adar will not make you go back to Esgaroth anyway, unless you want to.”

Thranduil had to suppress an annoyed exclamation. He was certain he had not told Legolas any such thing. He would make sure that no one hurt the boy, but if the Men of Esgaroth demanded the boy’s return, the Elves had no right to keep him. He would certainly resent it if Men kept an Elf child whose parents had died.

The boy had glanced at Legolas, but his fear seemed so strong that Thranduil was not sure he had taken in what Legolas was saying. He drew near the bed and then crouched down next to it so his eyes and Rodda’s were on the same level. “My son tells me you need help,” he said in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “I think I can give it to you if you will let me.” Rodda stared at him. “This cottage must be cold in the night,” Thranduil observed softly. “Let us take you home and put you in a warm bed.” He put out his hand.

“I have to leave,” Rodda said, his voice breaking slightly.

Thranduil shook his head. “I will not allow anyone to hurt you, child. Stay with us for a while, and we will find a safe place for you to live and grow up.” Rodda hesitated, and Thranduil held completely still, feeling as if he were coaxing a woodland creature to take food from his fingers.

“Did Legolas tell you what I did?” Rodda whispered.

“Yes. And so far as I can tell, you have done nothing for which any reasonable person would blame you. You could not have fought the Orcs. The trained, adult warriors who were with you could not do it. You did the right thing to get away from them. And you have suffered a very great loss, for which I am sorry.”

Rodda stared at him for a moment with his mouth slightly open. Then his lower lip began to tremble, and as he reached out and took Thranduil’s hand, a tear slid down his dirty cheek.  Thranduil rose to his feet, pulling Rodda off the bed and gathering him to his chest, just as he would have done with Legolas. Rodda shuddered in his arms, while Thranduil rocked slightly and crooned to him. After a long moment, the boy drew a deep breath and pulled himself erect.

“Get his things, Legolas,” Thranduil told his wide-eyed son, and Legolas hastened to gather the pack, bow, and quiver, while Thranduil put his arm around Rodda’s shoulders and guided him into the hall and then out into the late afternoon sunshine. Rodda turned a slightly dazzled looking face toward the sky. It had been several days since he had been outside, Thranduil realized. Legolas fell into position on Rodda’s other side, and the two of them began to lead Rodda toward the palace.

“Perhaps you are hungry,” Thranduil suggested. “Legolas is always hungry these days too. I am sure the kitchen can send something up for you.” Abruptly he became aware that Rodda had stopped. They had emerged onto the Green and were heading toward the bridge leading to the steps up to the Great Doors.

“Where are we going?” Rodda asked, and a note of fear had returned to his voice. “I’ve heard about this place. This is the Elvenking’s palace, isn’t it? Are you taking me to him to be judged?”

Suddenly it dawned on Thranduil that Legolas must never have mentioned to Rodda that his father was the king. He saw from the startled look on Legolas’s face that he had just realized the same thing. “No, no,” Legolas said hastily. “I live here, and my adar is the king. He already judged you, I think.”

Rodda turned a stunned face toward Thranduil. For a moment, he seemed caught in his fear, but then he swallowed and hastily bowed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t know.”

Thranduil gravely inclined his head and then, with some amusement, put his arm back around the shoulders of this boy who was at least brave enough to face the fearsome Elvenking. They made their way into the palace and then down the corridor housing the royal family’s quarters. “Would you like to stay with Legolas?” Thranduil asked. Now that he had seen the boy, he was certain Legolas had nothing to fear from him, and from the relief on Rodda’s face, he welcomed the idea of sharing Legolas’s chamber.

Pausing to ask a passing servant to fetch food for the two younglings, Thranduil escorted them into Legolas’s room, where a fire had already been lit against Legolas’s return, and slipped the heavy cloak from Rodda’s shoulders. A familiar looking cloak, he suddenly realized, the one that had recently been made to replace the too-short one that Legolas had used the previous winter. And he now noticed that the clothes under the cloak were Legolas’s too. With some dismay, he realized that his son had been generous with more than food. He hoped that Cudry did as he had been told and produced the wool cloth. Otherwise, Legolas was likely to have cold legs when the snow flew again.

Thranduil regarded the rather grubby figure that now stood before him with eyes shyly downcast and could not help wrinkling his nose a little. The boy needed a wash. “Show Rodda where the bath is, Legolas,” he instructed. “He has time to clean up before the food arrives.” Legolas led the boy into the bathing chamber, and Thranduil heard water running into the tub, and then someone closed the door, and all he could hear was the murmur of their two voices.

He slid his own cloak off, sank into one of the chairs at the table near the door, leaned his head back against the wall, and contemplated the idea that this child, who was no bigger than Legolas, had been serving in Esgaroth’s army, had seen Orcs slaughtering his fellow soldiers, including his father, and had thought it necessary to flee on his own in order to avoid hanging. All of it made him ill. And suddenly he decided that if Rodda did not want to return Esgaroth, he would find somewhere else for the boy to live, no matter what the Men of Esgaroth said.

A knock sounded at the door, but rather than a servant delivering food, Ithilden entered the room. “Cudry’s guard is still here, Adar. I told him he was welcome to stay overnight in the guest quarters.”

“Good.”

Ithilden hesitated, glancing at the closed door to the bathing chamber. “You found the boy?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Thranduil nodded. “What are you going to do with him, Adar? I know Legolas wants you to protect him, and I would not want any further harm to come to him, but I would hate to have trouble with Esgaroth just now. Eilian’s report shows that they would be good allies, and we need them on our side. We still need to do something about guarding the Forest River, even if we know who attacked the raft. Thieves will inevitably try again.”

Thranduil saw the worried look on his son’s face and grimaced. He ran a weary hand over his hair. He had had millennia of experience with Men and had chosen to stay out of their affairs and keep them out of his. But history was behind him and the future seems to be moving them all closer and closer to a time of great trouble. What was he to make of the Men who were his neighbors? Should he allow his relations with them to grow closer? How was he to see them? Were they valiant fighters? Unscrupulous scrabblers after gold? Frightened children, who had suffered the same kind of loss as his own children and Elrond’s had at the hands of their common enemy?

Another knock sounded at the door, and this time it was the servant with a heavy tray of food. The kitchen had apparently decided that satisfying Legolas’s appetite was a serious task. The servant deposited the tray on the table and started to withdraw, but Thranduil called him back. “Ask Lord Eilian to come here, please.” The servant bowed and departed.

Thranduil rose. “I do not know yet what I will do with the boy, but I will not allow any further harm to come to him.” Ithilden nodded resignedly. “However, I believe I do know what to do about accommodating the Men and guarding the Forest River. You may move some of the warriors in the Western Border Patrol to guard the river.”

Ithilden blinked. “The western side of the realm is reasonably quiet at the moment, but if I move troops from there, I am not sure it will remain so.”

Thranduil smiled thinly. “I have something else in mind to help defend us from that direction.”

Eilian appeared in the doorway. “You wanted to see me, Adar?”

“Yes. Ithilden and I have something we must do. I want you to stay here with Legolas. You will find he has an interesting guest, I think.”

Eilian raised an eyebrow but came into the room willingly enough. Some time with Legolas would be no penance for him. He eyed the tray of food and reached for an apple.

“Come.” Thranduil beckoned Ithilden. “We need to go now if we want to be ready by the time the stars open. And I think we need to invite Mithrandir to go with us.” He swept from the room, trailing an intrigued-looking Ithilden in his wake, his mind already focused on the task in front of him.

***

Ithilden stood on the bank of the river that emptied into the Forest River a mile or so to his right. The river ran fast and deep but was no more than a dozen yard across. In the chilly autumn evening, it burbled soothingly of the mountains from which it came and the forest through which it ran. His father and Mithrandir stood conferring in voices low enough that he could not quite catch what they were saying, but something about the atmosphere tingled with anticipation, as if everything around him waited for something to change. In harmony with the woodland, Ithilden’s heart beat quickly. He knew what was about to happen. He just did not know what form it would take.

Then Mithrandir stepped back and stood holding his staff in front of him, while Thranduil began walking slowly along the edge of the river in the direction of its flow, one hand extended almost casually toward the surface of the water and the other opening toward the forest. Behind Ithilden, the song of the trees suddenly shifted, taking on a deeper tone. The hair on the back of his neck rose, as he sensed their roots stretching toward the water under the ground and heard their leaves fluttering and brushing excitedly against one another.

And then Thranduil turned and began walking upstream, hands still extended. Night had fallen by now, and Ithilden blinked, uncertain at first of what he was seeing. He caught his breath. The water beneath his father’s hand was darkening, and as Ithilden watched, the darkness spread ever more quickly, flowing upstream against the river’s natural course, rushing on ahead of Thranduil now to disappear in the direction from which the river came. In the black surface of the water, Ithilden could see the reflection of stars.

Thranduil dropped his arms to his side and stood for a moment watching the water. Then he turned and walked casually to Ithilden’s side, as Mithrandir too drew near. “Tell your warriors not to swim in this river or drink from it. The water will not do permanent harm to those who come in contact with it, but it will render them unconscious for a time. You can move some of the guards now. The river will protect us.”

For a moment, Ithilden stood rooted to the spot, while his father and Mithrandir made their way back to where the horses stood. He looked downstream toward where the Forest River lay and saw the blackness gradually lightening as the now enchanted river in front of him rolled toward it. And suddenly he laughed. The Men of Esgaroth would be happy to hear that Thranduil’s people would guard the Forest River for its entire length. And their respect for and fear of Thranduil would both be strengthened when they were warned not to enter this river, as they would surely have to be. Wry amusement swept through him. Just when he thought he had at last become wiser than his father, Thranduil would, of course, do something like this. Still shaking his head, Ithilden turned to follow Thranduil and Mithrandir.

***

Eilian realized with surprise that Legolas had fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fire. Given the strain under which Rodda had been living, he would have expected the boy to be the sleepy one, but Rodda was still alert and indeed, judging by the way he was fidgeting in his chair, he was increasingly restless. Eilian supposed that the situation the two younglings had told him about must have worn on his little brother too. He could not help smiling. Hiding a stray boy was such a Legolas thing to do. Their father must have had kittens when he heard about it.

“Are you not tired?” Eilian asked Rodda in a low voice, as he spread a blanket over Legolas. He would rouse him and send him to bed later.

Rodda shook his head. “I thought I was going to be leaving tonight, so I slept most of the day.” He kept his voice low too, trying not to disturb Legolas.

Legolas stirred slightly, and Eilian looked at Rodda thoughtfully. “Would you like to go out into garden?”

Rodda’s face brightened. “Yes, please! I have been inside for days.”

“You are not planning to bolt, are you?” Eilian asked cautiously. “I would be in serious trouble if I lost you.”

Rodda grinned and shook his head. “I promise I will not run away.”

“Come then,” Eilian said, rising and leading the way into the hall. He stepped into his own room to get his cloak and then led the boy out of the palace and into the gardens near the other end of the bridge. They strolled along the gravel path, with the stars spread thickly overhead and the scent of autumn drifting through the air. True to his word, Rodda stayed close by, trailing along behind him. Abruptly, Eilian halted, making Rodda bump into him. Three figures sat on a group of benches just ahead.

“Mae govannen, Eilian,” Elladan’s voice came through the shadows.

Eilian sighed. He supposed he could not avoid the sons of Elrond forever. They were guests in his home, after all, and there was such a thing as common politeness. “Mae govannen.” He approached the benches.

“Have you met Alen?” Elladan asked, gesturing toward the third person, a Man in an Esgaroth uniform Eilian now saw. “He apparently accompanied a merchant to see your adar today.”

The Man stood and Eilian opened his mouth to greet him but suddenly realized that Alen was not looking at him at all. “Rodda!” cried the Man, taking a step toward the boy. “Rodda, we thought you were dead!” And he crossed the remaining distance that separated them and swept the boy into his arms. Rodda’s eyes had widened in alarm at his first sight of Alen, and he stood stiffly in his embrace. “What happened to you?” Alen asked, releasing the boy.

Before Rodda could answer, Eilian stepped forward and extended his arm. “We have not met. I am Eilian Thranduilion.” As politeness require, Alen turned to him and shook his hand. Eilian withdrew from the greeting and put his arm around Rodda. “He managed to escape the attack and has been hiding in the woods,” Eilian said rather defiantly.

“Thank goodness,” Alen intoned fervently. “We lost enough soldiers. We did not need to lose you too, Rodda. And I am so sorry about your father.” Rodda’s lips parted, and Eilian could see that he was breathing quickly. When Legolas and Rodda had told Eilian about Rodda’s flight from the Orcs, it had been obvious to Eilian that the boy thought he had violated some standard the Mannish soldiers lived by. Eilian had been uncertain whether that was true. Expecting a child to fight Orcs had seemed stupid to him, but then allowing a child to be a soldier in the first place had seemed stupid too, and that was evidently normal practice. Alen seemed to see Rodda’s behavior as acceptable, however, so perhaps Rodda had been wrong in judging his own flight.

“Who is this?” Elrohir asked, and Eilian remembered the twins’ presence. “Surely this must be the boy the Esgaroth soldiers were so worried about. Good evening, child. I am Elrohir, and this is my brother, Elladan.”

“This is Rodda,” Eilian said, wondering about the interest Elrohir was showing. Until now, he would have sworn that the sons of Elrond were incapable of thinking about anything other than their grief.

Still looking a little dazed, Rodda made a small bow to the sons of Elrond. “Good evening.”

Elrohir swept his arm invitingly toward the bench on which he and his brother sat. “Sit with us for a while.” Rodda glanced at Eilian uncertainly, and then, at his nod, sat down on the bench, leaving a little space between himself and Elrohir. Reminded of the Esgaroth soldiers’ behavior when the twins sat with them around the campfire, Eilian grinned and sat on the other bench with Alen. He would remove Rodda from the scene immediately if Alen or the twins upset him.

“We are very pleased to meet you, Rodda,” said Elrohir gravely. “We heard a great deal about you yesterday and last night.”

Rodda looked at him uncertainly. “You heard about me?”

“Yes. We were on a mission with some of the Esgaroth soldiers yesterday, and they were quite upset that they had found no sign of you after the attack. They were anxious to have you home.”

Eilian admired Elrohir’s careful language. Rodda did not need to know that the Men had been looking for his bones.

Rodda licked his lips and darted a glance at Alen. “Perhaps I won’t go home,” he said in a voice so low that Alen leaned forward to hear him better.

“Won’t go home?” Alen cried. “Of course you’ll go home. You can’t be out in the world on your own, Rodda. You’re far too young. I know you have no folks of your own now, but there are those who would take you in.  The captain would help you find a place. The soldiers of Esgaroth look after their own.”

“He is too young to be a soldier,” Eilian interposed without thinking. He really could not help himself.

“Too young for an Elf,” said Elrohir mildly, “but perhaps not for a Man. And surely the choice should be Rodda’s.”

“Yes, it should,” Eilian said emphatically. “No one is going to force him to do anything he does not want to do, including returning to Esgaroth. The king has promised him that.”

Alen blinked at them and then turned to Rodda. “I know you might not want to squire for anyone else just yet, lad, and your pledge was only to your father. But if you wait a year or two, you might feel differently. And where would you go if you didn’t come home?”

“He can stay here,” Eilian said. Silence hung heavily for a second, and Eilian saw the doubtful looks on the faces of the others, including Rodda, who bit his lip and looked sideways at the sons of Elrond sitting next to him.

“Thranduil may find that fostering a Mannish boy is a demanding task,” Elrohir observed with a small smile.

“Men dwell near our home in Imladris,” said Elladan, speaking for the first time. “I am sure we could find someone there who would be glad to give Rodda a new home.” Eilian looked at him in surprise. Was Elladan actually suggesting that he and his brother would take Rodda with them and return to the other side of the Misty Mountains?

Elladan leaned forward slightly so that he could look around Elrohir and meet Rodda’s eyes. “But you should think about going back to Esgaroth with Alen, Rodda. I know the idea is painful. You have lost someone dear to you in horrifying circumstances, and you feel lost and abandoned. But your friends and neighbors are still there, and judging by what the soldiers we talked to said, they would welcome the chance to comfort you. Your parents would want you to try to be happy again, and home is not a bad place to be when you are in trouble.”

Elrohir stared at his brother, and then quickly looked down at his hands. He was clearly as astonished at what he had heard as Eilian was to hear nearly his own words to Elladan coming back to him.

A small sound drew Eilian’s gaze back to Rodda, who was pressing his trembling lips together. Eilian jumped to his feet. “Rodda is tired,” he declared, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him off the bench and close to his side. “He is not going to decide anything until he has had a good night’s sleep.” He could feel the boy quivering slightly, and he began to guide him back toward the palace entrance.

Then, caught by a curiosity he could not suppress, he stopped and looked at the sons of Elrond. “And what of you, Elladan?” he asked, although he knew he was prying. “Will you go home to those who want to comfort you?”

Elladan hesitated before he spoke. “Not yet, I think, but soon.” His face was obscured by the shadows of the garden, but Eilian thought he smiled slightly. Elrohir patted his arm but said nothing, and Eilian led Rodda away.

***

Ithilden watched as his father stood next to Alen’s horse with his hand on Rodda’s shoulder. “I will ask my steward to visit you every time he is in Esgaroth, Rodda,” Thranduil said. “I look forward to hearing how you are doing.”

Ithilden suppressed a smile. His father was informing Alen that Rodda was under his protection, and the Man plainly knew it. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, and then Thranduil grasped Rodda’s waist to help him up onto the horse in front of Alen. As he did so, Rodda’s cloak slid aside, revealing the quiver he clutched in his hand. Almost imperceptibly, Thranduil hesitated, and then lifted the boy.

Ithilden followed the direction of Thranduil’s eyes to see the arrows in Rodda’s quiver, arrows with an elegant, Elven crest and dark blue fletching. Next to him, Eilian’s sharp intake of breath told Ithilden that he had seen the same thing. Without comment, Thranduil took the quiver from Rodda’s hand, strapped it to the side of the horse with Alen’s, and stepped away from the horse and raised his hand to send the Man and the boy on their way.

“Good-bye, Rodda,” Legolas called, waving. “Write to me and I will write back.”

“I will,” called Rodda. “Good-bye!” They trotted off along the path and quickly disappeared among the trees.

Legolas stood looking after them, and Ithilden realized that Thranduil was watching him thoughtfully. “You need to go now, Legolas,” Thranduil said, reaching to stroke the blond head. “You will be late for your archery class.”

Legolas made a small face. “I know.” He sighed. “I will see you at mid-day meal” He started slowly off toward the training fields.

“I will walk with you, Legolas,” Ithilden offered, slipping into place next to him. Legolas looked at him a little anxiously. He was probably worried about how Penntalion would react when he came to class with no arrows of his own making, and having Ithilden witness the scene might strike him as a bad idea.

Eilian caught up with them and fell into step on the other side of Legolas. “I would like to get in some sparring this morning before I see the healers later on. I think they will be releasing me for active duty soon.”

Ithilden nodded. “That would not surprise me.” Legolas remained silent, with them talking over his head, for the length of the walk.

As they drew near the field where the archery class was held, they could see most of the other students already assembled. Even from a distance, it was obvious that they were poking through one another’s quivers. The three of them walked up to the fence surrounding the field and paused.

Eilian spoke first. “If you do not mind, brat, I would like to stay and see you shoot. I have not watched you for a while, and Penntalion tells me you are getting quite good, no matter what arrows you use.”

Startled, Legolas turned to look at him.

“Penntalion has been teaching archery for a long time,” Ithilden said, “and he is a good judge of his students, so he is undoubtedly correct. I believe I would like to watch too.”

Legolas swiveled toward Ithilden. A slow smile spread across his face. “Thank you,” he said and trotted off to go through the gate and join his friends.

Ithilden folded his arms on the top bar of the fence and leaned against it, with Eilian next to him. As they watched, Penntalion strode onto the field. As Ithilden had expected, he carried a quiver of armory arrows, just as he always did. He laid it on the grass edging the field, called the class to him, and began inspecting the arrows they held out for his examination. Legolas’s friend, Turgon, stood a little to one side, kicking at the dirt and looking sullen. Legolas walked to stand next to him and said something that surprised Turgon, who turned to look at the quiver on Legolas’s back. Penntalion arrived in front of them, glanced at their quivers, and gestured calmly toward the quiver of armory arrows. They both ran to the quiver and selected a number of arrows.  When they fell back into line with the other students, the class began.

Someone came to stand next to him, and Ithilden looked to see Tonduil’s sister, Alfirin. Immediately his heart began to race, and he became acutely aware of Eilian standing just behind him. Alfirin smiled. “Tonduil has been talking for days about the arrows they were all to make. He expected that Legolas would have something quite special. Today must be Legolas’s day to really shine.”

Ithilden blinked and then glanced toward the field and smiled. “I think it is,” he said.

The End