Some days were just better than others, that was all there was to that. A battle fought and won, now that could be considered a good day. A battle lost with lessons learned, harder to swallow but certainly not wasted. A good sunrise, a lovelier moonrise, and beauty or love or both in between - not a bad thing at all, that... But this day? Ai, this cannot be said to be a good day at all...

Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris, pondered these thoughts and more as he stared out over the landscape, marking the familiar territory of the Vale of Anduin. Time was in short supply. A life hung in the balance - a young life, always an especial tragedy to lose by the way Elves reckoned such matters, as there were not a lot of youngsters coming into the world any more. Elrond sighed lightly and traced with one powerfully delicate fingertip the design on the horn of his saddle. If it were not a matter of life and death, the whole situation might be rather perversely amusing...

To think that, after several centuries of enmity between Imladris and Mirkwood, his people should end up joining with King Thranduil's people in common cause! Elrond and his sons had been on their way to Lothlorien to visit with the family of his wife Celebrian, a frequent enough occurrence; but the journey had been interrupted by the sounds of battle from the fringe of southern Mirkwood. A hunting party of Silvan Elves, lightly armed and not expecting such trouble, had been set upon by a large collation of Orcs led by a fierce and determined Uruk-Hai. They had put up a stiff resistance - such things were always a matter of do or die, for no Elf wanted to be taken prisoner. The sudden arrival of a troop of reinforcements from Imladris had been welcome and most timely, for things had not been going well at all from the Mirkwood standpoint.

When it had all ended the Silvan commander had been effusive in his gratitude, until his attention was distracted by the fact that no one could seem to find a member of the Mirkwood hunting party. Missing in action was the very young son of King Thranduil Oropherion - one Legolas by name - who had only recently celebrated the twenty-third anniversary of his conception, and whose first hunt had been interrupted by the Orcish forces of Shadow. Child though he was, he had been raised in the Shadow-haunted atmosphere of Mirkwood among his father's Silvan subjects, and so he had apparently made a good account of himself with his bow; arrows fletched and decorated after the manner of Thranduil's House had been found in several of the dead Orcs. His mount, a trim, moonlight-coloured pony with black points, was discovered gutted at the edge of the field, and the Elves whose business it had been to defend the young Prince in battle were quite messily dead close by. But of the child, no sign had been found.

The cause of Elrond's sigh, a tall, silver-haired Sindarin Elf by the name of Tinuvil, rode up beside the Lord of Imladris and stared out across the scene of battle with a heavy heart. He was brother by marriage to Thranduil, and since the death of his sister the Queen some few years past, had been one of those put in charge of training the Prince in the many things a noble youth needed to learn in order to survive life in his father's realm, one of the least safe Elven dwelling places in all Middle-Earth. It would have been a drastic understatement to suggest he was upset at this moment...

"He must be here somewhere," Tinuvil exclaimed without other prelude. Elrond arched an eyebrow at him.

"We have searched everywhere reasonable."

"Then we must search in unreasonable places!" the Mirkwood lord demanded anxiously, his eyes sweeping the edge of the forest. "How can I return home to Thranduil and tell him his son is taken by Shadow? It would break his heart!"

"Wounded, dead or taken, none of it is easy news for a father to hear," Elrond commented neutrally, leaving unspoken any of a hundred things he might have otherwise said, given the long and not always pleasant history between himself and Mirkwood's proud, difficult ruler. Tinuvil looked stricken; a sob welled up from deep within, and he bowed his head.

"My sister's last-born," he murmured, his voice raw with pain. "And so very like her in so many ways..."

"We cannot think about that now," Elrond told him, trying to brace the other Elf. "The child has been taken alive by the Orcs. We all know what that can mean. You must steel yourself, Tinuvil, and do a kinsman's duty by your sister's son."

"Yes." Tinuvil raised his head slowly; his grey eyes looked like melted pewter in the dimness of the overcast afternoon. "I must find him and free him if I can - or take his life if I cannot. But by Elbereth, it is hard, Peredhil! He is barely a stripling - little more than a babe yet!"

Never mind that a little stripling princelet barely has any business to be in a hunting party at the great old age of twenty-three... Elrond frowned wryly and upbraided himself for his lack of charity. He turned to glance at his old friend and most trusted captain, Glorfindel, who sighed soundlessly and shrugged, the faintest of smiles touching his lips before he looked away.

Mirkwood was not Imladris; the threats of Shadow were closer, more personal up that way. Perhaps it truly was necessary for Thranduil to teach his sons the ways of war no matter how old they were. Perhaps there was need to rear a child of so few years in the art of killing Orcs, so that he lived long enough to walk as an elder among his people. It was not for a Noldor lord to criticize a Sindarin comrade when he ruled the earthier, less cultured Silvan Elves, who had issues of their own, all separate from the concerns of their more lordly distant kin. Elrond reminded himself to be grateful for small favors, if the peace in Imladris all these long years was to be so characterized as a favor of small proportion.

Elrond looked to his left at the sound of hoof beats; his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, were returning with the trackers who had gone afield to try and learn more about the Orc raiders. He raised a hand to catch their attention; Tinuvil looked listlessly at the new arrivals, and turned to suggest:

"I must send a messenger to Thranduil. He will want to have some say in what we do, Peredhil."

"There isn't time to send messengers to Mirkwood," Glorfindel demurred, giving Tinuvil a look that spoke volumes of his opinion of one who would give such an order. The other drew himself up pridefully.

"My marriage-brother will want to know how things stand with his own child," Tinuvil began, but Elrohir cut him off as he reined up alongside his father.

"I don't doubt for a heartbeat King Thranduil would like to know his son has been taken by Orcs!" the younger Elf expostulated. "If I had a son, I would want to know such a thing!" He paused to breathe hard, angry and impatient. "But we dare not take the time!" he concluded.

Agreeing, his brother started to add: "The child will be dead, by the time we sit here with our thumbs up our - "

"Elladan. Elrohir." Elrond's words cut across the shouting. He did not raise his voice, but then, he did not need to. "We gain nothing by standing here debating this. If anyone is interested, I do have a suggestion."

"By all means," Tinuvil said, though his expression was troubled. Elrond felt a stir of impatience, not having the time or inclination to coddle an annoyed and worried Mirkwood lord, no matter who he might be.

"Tinuvil, it is bad enough when an adult is taken by the enemy," Elrond pointed out, trying to be patient. "We speak of a child. Young Legolas deserves all our effort to rescue him, if we can. Moreover, he is wounded, and therefore doubly in need of our aid."

He swept the battlefield with eyes the colour of a storm at sea; a deep sadness came over his expression for a moment, and then was mastered. Only those who knew him well could mark and mourn the deepening of his tone, the indefinable sense of something having touched his heart in the saddest of ways, as he gazed over the heads of the others and said, "We must never forget or forgive what Orc-kind will always be tempted to do, when they take any Elf prisoner alive. It must not come to that for the young son of Thranduil."

"What then is your suggestion, Lord Elrond?" Tinuvil asked. He was tall, even for a Sindarin Elf, and his hair was as fair as Elrond's was dark; he had a face that lent itself to handsome arrogance, but at the moment, that arrogant air was overtaken by sorrow and anxiety. Elrond shortened his gaze, returned to the present time and place, and with a glance shared his sorrow with Tinuvil.

"We must, I agree, send word to Mirkwood. A father deserves to know what is amiss with his child. For the boy's sake, however, we dare not tarry upon Thranduil's coming. We must act now. We must find where they have taken the child, and get him away."

"By the time full day was upon them, the Orcs would have gone to ground," Elladan murmured, glancing back the way they had come. "We think we know where they are, Father."

Elrond dismounted to hear their report; after a moment, Tinuvil joined him on the ground, one of the Silvan Elves coming to hold their mounts. Elladan quickly described their efforts, how they had tracked the retreating remnant of the Orc band - barely twenty of them - to the deep, dark woods at the southernmost tip of Mirkwood. All of the Great Forest had once been a single realm, the crown jewel of the Rhovanion wilderland; but in these dark days, Elves only actually lived in the northeastern corner near Ered Mithrin, that to which Thranduil's realm had been reduced by the creep of Shadow from Mordor. The southern woods were grim and foul now without the beneficial effects of the Firstborn living under its eaves; many dark and dank things dwelt there, making it a place to be avoided.

"There is an old hunter's way station in a clearing south-east of the Gladden Fields," Elladan finished, drawing a map in the dirt at his feet with a knife. "Right about here, where the forest narrows to this bit -" he carved out the strange silhouette of the region, and stuck the point of the knife in the center of the narrowed area - "is the clearing. The hut is all broken down on two sides, but there is room enough within; and the forest hovers close, which would give most of them protection from the sunlight. If not there, then nearby, for all the tracks lead in that direction."

"Any sign of the child?" Tinuvil asked quietly. Elrohir and Elladan looked at him, glanced at their father, then looked at one another once more.

"They have him prisoner, yes," Elrohir said. Tinuvil closed his eyes and looked away, his proud shoulders quivering with the effort to maintain his dignity.

"We will ride to intercept the trackers, then," Elrond commanded, "and continue the hunt. Two things must be kept ever in our minds: to grapple with them, if at all possible, while it is day - and never to forget, they will use the child to their advantage if they can. We must be prepared for any eventuality along that line. If all hope fails, better the child should die by friendly hand, quick and merciful, than tormented by Orcs - or worse yet, carried off beyond our power to assist and made into one of their foul abominations by the black arts of Mordor. The Halls of Mandos are infinitely to be wished for, rather than the bowels of Shadow."

The silence around him deepened, thrumming with emotions too powerful to track. Measuring the pain in Tinuvil's eyes as he turned, Elrond suddenly experienced an encompassing gratefulness that he had never met young Legolas of Mirkwood, did not yet know what the child even looked like, beyond assuming he likely favored his parents and their lineage - and certainly relieved he did not know what manner of soul the boy carried. Love, honour and high regard could make a warrior stumble when the object of that regard was in peril of his life. Better far that Elrond come to know the child later, when (pray the Valar it may be so, may yet come to pass!) Legolas was safe and whole once more, and the entire matter was closed in the most satisfactory of ways.

He turned and gripped Tinuvil by both shoulders, gazing into the other Elf's eyes. "Forget for the moment that we speak of your sister's child," he reasoned urgently. "Put out of your mind any picture of happier moments, for the sake of the child himself. See the outrage committed by the Orcs, and train your heart to cold anger, not hot. Only then can you bring him safely home."

"Safe?" Tinuvil repeated, his voice ragged. "You speak of the Halls of Mandos - then of bringing Legolas home safely? You cannot have it both ways, Elrond!"

"Tinuvil, you are blinded by your pain," the Lord of Imladris rebuked him, however gently. "We speak of the worst to steel us for the trials to come. If we cannot bring him alive and whole from the hand of the enemy, it were better far to take his life in mercy than leave him alive in their clutches. You know this to be true." He paused, giving the Elf-lord a brief shake to make the words sink in. "But I do not intend to fail in this deliverance. I have my reasons for not leaving anyone in the hands of Orcs."

Orders were immediately given for the bulk of the company to depart, while a few stayed behind to burn the bodies of the enemy and prepare the deceased Elves for transport home to Mirkwood; none of Elrond's companions had been killed, though some were lightly wounded, none requiring more than a quick bandaging and a check to make certain all the wounds were clean of poison. Between the Mirkwood survivors and Imladris folk, the rescue party numbered seventeen, all of them experienced hands at warfare with Orcs.

As they rode out, Elrond schooled himself to a grimmer purpose than had marked his existence lately. His days of warfare had been long gone; recent efforts had been more peaceful, keeping the history of the Firstborn in his role as Lore-Master, and governing the sanctuary of Imladris, known in the Westron tongue as Rivendell, as a place where refugees from Shadow could find safety. But recent peace did not mean Elrond Peredhil could not make war when he needed to. Not when he had been schooled in that art by the great Elven-King Gil-galad himself...

The Orcs doubtless thought themselves clever using a child as a shield, if that was their aim. Doubtless they had some notion that it would be to spit in the face of the Sindar, to take one of their young Eldar-descended kin and make of him an abomination like themselves, bound to servitude forever to the Dark, and in the dark, his young body ravaged in its eternal youth until the Valar only knew what would come forth from whatever vile pairing they might force the lad into. If they knew their prisoner was the son of Thranduil, their chief enemy and opponent, doubtless they thought some fine result could be had from holding the child hostage...

One expressive eyebrow arching upward over deep and angry eyes, the Lord of Imladris gave a mirthless smile that offered no warmth to his set features, as they rode out. It gave him the look of an ancient Elven god, something decidedly not to be trifled with except upon pain of a very great deal of death.

Doubtless, he thought, the Orcs are sadly mistaken...

Young Prince Legolas of Mirkwood was dreaming. He had to be. There was no other way to explain what he was feeling, and the emotions he experienced. It was not a nice dream, either, and he was very eager to have it end. But try as he might, he could not seem to wake up. Close his eyes - there was awful pain everywhere, lancing from his right shoulder through every line and muscle in his body; and there was an undignified jouncing about, and a distinct inability to move or speak. Open his eyes, matters were even worse, for not only was there pain and all the unpleasantness he sensed with closed eyes, but there were also Orcs and other strange creatures in the forest, and he could not seem to see the moon or stars, though it was night. He was somehow in a very uncomfortable position as well, to make it all worse. And the stench! Heart of Elbereth, the stench would stop a cave troll in its tracks...

He attempted to make his mouth work, to raise his voice, to call for his servants or his father, but nothing came out save a smothered squeak. His tongue felt like wet, trampled wool, and there was a taste of blood and foulness in his mouth. Legolas tried to swallow, but that did not work either. When had his tongue gotten that big? It had not been like that this morning...

The child realized, with an unpleasant jolt, that the problem was not his tongue. Not directly, at least. No, it was cloth in his mouth, under his tongue in a kind of rolled wad, and more besides - there was a leather scrap of some sort tied over his mouth and chin. No wonder he could not make himself heard. And with his bright blond hair all hanging in his face, was it really a surprise he could not see where he was going? How often had Father said - Princes must always look like princes, little bird. Not like messy little tree-rats that have just fallen into the moss bed and rolled into the river! No, even in a nightmare this would never do.

He tried to raise a hand to brush his hair back. No response from his arms, just a kind of twitching at his sides. He tried again, squirming; Legolas was stunned when something hauled him back by the scruff of his neck and struck at him, cold, fetid flesh and claws slapping him in the face, making his head snap painfully back and opening a gash in his smooth, pale cheek.

"Hold your peace, Elfling!" a voice growled in the Common tongue, low and mean, with hints of an insinuating, hissing cantankerousness. Legolas felt himself thrown forward once more and hung there - wherever there was - in shock, tears of pain in his eyes, unable to breathe until the pain subsided - and certainly unable to think for a long moment.

Nightmares ought not to hit back. He knew what it was to be hit; weapons masters sometimes smacked one in the course of a lesson, and his father had hit him more than once when he committed some error, the better to let it sink in against repetition. His elder brother and various cousins also occasionally took swipes at him, but he was getting better at dodging those, and giving back in kind. In the main, though, there were very few blows or beatings in the life of a child prince. Nightmares ought never to hit princes, he thought, offended, greatly outraged. It just was not fair. It just was not done!

At last the jouncing and jolting seemed to slow, then stop, and Legolas' keen eyes could pick out certain details of the ground - which was all he could see from his annoying vantage point. There was more moonlight here, as well; he could see the outline of the track along which he was being made to travel, and could just make out details of a broad back, covered with dark, rough clothing and leather armor, much-befouled with blood of several different types. Legolas wrinkled his nose, appalled that one of those blood-scents was Elven. But there were animal blood-scents as well, and Dwarven, and something salt-sweet with an after-taste of copper that might have been Man-blood. As his head cleared from the blow, Legolas realized he was flung over someone's shoulder like so much baggage, and that the someone who owned the shoulder smelled like an Orc. He decided he ought not to tell the person this, should he ever have the chance, because the someone might hit him again.

Father will be SO angry when he finds out! Legolas thought, and was cheered by that. Father would most assuredly hit anyone who struck a son of his - and Father could hit hard. Perhaps it was best, then, to let Father deal with it. He was good at handling nightmares. He would come and sit on the edge of the bed, pretending to be put out, wondering aloud why a son of his should be such a mollycoddle. But then Legolas would dip his chin and look at him, big-eyed and patient, and Father would relent and smile, catching him up from the bedclothes to hold him on his lap. He would tell him stories to make the nightmares go away. Then, after maybe one or two times when Legolas would let his gaze go a little too long into the shadows of his bedchamber, Father would realize he had a very sleepy child on his hands, and would make him settle down again, singing softly to him of the Old Times until Legolas really did slide off, wide-eyed and silent, into the twilight realm of proper Elvish dreams...

He raised his head as best he could, trying to look about more. There was something tight about his throat, though, and when he tried to move, the tightness worsened, and oddly enough made his back twitch. But Legolas was able to see a little more, so he looked about in the dimness. All seemed to be dark and foresty behind him. But then suddenly, a leering, grinning Orc face appeared just above his own, and a tongue licked out, tasting the blood that dribbled down his cheek.

"I say we stop and eat 'im now," the face chortled, and nasty, mottled-looking hands came up to take Legolas by either side of his own face, pulling until they were practically nose-to-nose. "Nice, tender little Elfling," the face wheedled, breathing appalling breath into offended Elf nostrils. "Best thing for a big, bad Orc to eat in the night!"

Just as suddenly the face disappeared - somewhat painfully, as it turned out, for as Legolas found himself being turned away from the Orc, said Orc's clawed paws were still gripping his face. He made an unpleasant noise in his throat at the pain, and wearily wished Father would hurry up and wake him. One did want to be brave as long as one could, but this was getting ridiculous.

"Leave the brat alone, Galgrim," said the voice near Legolas' ear - the same voice that had told him to hold his peace. Presumably the one over whose shoulder he was so uncomfortably carried. Presumably - the one that had hit him. Oh, there would be some reckoning when Father arrived, that was a fact! "If anyone eats 'im, it'll be me, for having t'carry the smelly little rat all this way."

Smelly! Legolas was mortified and outraged. Smelly indeed! How dare he! The child squirmed with all his might, straining at his bonds, his nostrils flaring and eyes slit with fury. Does he have any idea who he's talking about? Oh, blessed Valar, give me strength and a weapon!

But rather than being dismayed at the fell fury of the son of King Thranduil, the Orcs simply seemed to find Legolas' infuriated struggling vastly amusing. Other of the vile creatures gathered around then, and there was a general tossing down of burdens, weapons and shields and - Elven princes, not to put too fine a point on it. Legolas found himself face-down on a muddy forest road for several seconds, as the Orcs laughed and called mocking encouragement. Pain of a bright and coiling kind bit through him when his wounded shoulder hit the ground; it knocked the breath from him, brought tears to his eyes, and something whispered deep within: the arrow, it must have been the arrow... Legolas blinked hard, trying not to cry for real. He was a warrior now, and the King's son, and anyway, crying would plug up his nose. Which would be very bad... Father, please, where am I? Where are you?

Realizing this nightmare had long since gone past reasonable by anyone's definition, the child simply stopped participating. He let stillness fall on him as only an Elf could, and turned his face out of the mud, so that at least he could breathe. He did not move, and calmed even his breathing until it would have taken more powerful senses than those of Orcs to detect any hint of motion from him. The laughing did not stop right away, but Legolas took the time to follow his training and attempt to figure out just what was going on here.

He discovered almost nothing that could be considered positive, save for the simple fact of knowing more about his predicament. Legolas' ankles were bound with tight leather thongs, and there was indeed some sort of thick leather collar tight about his slender throat. His arms were secured tight at his sides by thick straps in three places, and there was a rope running from the collar to his belt, and thence to the bindings about his ankles. His legs were bent at the knees - effectively hog-tying him, a most uncomfortable and undignified position in which to be. From what he could see now, here on the ground, there were some twenty Orcs gathered about him, all of them big and stinking and armed to the teeth. He squeezed his eyes almost shut and prayed for help.

Legolas decided, much though he wished it were otherwise, this was no nightmare. Or rather, it was a nightmare - but not the safer, more normal kind he experienced from time to time back home, at Eryn Lasgalen. This was the waking kind, the real kind.

The kind from which one might possibly not awaken...

Large Orc feet came into his line of vision as the sound of laughter died back to the more normal grunting, growling accompaniment one thought of, when imagining the society of Orcs. Swift, angry-sounding words in the Orcish language flowed back and forth, but Legolas knew very little Orc-speech, save for disobliging words learned from his father's warriors, so he understood very little of what went forth. The owner of those feet reached down and picked Legolas up off the ground by the back of his tunic and by his hair, but the child did not embarrass his upbringing. He let the pain flow through him and sang silently to it as it went, a song of stillness and patience, for though he had not yet attained even so much as twenty-five full years of life in Middle-Earth, Legolas understood he must behave properly for the honour of the Elves. He hung there in the Orc's grasp, limp and unresisting, giving no more satisfaction or cause for amusement.

He did open his eyes fully, though, and stared hard at the Orc. Legolas did his best to put everything he was into that stare: I am Legolas, son of Thranduil the son of Oropher, of the Kings of Mirkwood the Great. Prince of the Sindar from the Great Forest, I am the descendant of the Shining Ones of the Teleri, a child of the Eldar, he silently informed the Orc. I was born of the breath of Ilúvatar the Father of All, and Elbereth Star-Kindler shines down on me every night, as she has done since I was born. You will have to kill me, because if you do not, I will kill you. Believe it.

The Orc narrowed its eyes at Legolas, for all the world as if it had read something of those high-sounding, proud words in the blue eyes tinged with flecks of gray.

"Brave little Elf!" the Orc said at last, sneering. "We shall see how brave you are as the night wears on, yes! When we bring you to the Master and he makes of you what he will - we shall see, what brave little eyes you have. Oh yes, we will see then!"

The other Orcs fell oddly silent, which did not reassure Legolas at all, though he would never have ceased being still for anything, now. The Orc captain slung the child over his own shoulder and gruffly ordered his warriors to pick up and move on, as the dawn would be upon them soon. The jouncing and jolting began again, all too well understood now, and Legolas was glad of the darkness, because he did not wish the Orcs to see that there were tears flooding the eyes of the son of Thranduil.

Elrond and his force of warriors journeyed at speed through the Vale, crossing the Anduin a few hours later above its juncture with Sîr Ninglor, that Men called the Gladden River. The twins had ridden on ahead with some of the finest trackers from among the Silvan Elves, to see if they could discover any more tidings; they had sent a small party back to report, as they continued on toward the way station in hopes their best guess had been a good one. A pause was made to ease the horses and warriors alike, as Elrond and Tinuvil went to consult with the returnees. Elrond could see in their faces the discouraging lack of success, and he sighed as he drew rein and waited. His gaze went outward across the rivermeet, over the marshes, toward the distant edge of Southern Mirkwood, visible to Elven eyes in the morning mist, as if somehow he could make the trees tell him what was afoot. Not so Tinuvil, who could only see before his eyes the small nephew with whom he had played and worked. As he threw down from his mount and ran toward the trackers, Tinuvil shouted out to them:

"What tidings? Have you found the prince?"

The others glanced sidelong at one another with hangdog looks, misliking the necessity to admit defeat so far. They were Silvan folk, descendants of those Nandorin Elves who had never made the Great Journey over the Misty Mountains to the West, but had remained in their forest home. Great had been their hope that there would be some happier news by the time their Eldar betters returned with anxiety in their eyes. All too well aware they were, that their more lordly kinsfolk thought of them as something less for having stayed behind, holding on to their strange Nandorin ways and their Silvan speech, so different from the musical tones of Sindarin and the high ritual tongue of Quenya. Tinuvil drew himself up to his full height, ready to launch a tirade; to forestall the scene, the Lord of Imladris turned to the leader of the little group, a dark-haired huntsman with eyes the colour of the forest behind him.

"Tell me of the tracking," Elrond invited. "Have you discovered aught of the son of Thranduil?"

It seemed to Elrond that the Elf's face twisted, however briefly, into a mask of sorrow. "Ai, alas! We have found little, Lord, to indicate the child yet lives," he breathed. "There is much Orc-evidence, for they leave a foul and simple trail as they pass, destroying things that have done them no ill for the pure pleasure of it, and leaving heavy signs of the passage of their foul feet upon the land. But of the little prince, there are only these items."

"What are they, Saeros?" Tinuvil demanded.

Saeros gestured; younger Elf stepped forward, bearing in his arms a cloak-wrapped parcel. The cloak was small, made of a fine, deep green Elven cloth, decorated about the collar and the edge of the hood with fine embroidery tracings in silver threads. The clasp was delicate-looking and richly made, of Dwarven gold but Elven design, bearing the sigil of Thranduil's house picked out in fine enamels amid tracery in the living metal. Within that cloak the Elf displayed an empty quiver and a small hunting bow, broken at the grip, its string snapped.

"They are the weapons of Legolas, and this his cloak," Saeros murmured.

Tinuvil said something under his breath, hovering between a curse and a prayer. For his part, Elrond committed the items to memory, reaching out with steady hand to touch the bow in honour of him who had carried it last. He winced as he felt the sundered wood beneath his fingers, and a shudder ran through his tensile form; he stared at the weapon in surprise, quickly mastered.

"The little prince is dear to us, Lord," Saeros said quietly, the very calm of his tone speaking to his great grief, and the grief he thought he saw in the eyes of Elrond. "He is a bright-souled and courageous child. He has learned our Silvan speech, though he is the King's son and pure in his Sindarin lineage, and speaks it with us, learning our ways, for he does not scorn his father's subjects. Many Orcs will die for this outrage."

"Even more," the younger Elf dared to add, though he glanced anxiously at Elrond as he spoke, "if they are so unwise as to harm or kill him."

"We will not speak of harm or killing," Elrond rebuked them kindly, and folded the edge of the cloak once more over the weapons of Legolas. "We will instead concentrate, and turn all our powers and arts toward finding the little prince, and bringing him safely home."

The two Silvan Elves looked upon him with even more respect, comforted by his control and the calm of his manner. But Elrond's heart was neither calm nor in control, at least for a moment or two. For despite all his resolve to do no such thing until the child was safe, he had begun in some measure to form a picture in his mind. When he had touched the bow, there had been the briefest of instants when it seemed he was in the mind of the child, sensing what was happening to him.

An impression of sunlight, and laughter, and music: then darkness, and pain, and a coiling of something even darker along sinew and bone, something that made Elrond's right shoulder ache as if bitten by some foul creature. Then it was all blackness until, unbidden and unwanted by Elrond, he could see the small, earnest face before him: golden hair worn tied up in a child's topknot, a pair of jewel-like eyes watching him, still and deep, sapphire and morning fog set in crystal. A determined, pointed little chin and high cheekbones, Eldar heritage a clean, clear and particularly fine stamp on this bright coin, and Ai, Elbereth! So young, so terribly young...

I am Legolas, son of Thranduil the son of Oropher, of the Kings of Mirkwood the Great... Prince of the Sindar from the Great Forest...

Elrond closed his eyes, tried to make the face go away, but it persisted, like the after-image of the sun when one has looked on it then turned away. Child, don't look into me so, Elrond thought, and shook his head sadly. We will be there as swiftly as we can; the rest is up to all your courage and the will of the Valar...

He turned and closed a hand on Tinuvil's shoulder.

"Let us gather our people and continue following the trail. They cannot have gone on much past sunrise, for fear of the light - reason dictates we shall have found them before long, wherever they have gone to ground."

"You are right, Lord Elrond, I crave your pardon," Tinuvil said, blowing out an unhappy breath and staring off to the southeast. "My mind is a-whirl with worry, all I can see is that youngling trussed up like a deer, and my blood boils within me -"

"Yes, we are all worried," Elrond said quickly, and turned away, but there it was again, those eyes... still and patient and hopeful beneath the fine brows, waiting, clinging to utter faith in his elders. Elrond stripped off one gauntlet and brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose.

"We must proceed with caution from this point," he said, including all the Elves nearby in his glance. "If the Orcs see they are caught and outnumbered, they may kill the child, or worse. There may be more to this than we realize; do you see how the line of this trail leads down the vale to Dol Guldur, the former home of the Adversary?"

He could see by the sudden abashed looks in their eyes that they had not considered the import of such a thing. Elrond caught his breath, stared off in the very direction he had mentioned, and it was as if he could see the treeless hill and its fell tower looming over the western edge of the Great Forest, glowering toward Lothlorien.

"Let us ride," he said suddenly, and whirled to regain his mount. "Time is not something we possess in abundance, for the enemy will grow stronger, the closer they get to Dol Guldur."

The hut might have been snug and comfortable, once upon a time. The footprint of its stone walls covered as much ground as a guard cave back in Eryn Lasgalen, though only two walls of that footprint still stood in their entirety; the walls remaining were strong though, and in their prime would have held out much wind and weather. Of the other two, one was completely gone save for a line of stones in the ground, half grown over with moss and grass, while the third was broken in places, the window long gone and lintel-less, a fate it shared with the space where the door had once been. But there was a hearth, and the broken remnant of a table, and in one corner, a low and dirty bedstead, its mattress flat and rough, its ropes incongruously new by comparison.

Orcs swarmed into the hut, several of them crowding under the three-quarter remains of a thatched roof to escape the sun. The remaining warriors of their party scrambled into the darkness of the wood to hide beneath bracken and leaf and up into the trees themselves, to be safe and watchful until sunset came and they could continue on their way. The Orc captain had long since handed over their captive to another of his band, claiming he could not stand the Elf-stink of the child; that Orc, wrinkling what passed for a nose and making grunts of disgust, now unceremoniously dumped the trussed Elf face-down on the filthy bed, glad to be shut of him for a moment, and ambled off to relieve himself in the woods.

Legolas' fastidious Elven nature shrank from the stench of the mattress - dirt, urine, remains of long-gone couplings, and gods knew what else - but he was grateful to be anywhere, almost, than slung over the shoulder of an Orc. He had done his best throughout the waning hours of the night to distance himself from his predicament; so far, so good. He had remained still and uncomplaining, gaze focused into nothingness until the Orcs simply left him alone, content so long as he was no trouble. Whenever Legolas realized there was no one watching, he had shortened his gaze to the track behind them as they fled, and paid attention to the trees, the ground, the angle of light from the sky as it leaned toward dawn, the position of the moon - of the stars, when he could see them.

Ithil was waxing gibbous; the light had been both pure and comforting, in a distant sort of way. Not as many stars could be seen through the trees owing to the moonlight, but Legolas could see enough to guess they were traveling approximately south-east. Then as they passed deeper under the trees, the child realized that if this was indeed Southern Mirkwood, he would have fewer and fewer hope of allies - for the Silvan folk had long since made their way northerly, as Orcish incursions and goblin raids made this region of the Realm an unsafe place for any Elven-Kin. There might be some chance of a lucky raid out of Lothlorien, which was not too many leagues distant, but Legolas dared not hope that anyone had yet been able to alert the Lord Celeborn of what had transpired north of his borders on the previous day.

He drifted in and out of coherence as the Orcs settled down to eat raw meat and gabble at one another in their vile tongue. Given that it was dawn, it was no more than a day past the events of the battle, unless he had been unconscious longer than he knew. His wounded right shoulder ached abominably, and every time he tried to flex it even a little in some attempt to ease his sore arms, a nauseating spike of agony shot from the wound through every nerve ending in his body to explode at the base of his skull with fire. Legolas was also very thirsty, and hunger was beginning to gnaw at his belly.

Some time later - he had no idea how long - Legolas felt something digging about in his hair, and realized someone was untying the leather wrapped about his mouth and chin. He felt hands at his waist and ankles; then Legolas was roughly turned onto his back. His legs dropped flat to the bed, leaden, without sensation for several moments, then pins and needles as feeling returned.

So - they had partly untied him. Stupid Orcs. He gagged reflexively as an Orc hand, clawed and filthy, forced his mouth open and scrabbled about inside, removing the thick wad of cloth that had been under his tongue like a bit on a horse. The painful ministrations brought him to a level of consciousness where he could no longer feign insensibility; he coughed and gagged, fortunately had nothing to bring up, and lay there gasping like a fish out of water. The Orc laughed, finding the entire thing quite amusing. Stupid Orcs...

Legolas was not pleased when the Orc did not release his arms from where they were pinioned to his sides, but he supposed he was not surprised. He felt hot blood in his cheeks and humiliation, though, when the Orc pulled him up onto its lap and shoved something up to his mouth.

"Food, Elf. You eat now, and no sass from you or I'll beat you 'til your pretty skin looks like an Orc baby's," the creature hissed at him. Legolas started to say something in retort, but the Orc simply stuffed whatever this "food" was into his mouth. His hands curled into protesting fists, helpless to fight; the stuff was vile, practically raw, something of meat and berries and other ingredients Legolas could not identify, all pounded together into a kind of slimy paste.

Nostrils flaring, he reared back as if to expel the disgusting stuff, but the Orc was ready for him. It clamped one massive paw over the young Elf's face, covering his mouth and blocking his nose; the Orc's other hand clasped loosely at his neck, and neither hand was removed until he felt Legolas' throat work in helpless swallowing motions. It was swallow or suffocate, and the maneuver was repeated four times, until the Orc was satisfied his captive had consumed at least enough to keep him alive. Then just as efficiently, the Orc made him drink brackish water mixed with some fiery liquid that burned all the way down, roiling in Legolas' stomach like a serpent.

"You have to piss, you're on your own, tree-rat," the Orc chuckled, sounding like he was gargling fire. He dropped the boy back down onto the bed. "It can only improve the smell if you foul your own nest."

The creature then checked to make certain Legolas' ankles were still tightly bound, and the rope that had hog-tied him all that long night was curled up atop his chest as he lay there. The young Elf carefully watched every move the Orc made. It took a large hammer and nailed a great spike into the wall beside Legolas' head, then hauled on the spike to make certain it was seated well. The spike did not budge. The Orc gave his captive a significant look - if I can't haul it out, neither can you - and tightly tied the rope to the spike. He pulled hard on the end anchored to the collar about Legolas' throat, which made the Elf's head snap painfully to one side, and surprised a smothered yelp out of the boy.

"You'll be goin' nowhere, tree-rat," he announced, and tossed a cloak over him as a blanket. "Don't let me hear a peep out of you - and none of that sky-cursed singing at the stars or trees, you hear me?"

Legolas solemnly nodded, and said in Silvan: "Die, stinking bag of Orc guts." The Orc did not understand, and could only interpret based on his prisoner's calm expression and nod of comprehension; it assumed the boy would cooperate.

"Whatever you said. That's a good little tree-rat."

Tree-rat indeed. I'll "tree-rat" you, given half a chance, you pig of an Orc...

Though it was now fully daytime, Legolas drifted off into troubled sleep from pure exhaustion and physical abuse. It was not the normal sleep of the Elves, where the eyes remained open while the mind went out to play, but the sleep such as Men and Dwarves needed every day, eyes closed, consciousness completely sublimated to weariness and the need to regain strength. Elves did not need to sleep so more than once or twice a week, if that week happened to be particularly rough on them. Now seemed as good a time as any to the wearied lad.

His sleep, however, was plagued with dreams and portents; Legolas kept seeing the faces of loved ones, and of Elven-kin he did not recognize. In particular, he saw the slender, powerful features of a male Elf with ancient, knowing eyes of a deep, twilight-coloured greyish blue, and dark hair caught away from the severe handsomeness of his face by slender braids. He had no idea who this Elf could be, but the sensation of power, of great knowledge and experience, beckoned to Legolas through the fog of pain that seemed to hold him motionless in a landscape otherwise beset with mists and half-seen threats. The generous though grave mouth did not move, but he could still hear words, in a soft, strong voice accustomed to command: Never give up. Never give in, Legolas, remember who you are, and what you are. We are coming... be brave, we are coming!

Legolas wanted to tell him he was being as brave as he could, but he could not speak, and could not seem to reply without speech, as the elder Elf had done. In his dream, he was unbound but could not move, other than to lift his hands toward the Elder, beseeching. He wanted to tell this powerful being that he would cling to the Way of his people and make his father proud - but even as he struggled to make himself understood, the Elder was gone, and in his place there was an enormous, fell horse, black and limned in dark light and blood.

Atop the horse was a figure, as big or bigger than Elf or Man, cloaked head to armored toe in thick, swirling black. The creature beckoned to Legolas, hissing and insinuating, commanding him to come and take the cup it carried. The child refused, covering his face, but then he heard the sound of pounding hooves. Horror was in his eyes as he stared between his fingers. The horse bore down on him; clawlike hands, skeletal and pale, caught him up and threw him across the saddle. He fought like a demon to get free, clawing his way up the black figure toward red, glittering eyes within the hood - but there was nothing within save the two red eyes, glowing and suspended in the blackness. With a silent scream of terror, the son of Thranduil fell into that blackness, to be swept away from all the world and kin...

The Lord of Imladris was in the saddle and riding hard at the head of the Elven force, with Tinuvil and Glorfindel close on his heels, when a blinding pain out of nowhere took him in the mind and squeezed hard about his heart. Only centuries of experience with the bizarre and unexpected kept him aboard his mount, but a great groan of anguish was peeled out of his throat, and the horse went masterless into an anxious, bugling circle of confusion as Elrond's hands fell from the reins and his body bent double over the creature's neck. With a cry of alarm, Glorfindel called for a halt and hurried to the side of his lord and friend, seizing the horse's reins and throwing down from his own mount, his face awash with concern and fright.

"My lord Elrond?" he called, and came to stand beside the now-quiet animal, a soothing hand to its neck. He was less sure of whether he should touch Elrond, and stood poised on the decision, leaning forward cautiously to ask: "How is it with you, my lord? What has happened?"

"The child," Elrond groaned on a heart-rending note of pain. "Ai, Elbereth, the child!" With those words, he slid bonelessly from the saddle and was only prevented from falling entirely to the ground by Glorfindel's arm about his shoulders. That worthy warrior eased the body of his master to the ground, shed his own cloak and pillowed Elrond's head upon it; the Lord of Imladris seemed to come back to himself for a moment, and he stared at Glorfindel in confusion. Then suddenly he curled onto his side, clutching his temples, his lips curled back in a soundless cry; shaking throughout his entire being, he remained thus for several long, anxious minutes, while the others milled about on their mounts, looking back and forth at one another.

The very silence of his inward struggle made it all the more harrowing for those who watched. Only Glorfindel, who had been through much with his lord and had some inkling of what was afoot here, seemed to be able to react; he kept a soothing hand on Elrond's brow, waiting, monitoring, until the Lord of Imladris should come entirely back to himself and tell them what this extraordinary situation could possibly be.

Everyone but Glorfindel was taken aback when Elrond suddenly went utterly limp before them on the ground, save for his powerful hands, which reached out to clench Glorfindel by the arm. "Water," he breathed, and Glorfindel took a flask from his pocket, unstopped it, and helped Elrond to sit up. The Lord of Imladris drank deeply, staring off to the southeast for a long while in silence; then with his friend's aid, drew himself up onto his knees and rubbed shaking hands over his face.

"Thranduil has been less than forthcoming about the sons he is raising," Elrond murmured presently, giving Glorfindel a shattered smile that never reached his troubled eyes. "It may be duress that causes it, or it may be that somehow, our good neighbor to the North has managed to breed back some of the ancient skills of our Race."

He seemed to shake himself somewhat, and when he looked up again, his eyes were back to normal. His eyes were also deeply angry, though at whom, he could not have said. Glorfindel was all calm and patience, knowing for certain it was not he toward whom Elrond's anger was aimed.

"Every moment brings more reason for haste, and less room for error," Elrond sighed at last, and took another sip from his friend's flask. "The child is in direct threat of his life - and the loss of his soul."

Glorfindel blanched. "His soul? Elrond, what have you seen?"

Closing his eyes against a daylight that now seemed wrackingly dimmed, Elrond allowed his head to droop forward, and began to speak in quiet tones of what he had seen.

"It was as if the boy was walking the wind, looking for me," he murmured, and when he raised his eyes briefly to Glorfindel's, they were almost all pupil like a cat in the dark. "Out of his body, like the Eldar used to do, searching - for me. He does not even know my name, but somehow we have become connected. He knows I am searching for him. He saw me - Ai, gods, Glorfindel! The child has Valar eyes, one moment dark as Mirkwood, the next shimmering like water in the heart of the sea! Never the same colour no matter how often you look!"

Glorfindel felt a shudder chase up his spine. "And then what?" he prompted gently.

"I told him -" Elrond swallowed hard, and began again. "I heard myself telling him to remember who and what he was, and not to give up, we were coming to his aid. Then he tried to reply, and it was like a Word of Power - he had no idea! You could see it in his face; he did not know he was more than making himself heard! He said I am being as brave as I can! I will cling to the Way of my people and make my father proud! Then he lifted his hands toward me, and that was when I fell."

Elrond stared through and past his friend. "The child was ridden down by a great figure all in black, on a huge and unnatural horse," he said, unbelievably calm. "It was a Nazgul, Glorfindel. It would appear the Nine have risen again to captain the Orcs for their dead Master, and the Shadow that Thranduil has dreaded since the Last Alliance is finally come home to roost."

He shortened his gaze to take in the worried face of his friend, staring at him in stunned silence; Elrond made a weary grimace, and shook his head.

"Legolas of Mirkwood is innocently at the heart of the storm, a victim of circumstance at which we can only guess. I can only hope now that my vision was faulty somehow, and the Black Rider has not in truth taken the boy away. If that child is imprisoned by the Shadow in Dol Guldur, he will never walk free by any art we can concoct."

He levered himself up on Glorfindel's arm and steadied himself; before he mounted once more, Elrond gave his horse an apologetic pat for the fright he had caused. Once back in the saddle, he took a moment to master himself completely. Then he gave orders that swift riders should make immediately for Lothlorien, and told them exactly what to say when they were brought before the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn.

For his part, Elrond had taken rein in hand and regained the trail he had momentarily lost when the bright soul of Legolas had called out to him in distress. The haste of the Lord of Imladris was no less than that of his messengers, the destination far more dark - and darkening more by the moment.

Hang on to your soul, little prince, he thought desperately into the void before him. May Eru Iluvatar keep you safe...

He was flying, hanging by his hands from the talons of one of the Great Eagles, soaring over the Misty Mountains and seeing all that was laid out before him from Middle-Earth and beyond. Spread out on the landscape were little bits of star-stuff, such as his Elven-Kin might have been made from all the long centuries ago: shiny, bright pieces of light, like the sun captured within shards of a shattered piece of crystal. They were his pieces, he knew, though he did not know how he knew. They just were, and he accepted that, because he was at an age where children accept such things in absolute, unquestioning faith.

But Legolas also knew he could not hope to get them all back in his own possession, unless a miracle happened. The Eagle swooped down politely whenever he asked, and Legolas was able to gather a few pieces here and there, but he had nothing in which to put them, so they kept falling away again.

Hang on to your soul, little prince, the Elder had said. He had heard him say it, and there was no question in his mind that he should obey. May Eru Iluvatar keep you safe... Tears stung behind his eyelids at the portentous kindness in those words. So, the Elder was not the All-Father. Perhaps he was one of the servants of the Father, then - maybe it was Manwe...

That would explain the Eagles, Legolas thought, and despite the terror weighting him down, he smiled at the thought, wanting to make a song of it, so that he could be brave. If the very Valar themselves were trying to help him out of this nightmare, how bad could it be? Perhaps this was a test... And part of the test was to hang on to his soul. But if his soul was shattered into all those pieces of star-stuff, the ones he could not collect, what then?

The Eagle was hovering now, playing with the wind in its huge, outspread wings, so that it remained aloft but did not move. Delighted with the sensation - it felt like hanging between the worlds, poised somewhere outside of time, or between life and death - Legolas threw back his head and began to sing, pouring out all his longing and fear and hope and joy, unfolding every memory he had gathered in his twenty-three years...

Something struck him across the face, hard, stinging, and his song cut off on a note of pain. Suddenly dropped into blackness, in a place where there were no Eagles or star-stuff, Legolas groped blindly, terror plucking at him with unseen hands that hurt. All around him there was a great and terrible sound, shrieking and hissing and wailing like the Lost, but he could not move to blot it out. He stared into utter nothingness with eyes wide for any glimmer of light - surely there was something Elven eyes could pick out in this hell, something of light and - well, anything?

But when at last he saw it, he wished he could be stricken blind, for his nightmare had come mind-bendingly alive.

Hovering over him, shrieking into his face, was the Black Rider of his vision. It held him by the shoulders, hands like claws digging into his already bruised and agonized flesh; it shook him, and the words it seemed to be screaming were No... no song, cease, be silent, no! Eyes wide as plates, all pupil, glazed with shock, Legolas stared at the thing. It never even occurred to him to wonder if he had gone mad. He had no concept for it, in any case. It simply became a fact of life. He knew what the thing was, for his father had given him delicious chills describing the Servants of the Dark Lord Sauron... But that was thousands of years ago, and all those creatures had died when Isildur sliced the One Ring from the hand of Sauron.

Had they not?

Legolas could not see it, but the Orcs were all huddled, blind and dumb with terror, in the far corner of the little tumbledown hut. Too frightened to go out into the daylight, too frightened to get anywhere near their master, the King of the Nazgul... He might have felt a twinge of sympathy for their terror, to help bring him back to sanity, if he could have seen it.

Fools, the Nazgul hissed. Take a prize and poison it... capture the son of Thranduil and squander a hostage... fools...

The fell creature produced a goblet from somewhere within the folds of its robes, by what means no one knew. It curled a hand into the golden locks hanging in disarray about the terrified face of the Elven child before it, and seized the back of the small skull between its fingers. Thumb and middle finger compressed at the sides of the child's jaw, pressing until the little mouth opened, helpless to resist. Temporarily robbed of the capacity to struggle, the Elf whimpered like an animal, the sound small and strangled on the wind. The goblet descended; the contents were emptied between the trembling lips. The child's head was held upward and back at an unnatural angle until all had been swallowed. The Nazgul had immortal and undead patience, could afford to wait, understood that terror was a powerful deterrent to such things as swallowing. It watched with hovering red eyes until the liquid went down. The face contracted in agony as the lithe Elven body at last arched and fought and struggled in a desperate attempt to escape itself, all to no avail, as the bonds held fast and the hand of the Nazgul was not to be resisted.

Elves. Complicated creatures. Immortal themselves, and wise - usually. The Nazgul sought to comprehend why they would have let one of their precious little ones out into the bad old world alone; found no notion of why, sought the advice of its fell brethren in the Mind they shared, and received no thought beyond It matters not. They have erred and we have taken. It is the way of the World. Even the Firstborn will bow to us in time.

The King of the Nazgul was content. It had given the Elf a powerful potion to counter-act the poison from the Orc arrow that had pierced his young flesh; given time, the child would heal. By the time the Nazgul returned from its next errand, the child would be installed in a tower cell at Dol Guldur, there to await the pleasures of the Shadow. Such things were not the pleasures of the Elves, but that was not the Nazgul's concern. At length the child fell eerily still to outward ears and eyes, his jaw still pinched between undead fingers, and his expression quite blank.

Leave the Elves to their own matters. The child is ours. The advantage is ours. The Orcs will bring him home to us.

It stared down at the child. Such a little thing. It could crush the Elf's skull with the merest pinch. Clever Elf, to be able to scream so and yet make no sound... The Nazgul dropped the Elf back onto the noisome bed and stalked away, Shadow leaking out of its every motion as it departed, mounting up and turning toward the fastness of Mirkwood. Behind it, the Orcs crept out of their corner and stared with confused eyes at the mystery: how the little tree-rat tethered before them could lay there, eyes wide and staring, pupils all open, nostrils flared, otherwise motionless and silent - while somehow, he continued to struggle with all his might against the potion coiling about his inward self, and the helpless torment of his scream went on and on and on.

While Legolas lay helpless before the Shadow and Elrond Peredhil clung to the horn of his saddle with white-knuckled hands, eyes seeing not only that which was before him in fact, but that which was before his soul's inner eye, too terrible to speak of, another Elven force rode toward the south along the western perimeter of Mirkwood. They were accompanied by two messengers from Imladris, those sent hours before by Tinuvil and Elrond, and the banners carried by the company proclaimed them to be the warriors of King Thranduil.

At their head, blue eyes wide and hard and frightening in their intensity, rode Thranduil himself, father of young Legolas. Tall he was, and handsome in his way, but it was a harder handsomeness than it had been of old. He had been accounted most fair in his own youth, before lust of gold and the toys of Dwarves had sent him along courses in his life that had embittered him and made his fairness turn to adamant. Fate was in every line of him, no surprise to those who knew him of old, and knew the tale of the decisions he had made. He had come home from the War of the Last Alliance a King before his time, bearing the slain body of his great and difficult sire Oropher, and bringing homeward only a third of the vast, valiant force Mirkwood had fielded in that hopeful, last-ditch campaign.

Confusion, pain and Shadow were Thranduil's companions, kin to that fear in his heart, and his mind was awash with contradictions. He had vowed upon his homeward ride from the previous War never again to look with friendship upon the face of Elrond of Imladris, accounting it the fault of others that Mirkwood's forces had been so sadly decimated. Some that gained his blame for the decimation were dead, victims of the Shadow and of Sauron, thus beyond the censure of Thranduil. But Elrond lived, and he was as good a target as any, and so the enmity between them had grown.

Yet what of that? Elrond's sons were great champions of the Elvish folk, coming many times to Mirkwood over the long years to fight off the Orcs and kill them in great numbers, and they had gained much favor in the eyes of Thranduil, though he was seldom as praiseful of them as he might be were they the sons of other Elf-Lords. Uneasy truce had come from necessity between Imladris and Mirkwood of late, with sweet-tongued heralds going back and forth across the High Pass, bearing carefully worded messages that spoke of unity and constancy. Never once did Thranduil send private word to Elrond, nor Elrond to Thranduil, and perhaps each preferred it that way.

Until now...

Until the messengers of Elrond had arrived from the hunt that had gone all awry, in which Legolas, Thranduil's youngest, the light of his later years, had been taken alive by Orcs. The messengers had brought word of the tragedy, and informed Thranduil that no effort would be spared to make certain Legolas was safe, restored whole unto his kin once more...

It was courting madness to think of his little Greenleaf in the hands of the Orcs - his golden-haired, sweet-faced son who did not so much walk through life as dance, who sang even in his sleep and had almost as many stars in his eyes as there were in the skies at night. My little bird... The son he barely could comprehend, unable to remember ever in his life having been as light of heart as was his bright jewel of a child...

Thranduil groaned aloud from the depths of his very heart, and beseeched the Valar that somehow Elrond Peredhil would commit miracles before the Mirkwood party arrived. Beseeched that, when next he set eyes on the Lord of Imladris, there would be seated beside him a slender lad with a face that could coax the heart out of a god and a heart that could brighten all the dark corners of the deep, dank earth... Whole, sound, unspoiled... safe...

So intent was Thranduil on his sad contemplation that he did not see the darkness spreading out before him on the road until the party was in the midst of it - did not realize there was peril before it swooped down in all its horror and hovered above the road barely the distance away that a Dwarf could spit with a favorable wind. The horses of Thranduil and his party reared and screamed in terror, plunging desperately to be free of experienced hands and feet and voices that commanded them to stand firm, for above them was malevolence and Shadow's own violent evil, in the form of a dragon-like fell mount and an equally vile rider, draped in black and hissing challenge. Quicker than thought could count, the bow of Thranduil was in his hand, arrow nocked and ready, but the King of the Nazgul and his flying creature of a mount were more prepared. The Black Rider leveled a finger at Thranduil and spoke in ringing, hissing contempt:

Down with your weapons, Mirkwood, or I will strike at your heart and throttle the little bird!

Thranduil threw back his head, eyes wide and shadowed with fear, driven out of his Elven equanimity by those words. The bow wavered and dropped; the string relaxed, and arrow did not launch.

"How dare you?" he shouted. "Threaten me, creature of Shadow, with the life of my child? Prove to me you are no liar, then I will believe and heed! How do I know you have my son?"

The sound it made might have been laughter, but through the shrieking it was difficult to tell. I do not have your son, fool of an Elf!

"Then perhaps you will explain why I should heed such a thing as you?" Thranduil retorted, and the bow began to rise again. Only to droop once more at the words of the Nazgul:

Orcish ropes bind the little caged bird, Mirkwood, and bear your golden boy to Dol Guldur. Heed us now and the child will live!

Thranduil's heart broke in his proud chest, but he was a Sindar lord, and it was not his way to treat with Shadow. Fear it, yes, and dread its rising; but the Dark had misjudged its target, if it thought to control the son of Oropher from behind the terror of an innocent child. Shadow, Thranduil thought, has apparently never been a father! Nothing could possibly have steeled his resolve more, but he knew he dared not show it to the hovering Nazgul. Arranging his face in lines of taut grief - not so difficult a matter, under the circumstances - Thranduil let his shoulders bow and his head droop upon his breast.

"What are your terms?" he whispered.

Hear me, the Nazgul hissed, leveling its sword at Thranduil's heart. Turn your horses and take your proud Elves back to the caverns from which you have crept. Seek not to open the little bird's cage, but bide in silence within Mirkwood. Never again prevent the comings and goings of Orc and Goblin-kin through your realm, and obey when Shadow calls. Lift no hand to assist the Elven-kin against Us. Obey, and your child will live. Cross Us, and you will not like what your child will become.

"When will you free my son?" Thranduil asked, schooling his voice to sound humbled, no easy task for one so proud as he.

Never.

"Never is a long time."

Elves live long. Consider it the Doom of your son.

"You ask much, O Nazgul!" Thranduil cried, his heart riven. The Nazgul considered him in silence for many long moments, and then spoke again.

Choose. Choose now... Little caged bird, or there will be an Orc and a Father of Orcs from the House of Thranduil.

Thranduil stared at the Nazgul, his blue eyes wide and horrified. He dared not even think of hope until this creature was gone, not knowing the depth to which it might read his most private thoughts. It was no choice at all he was offered, yet there it was: his bright-souled child forever locked behind the grim doors of Dol Guldur, subjected to what whims of Shadow Thranduil could only guess - or freed out into the world after torture and torment had made him into the unthinkable Abomination, his mind twisted in hatred against the very same Kin who would hate him in return and hunt him to his doom...

"Then hold him gently, Nazgul, for he is an utter innocent!" Thranduil cried at last, standing in his stirrups and shaking a fist at the hovering creature. "Do him no harm in return for my promise!"

No Elf is innocent, came the knell. I make no promise.

"Creature of Shadow, you ask too much!" Thranduil cried, a wrenching tone of anguish in his voice. "He is only a little child, you cannot demand I foster him to Shadow all the days of his long life!"

The Nazgul rose up shrieking and wailing, until all who heard covered their ears, and even the trees seemed to shrink back in terror. Go, it wailed at him. Go now, depart from us, obey... or you will wish your son had died!

The horses of Thranduil turned at their riders' commands, and fled back the way they had come. They retreated at the gallop, watching over their shoulders in fear; but the Nazgul had what it wanted, and did not pursue. At length, the Elves drew rein and paused. They milled about Thranduil, uncertain whether they should censure or comfort or question or what; to an Elf they were stunned to see him smile with grim determination.

"Galmir, to me!" Thranduil commanded, facing about to look into the eyes of his most trusted captain. The elder Elf gigged his mount closer to the King's and bowed, hand to heart and forehead in salute.

"Command me, Sire, and I shall obey," he said quietly, his heart riven at what he had witnessed, what he had heard, for Prince Legolas was dear to him.

"Take these warriors -" Thranduil indicated a significant portion of his force - "and my banner, and ride hard for home," the King commanded. "Give every impression that we have simply returned, then summon my Council and explain only that plans have changed. Say what you will, but speak not of this foul Nazgul and his evil mission."

"I will obey you, lord King," Galmir murmured. "But let me ask for the love I bear you, and my loyalty to your House - what will you be doing, while I am doing thus?"

"I," said Thranduil, "will take the rest of these stout hearts and ride to the eastern edge of the Great Forest. We will then head south and cut across the lower extremes of Mirkwood, to there seek out Elrond Peredhil and acquaint him with the situation."

He gazed off the way they had just come, blood in his eye.

"No foulness is going to make me cage my son for the sake of Shadow," he growled, with all the violence of his anger and grief. "This is not the end of the matter. Somehow I will gain my Legolas free of Dol Guldur - or kill him myself. Go now - I will return if I can, when I can."

He then gathered up his remnant, and they galloped away into the fastness of Mirkwood. Galmir sat in grief-stricken silence for some time, thinking as he did that he saw the end of the House of Oropher in Shadow and pain; then he rode off to do as he was bidden.

No, you cannot have it both ways, Peredhil, Elrond chided himself as they drew up near to the way station under the sheltering eaves of Southern Mirkwood's dense forest. You can either continue to receive sensations and horror from the lad, and be glad at least to know he is alive - or you can experience a certain relief at feeling nothing, so you can concentrate on the task at hand. But you cannot have it both ways!

He clung to the saddlebow, trying not to pursue his unhappy thoughts to their ultimate conclusion, as his sons made their report. There had been a long drawn-out time of incredible pain echoing from the captive child, so that Elrond was barely able to stay aboard his mount; as if poison, or something even worse, was coiling its way along the child's every sinew and nerve-ending. Then, of course, there had been the screaming - over and over, like a being taken to the end of their endurance to a place where nothing of sanity could seep in, nothing of courage - then silence, terrible and complete. Silence and a sense of nothingness...

Elrond feared that little Legolas was dead, now, and felt great, encompassing grief tinged with relief. If the child were dead, then Shadow could not make him into a creature of its own - could not hurt the youngster any longer. Elrond would mourn for what was lost, however - the dreams and visions he had shared with the prince had been powerful and mystical, and hinted at a throwback Eldar strength in the young son of Thranduil. Such a waste, such an incredible loss...

He tried to concentrate on the words of his sons, tried to smile at them so they did not worry. Elrond had seen the curious, worried glances from Elladan and Elrohir, and tried to reassure them with his gaze as he listened.

"The Orcs have indeed taken refuge in the hunters' way station," Elladan was saying. He glanced once at his father, an expression of curiosity under drawn-down brows, and added: "We did not actually see Legolas. But we heard him."

Elrohir gave an angry smile, and quoted a phrase in Silvan Elvish. "Does that mean 'stinking bag of Orc guts'?" he murmured, knowing it was so. Tinuvil gave a startled laugh that twisted into a note of pain.

"You heard the boy say that? Ai, that's my lad," he breathed, and stared hard at the map. "Heard you aught else?"

"Heard, and saw," Elladan said, and quite suddenly he was able to look everywhere but directly into the eyes of either Tinuvil or Elrond. "We have watched all comings and goings, and even forewent the pleasure of killing an Orc that strayed close to us, and very nearly pissed on Hellan, here. If he had seen us, we would surely have had to kill him - but soon or late, he might have been missed by his fellows."

"You did well to hold your peace, Hellan," Tinuvil said to the lithe, dark Silvan elf Elladan had indicated. "So now what? How many hours until moonrise?"

Elrond looked at his sons, hearing echoes of what they had not said. He allowed the discussion to go off into planning and practicalities, and when the decisions were made, the Lord of Imladris took Elladan by the shoulder.

"You said that you had heard and seen more," he said quietly. Elladan turned, and could not miss the look in his father's eyes. He knew, of course, that Elrond was ancient - but rarely had he ever actually seen his sire look old, weary past bearing. If he had had any thought of kind fabrication, Elrond's tired, grief-filled eyes drove it all away.

"Father - I know not how to tell you this," he said, and his gaze slid briefly to his right, where Tinuvil had paused. Elrond's left eyebrow curved upward.

"Then I shall assist you. A Black Rider came to call, did he not - a Nazgul. The Chief of their kind, unless I miss my guess." His sons and their companions gaped, taken even more aback that the others with Elrond showed no surprise at this announcement, but only waited for the inevitable confirmation. "You know for certain that the little prince was alive as much as half an hour ago, for that is when the child screamed. Is it not? And you have heard nothing since?"

"How -" Elrohir started to say, but words failed him them, and he simply stared.

"Is the Rider departed?" Elrond asked. Elladan nodded.

"He left almost immediately as he came," the younger Elf said. "As he rode off into the forest toward the northeast, his mount altered into a kind of flying creature, like a dragon or some such."

Elrond closed his eyes. Flying Nazgul, he thought. Just what we needed.

"All right," he murmured with the lightest of sighs. "Let us make ready."

The plan was a simple one that had worked against Orcs many times in the past; no reason to worry it would not work this time as well. Just before the sky began to darken toward sunset and Ithil was seen on the opposite horizon already risen, a little more full this night than the night before, the Elves attacked silently out of the forest dimness. With eyes far keener than those of the Orcs, despite the heritage of the evil ones, they picked out their targets and moved - silent, deadly. Of the twenty Orcs in the raiding party, some fifteen of them were hiding in the forest waiting until the hated sun had set. All fifteen looked upon their last glimpses of sky and trees as their heads were drawn back and throats slit by Elvish knives. It was a merciful way to die, though none of the Elves were feeling particularly merciful; it was simply the most practical way of insuring that, if Prince Legolas was still alive, he might stay that way should no alarm be raised.  Accompanied by Glorfindel, Tinuvil, Saeros and Hellan, Elrond made his way up to the hut and peeked around the broken corner where once wall met wall. What he saw within made a thin, angry smile slip across his lips, and he drew back.

Without words, he drew in a patch of moss with the tip of his bow: a quick sketch of the hut and where the Orcs could be found. Elrond pantomimed sleep; around him, the elder Elves nodded understanding. As the Lord of Imladris pointed first to an Orc position, then to one of his fellows, each moved off to get into place.

It was over in a matter of moments - the fighting at least, if such could be called fighting in any proper sense. Elven bows sang in unison; five Orcs dropped over dead, none of them still alive long enough to see the silent shadows of their death-dealers slip into the hut's dimness. Knowing the others would patrol, gather bodies to be burned, and attend the other minutiae of camp and protection, Elrond stepped over the body of his victim and stripped off his gauntlets. He moved to kneel beside the bedstead and carefully peeled back the cloak that lay over the young prince of Mirkwood.

"Ai, Elbereth! Legolas!" Tinuvil whispered behind him on a sibilant note of pain.

 "Glorfindel," Elrond breathed without turning. His friend moved to take Tinuvil gently in hand, easing him away from the bed, murmuring something about "best possible hands... must let Lord Elrond do his work..." Both Elves were already out of his thoughts though, as his hands gently touched the child before him. Elrond could feel the healing stir within him - a good sign, for if life had fled altogether there would have been an entirely different sensation.

At first though, and for several long moments, he could not find any more mundane sign of life. No hint of breath stirred the slender chest; Legolas did not twitch even a bit as Elrond cut the three straps binding the child's arms to his sides at shoulder, mid-torso, and waist. The arms dropped leadenly to Legolas' sides; there was no other immediate reaction. Elrond touched the still chest very gently with one hand; nothing. He unbuttoned the filthy, blood-stained shirt, peeling the fabric away from the arrow wound with very careful fingers to inspect it, then lowered one ear to the child's unmoving torso, right over his heart.

Elrond's eyes closed with relief; he squeezed them shut and compressed his mouth, hard. The child lived. The gallant heart beat steadily, for the most part, if occasionally interrupted by a momentary lapse, followed by a gallop of a few seconds as if trying to catch up. Elrond sat up and informed his fellows; Tinuvil let out an exclamation of joy and slipped outside to tell the others. Elrond continued his work, relieved almost past endurance when Legolas gave a brief, shuddering breath, exhaling on a low, humming note the Lord of Imladris almost did not hear. Moving with exquisite caution, he cupped the back of the child's head in one hand and gently turned the boy to face him; it was to the smallest nuance the same face he had seen in his visions, though sorely used and marred by cut and bruise.

Glorfindel brought a torch, leaving Saeros at Elrond's side to hold it, and went to fetch the Lord's haversack of healing items. Elrond's own breath caught in pain to look into those crystalline eyes: they were all pupil nearly, with the merest hint of sea fog and sapphire rimming the black circles within. He raised his free hand to brush Legolas' forehead, and bent closer.

"Legolas, son of Thranduil - can you hear me?" he murmured. "If you can, try to give me some manner of sign."

Elrond thought he felt breath stir beside him, and thought a name was on that breath of air, but the child gave no indication he had heard or replied. The Lord of Imladris took Legolas' near hand in his, cupping the small, dirty fingers within his own. "If you can hear me, child, squeeze my hand," he said, his tone soft and commanding. "Try; I know you have been ill-used, little warrior, but try." He squeezed the slender hand as an incentive.

Legolas gave another thready breath; Elrond thought he saw a spark of some kind shoot through the depths of the dilated eyes. Glorfindel returned with the haversack, opening it to stand ready and assist; it was not necessary for words to pass between them, they had worked together too many long years to require audible instructions much, any longer. He also sent the others for more items: water, clean cloths, bandages. Soon there was a fire in the old hearth and water boiling in a small pot from the haversack; outside there was food being prepared, of a far healthier and more wholesome variety than that gorged on formerly by the deceased Orcs.

All these preparations were mere background noise; Elrond kept his attention fixed on the injured prince of Mirkwood.

"Hear me, Legolas," Elrond murmured, slipping into the near trance-state that he knew would fully awaken the healing power within him. "You are safe now. The Orcs are dead, and their foul master is departed. The pain will go away. Hear me..."

It seemed to Elrond that white and pure light gathered around them both, though he knew the others would see no such thing. There came a fractional movement of the slim skull cupped in Elrond's hand; the eyes slipped shut, revealing bruises on one side and the dark circles of exhaustion under both. A shudder ran through the child's body; one hand stirred on the bed, tried to move, but could not manage it at first. Elrond squeezed again gently on the hand he held, so small within his own, so fragile-seeming.

To his intense relief the little hand weakly squeezed back. "That's it," he breathed, gazing more intently at the child's face. "Come back to me now, little prince. Come back."

The healing phrases, deep and musical and beyond the hearing even of Elven ears, rolled out of Elrond then. The prince became restive under Elrond's touch; he put the head back down onto the mattress and gently gathered the stricken child into his arms. Legolas turned to hide his face in Elrond's tunic with a soft, pained, humming sigh, barely voiced, barely heard. The child's left hand came up slowly, shaking with exertion, and latched onto the quiver strap across Elrond's chest; the Lord of Imladris put another hand atop that one, and used it as a conduit for healing, sending strength and light and warmth into every dark corner of the prince's slight form. The musical, sibilant phrases went on, tumbling over the pain like soothing water over stones in a brook, slowly and peacefully rounding the rough edges, making all things whole again. The heat of infection left Legolas, calmed him; the two, healer and patient, remained in the heart of the moment for many long minutes.

But the healing did not dissipate as Elrond had expected it to, and worry nibbled at the edges of his consciousness. Shifting the now quiet, softly breathing child in his arms, taking pains not to jostle him, Elrond felt inside the soiled, bloodied tunic for the edges of the worst wound, the arrow hole in Legolas' right shoulder. Odd... very odd. The wound felt healed - Elrond could barely find any trace of it, though his fingers went unerringly to where he had seen the injury. The alabaster skin was perfectly smooth there now; Elrond could feel the young muscles, trained many long hours at the handling of bow, knife and sword, knitting back to wholeness. Why then did the healing seem to want to go on?

"Legolas, son of Thranduil," Elrond whispered into the small pointed ear below his chin. "Can you hear me? Open your eyes, little prince."

The child gave a demurring mew of exhaustion and dug his face deeper into Elrond's tunic. The Lord of Imladris tried to pry the slender fingers from his quiver strap, but found them surprisingly strong, insistent in hanging on. A faint smile slipped across Elrond's mouth; he pried a bit more powerfully, and the hand let go - only to twist about and take him by the archer's bracer on his wrist, the fingers worming knowingly into the lacing and hanging on for dear life.

"Thou small and fierce warrior," Elrond chided, amused. He reached down with the same hand to which the boy clung, to cup his chin and turn the protesting face up toward his. "Legolas, look at me. There is nothing but light here, all is well."

It took some doing, but eventually Thranduil's small son allowed his face to be turned. The eyes were still largely dilated, but Elrond could now see more of the blue and foggy grey he had seen in his visions. Legolas stared up at his rescuer with some confusion - but then a piercingly bright, sweet smile lit the child’s face like the coming of dawn.

"I knew you would come," the little Elf breathed, his voice so soft Elrond had to tip his head to hear a-right. "I tried very hard not to be afraid, truly I did, but only the Valar can know of their own comings and goings. Forgive me if I lost hope too soon! Forgive me..."

The eyes rolled up and back, sliding shut, and the child went limp in Elrond's embrace - sleeping now, his breath even and stronger as his chest rose and fell. It was Elrond's turn not to breathe; he held the sleeping child, staring down at him, stunned and shaken beyond thought. For his words (startling enough in their import, naming him one of the Valar as they did!) had been delivered, not in the Sindarin Elrond knew was spoken in Thranduil's court, nor the Silvan speech of the Elf-King's people - but in fine, purest Quenya, the ritual language of the High Ones.

"Sleep then, pityo," Elrond whispered, replying in kind, resting a cheek against the disheveled golden hair. "We shall see what can be made of this interesting matter when you have fully recovered!"

Glorfindel took Elrond's place at the child's side once the healing seemed to be done. Not a healer in the same sense as his friend and Lord, the other Elf was, nevertheless, a talented physician with a touch of the same talents as Elrond possessed, just not in that same measure. With heated water from the fireplace, Glorfindel bathed the child, stripping off of his body the fouled, bloodied clothing and tossing it into the flame. As he expected, he found that every mark was fast fading, every wound disappearing. Knowing that Elrond was seated nearby watching, wearied by the experience, Glorfindel told off the catalog of what he saw:

"More than one arrow struck, Lord. Besides the one in his shoulder, there was one in his left leg also. It would appear they beat the lad as well." Glorfindel's mouth was a thin line of anger as he turned briefly to look at his friend. "But then, no surprise; he would not have submitted passively. He is Thranduil's son, after all."

"He is indeed - and more besides." Elrond closed his eyes, listening to the faint rustles of cloth as Glorfindel dressed the child in a clean shirt belonging to one of the rescue party. Presently Elrond opened his eyes at a touch upon his knee.

"Would you take the lad for a moment, Lord - I want him resting on something less noisome." Elrond accepted the limp bundle, amazed at how little there was to the prince. In the oversized shirt he looked even smaller.

"Is this really twenty-three years old?" he wondered aloud.

Glorfindel chuckled. "It is a bit small for its age," he agreed, tossing the Orc cloak into the fire and spreading out a larger, clean Elven garment. "But twenty-three is young yet, and I daresay if he is aught like his father, the lad will grow."

"Now that he has a chance to, yes. I had forgotten; it has been a long while since mine were this young." Elrond helped his friend settle Legolas down, and tucked another cloak over him as a blanket. "Glorfindel - the healing continues to run through me," he said into the silence that followed. "And I cannot understand why. Did we miss anything, you and I?"

Glorfindel gazed gravely at him. "I thought I felt as much," he sighed, and turned to look at the child. "I do not see anything more - unless one of the wounds was from a poisoned weapon?"

They exchanged a glance. Fighting Orcs was always fraught with that danger. Since the creatures randomly poisoned both arrows and blades, there was no knowing whether the weapons were fouled until the wound was taken. Elrond knelt by the bedside once more, gently peeling back the cloak, and undid the fastenings of the oversized shirt. He stared at the fading pink spot where the arrow had pierced Legolas' shoulder, regarding the injury with a kind of suspicion.  Very carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping child, he rested fingertips upon that spot, reading the vague remaining signs. He gasped with the suddenness of the memory, as the prince's quiescent mind reached out and met with his, and suddenly Elrond could see it all: the hunt turned battle, the panicked pony; an incoming arrow from a nearby Orc archer. He cried out softly from the depths of Legolas' memory, echoing the child's cry: more anger than pain, for the adrenaline rush of battle is no respecter of age.

But it was Elrond, the bystander to these memories, who had the experience to know the truth of it all. No arrow burns like that, continues burning, robs the senses of coherence in that fashion, without the tip being adulterated with the dark poisons of Morgoth.

Legolas also had insufficient experience to recognize the second arrow shot for what it was, when it smacked into his thigh; had he known what to feel for, he would have realized the difference and torn the poisoned arrow from his flesh immediately. All he knew was that his mount was still rearing in terror, as he was hemmed in on all sides by what seemed an illimitable supply of Orcs. He clung to the animal's neck, making himself as small as he could, but it was to no effect when the pony was gutted and died in a bone-crushing tangle of equine limbs. The child was quick: he released the animal and leaped from its back.  Had he not been wounded, he might have seized the tree limb at which he clutched. Once in the trees there was no way the Orcs could have taken him prisoner, for there he would have been in his own element. But the poison was already invading his system and he entirely missed that for which he so desperately reached...

Then there was a leering, vile-smelling Orc face before his, and Legolas was struggling, kicking, screaming defiance, biting anything that came near him. Despite every effort, the child was borne away from the battle; beaten until he could struggle no more, Legolas lost consciousness just about the time he was bridled and gagged, his limbs strapped and hog-tied.

Elrond shook himself out of the memory, shuddering as he reached within for control. "This was indeed a poisoned wound," he murmured. "But how then did the child survive this long? Unless they knew, and - "

The Lord of Imladris made a hissing intake of breath.

"The Black Rider..." he stumbled to his feet and went through the doorway, glancing about for one of his sons. Elladan was nearest to hand; his father seized his arm. "My son - when the Nazgul departed, which way did it go?" he demanded.

"To the northeast, Father," the younger Elf replied instantly. He placed a hand beneath his sire's elbow, concern in every line of his features. "Towards Eryn Lasgalen, one might surmise, or looking for someone - I know not whom. Are you all right?"

"Yes. No. That is - yes and no," Elrond murmured, distracted. He closed his eyes, trying to reconstruct vague and confused bits of vision: a cup. The Black Rider had a cup... The Lord of Imladris turned on his heel and strode back inside.

"It gave the child one of their foul potions," he said to Glorfindel, who caught his breath and murmured in pain. "No wonder the healing did not end. It saved his life, no doubt, but only the Valar know what it may have done to his soul. The process of turning him to an Abomination may have already begun! I have not the talent to fight this - only the Lady of Lórien can save this little prince, now."

"Easily a hundred and fifty miles from here," Glorfindel said quietly. "How great is his immediate danger?"

"If my healing wishes to continue at the rate it is insisting," Elrond said raggedly, "I can only assume the danger is very great indeed. We must leave now, or at least some of us. I needs must concentrate on the child - will you ride with me, Glorfindel?"

"Always and anywhere, Lord."

As Glorfindel made preparations, Elrond called the others to him and told them what was amiss. "Some of you will need to ride to find Thranduil, to tell him his son lives and will hopefully soon be well," he told them. "Tinuvil, I know it will be hard for you to leave the boy - but will you do this?"

"I will," said that worthy Lord of Mirkwood, though his heart was heavy. He looked up as Glorfindel came out of the hut with young Legolas; the child was deeply asleep, wrapped warmly in cloaks, his golden head resting peacefully on Glorfindel's shoulder. Tinuvil bent to place a kiss on his nephew's forehead, then turned to look at Elrond.

"Ride hard and carefully, Lord of Imladris," he murmured. "May Elbereth watch over you!" Then he turned and was gone along with several of the Silvan folk, who rode along as escort. Elrond turned to his sons.

"Ride behind us a space, my sons, and guard our backs against anything coming out of Dol Guldur," he said, mounting up and taking the sleeping prince from Glorfindel. "If you wish to join us in Lothlorien and visit your grandparents, by all means do so; it is my fervent hope, however, that to one of Galadriel's power this will be but the work of a few moments. Then I mean to take to the Anduin and sail north, to reunite Thranduil with his little warrior."

Glorfindel had already chosen two of their company to ride hard to Lothlorien with himself and Elrond. The remainder went with Elladan and Elrohir as rearguard, leaving behind a pile of Orc bodies that burned long into the night, a beacon and reminder to the Dark that there were still Elves in these woods to safeguard and to take vengeance where necessary.

*****

Elrond Peredhil would remember almost nothing of the hard ride to Lothlorien in the deep darkness of that night. Only the vaguest of impressions seeped through his healer's concentration upon the sleeping bundle in his arms: impressions of leaving the thickly-intertwined overhead darkness of Mirkwood for the star-and-moonlit Vale of Anduin, Ithil bending close like a benison and only the brighter stars - the beloved Elbereth among them - easiest to see in the sky.

At length, just as the faintest suggestion of Minuial was beginning to color the eastern sky, Glorfindel brought them to a halt at the fringe of Lórien. Exhausted past reason, Elrond tried to lift his head at the sound of voices, but could not get his head to cooperate. The uncertain light of not-night/not-day was obscured all around him; the bright white light of his healing power had cloaked itself about him once more, and the only thing he could see was the equally-exhausted child in his arms.

"Elrond, kinsman - my son, do you hear me?" came a deep, beloved voice, and Elrond squeezed out weary tears at the sound of it, for all the world as if he himself were a mere child again. Celeborn... we have made it to Lórien, then... He made some kind of sound, hoping his wife's father would take it for assent, and concentrated on keeping his knees tight about the horse and saddle, lest he fall and injure the prince. Elrond felt gentle hands upon him and murmured in bemused anxiety as someone made to take Legolas from his arms. The reassuring depth of Celeborn's voice came to him again, however, much closer this time.

"All is well, my son. Your riders reached us; we have been acquainted with all that has come to pass. Give the little one to me, and rely on Glorfindel for your strength - I but wish to take Legolas to the same place you are bound. Galadriel awaits you both."

Galadriel... Giddy with relief, he allowed Celeborn to take the child and let Glorfindel to assist him with the tricky task of dismounting when strength is nearly gone. Somehow he found his feet, though it was very hard indeed to actually stand; Elrond felt bereft, somehow, without the confiding warmth of the child before him. As if in a dream he allowed himself to be led carefully in Celeborn's footsteps, listening as they talked: Glorfindel explained that the twins were behind them by possibly as little as half an hour, and that Tinuvil had gone in search of Thranduil, who had yet to be heard from. Celeborn, curiously enough, replied that Tinuvil would only find his royal brother-in-law if he went up the eastern edge of Mirkwood, which (if his murmured exclamation of surprise was any indication) left Glorfindel as taken aback as Elrond.

"Galadriel has her ways of knowing what is afoot in Middle-Earth," was all Celeborn would say by means of an explanation. He gazed down upon the sleeping face of young Legolas, and smiled. "We were at Thranduil's court when this little one was born," he said, seeming to change the subject entirely. "It was an interesting day all around."

Inscrutable are the ways of Elven elders, Elrond thought muzzily to himself, and even more inscrutable their words. He wondered if he would sound like that, should he ever attain the great age that Celeborn and Galadriel had done.

Soon they came to a place Elrond knew well: Galadriel's private bower, which opened up onto the deep and mysterious garden where she kept her mirror. She was waiting, and as always, his breath caught in joy at the sight of her. It was not possible to come into the company of the daughter of Finarfin and not be somehow changed; Elrond had always felt in his heart of hearts that she had the most sheer presence of any being he had ever met. Dearly though he loved her as the mother of his wife, and despite the long years he had known her, Galadriel always made Elrond feel just the smallest bit awed.

Tall, willow-slender, with the ageless face of an Elf of great inner beauty as well as outer, she had the oldest eyes Elrond had ever seen - so blue one felt it might be possible to drown in their depths without even moving a muscle, and so immeasurably wise. Her hair, as golden as Celeborn's was silver, flowed down her back like a living stream of rippling silk, gently waved in places, and held off her face by a delicate diadem of finest mithril.

On her slender hand she openly wore Nenya the White, one of the three Elven Rings of Power - something Elrond had long since decided he could not comprehend and probably ought not to even try. Círdan the Shipwright, the Telerin Elf who was Master of the Grey Havens, had long carried the second, Narya, the Red Ring of Fire; he had passed it off to the keeping of another, though only he and a small handful of others knew to whom. Elrond himself was the bearer of the Blue Ring, Vilya, given to him from the hand of his beloved Gil-Galad before the great Elven-King's death. Though he occasionally took the Ring from its safe place and looked long upon it, it rarely occurred to him to don it, much less use it, except at great need.

Inscrutable are the ways of Elven elders, he reminded himself yet again, and settled in doggedly to await Galadriel's words.

She had risen from her carved bench at their approach, and every one of them felt the touch of her grave, ancient eyes - except Legolas, who slept obliviously on, safe for the moment in Celeborn's arms. When she did move, it was slowly and with great grace; she brushed the long fingers of one hand over the tousled blond head nested on her lord's shoulder, but did not look at the child, and it seemed to Elrond that the faintest arch of an eyebrow creased the perfection of her features. She lowered her chin and became - Ai, Elbereth, was such a thing possible? - even more focused that she had already been. But her steady, graceful progress did not stop until she stood before Elrond, who was suddenly aware of the sight he must present: bleary, vacant with exhaustion, hangdog and about to collapse. Not my best moment, he thought illogically, and lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Lady mother -"

One long, white hand came up and a finger was pressed against his lips. Galadriel framed his face between her hands and looked into Elrond's eyes, long and deep, until he was certain she knew every move he had made, every word spoken, what he had had for breakfast, and every action taken since several days gone.

"The healing moves through you yet, my son," she breathed, and drew her fingertips across his forehead, making a shudder run through his entire body - but leaving in its wake a curious refreshment. Elrond was certain it would not last long, but was grateful, and thought: I must ask her to teach me that... "It is not prudent, kinsman, but I understand the need."

"Lady." This time she did not stop his lips, so Elrond squared his shoulders and continued. "The child is in peril of his soul, and is beyond my power to reach. I cannot sense any damage having been done to him so far - but the potions of the Adversary are vile, with many hidden evils. For all I know, something of it shifts the little prince already toward the abyss."

"Not necessarily so," Galadriel murmured. "The child's Doom has always been connected elsewhere - but that is not to say he will not suffer many other trials until that Doom comes to pass in the end."

"Please -" Elrond drew a deep breath, feeling a certain frustration. His wife's mother was sometimes as difficult to move along as an Ent! "Can you help the boy? There is far more here than meets the eye, Lady. After all he has endured so far, I would not lose this one to Shadow."

She had heard his thoughts; he knew it to be so. Galadriel's eyes locked with his, knowingly, and the faintest hint of a smile touched her lips. "The young," she murmured, stressing that word, "are always so impatient."

The White Lady took a deliberate step, then another; then she paused.

"Satisfy my curiosity on one thing, Elrond my son," she said, and completed her circuit about the chamber, coming to lay a loving hand on Celeborn's arm. Galadriel gently peeled back the cloak covering the sleeping child; she gazed down at the weary face, the bright eyes enmeshed in dreams, and the merest suggestion of sweetness came over her ancient eyes. She traced one delicate fingertip down the pale cheek. "Is this not the son of Thranduil?"

Blessed Manwe... "Yes, Lady, indeed it is."

"Thranduil." Galadriel's deep and dulcet voice caressed the name. "The very same Thranduil, of whom you have said great, giant spiders should devour the last of his line? With him watching, and next upon the plate?"

The Lady forgets nothing... Elrond gave a self-deprecating sigh. "I fear those were my words, Lady," he apologized, bowing his head. "I was - hasty in my youth."

She arched an eyebrow at him, and her tone was so bland it was most decidedly a rebuke. "Indeed."

There was a long pause. The child, perhaps sensing the tension, murmured from the depths of sleep and nestled closer to the soft material of Celeborn's robes.

"This would be the last of Thranduil's line, would it not?" Galadriel asked, and never had knife been twisted with more exquisiteness.

Elrond did not look up at her, but closed his eyes. "It is, Lady. Thranduil's youngest."

"Yes." Then, more sweetly still: "I take it you rescind the desire to see giant spiders consume the little prince?"

A thousand things he might say came instantly to mind, but Elrond had attained his own not-inconsiderable catalogue of years by refraining from foolhardiness. Instead, he dared a look at the Elder, and nodded. "I do rescind it, Lady. With all my heart."

"I am glad to hear you say it." She gestured, and Celeborn followed her into the bower; at the Lady's direction, he gently placed Legolas amid the pillows on the bed and took away the Elven cloaks. Galadriel half-turned, gathering Elrond to her side with a gesture; the others faded back, Celeborn moving to stand on the opposite side of the bed like a sentinel. The Lord of Imladris dropped to his knees and waited, hope in every line of his body.

"Legolas, Greenleaf," Galadriel murmured, caressing the syllables with her lovely voice. The prince stirred, something of wakefulness coming into his eyes; he mumbled under his breath and tried to turn away, but Galadriel took his hands, folding them on his chest, and put one of her own hands over them. "Wake now, little one, and heed me," she commanded in her flawless Quenya. Elrond gave a nervous frown, but she ignored him.

Legolas sighed wearily, yawned; one hand twitched under Galadriel's, as if he wanted to rub his eyes. The inability to move brought him fully awake, though, in light of recent experience; Elrond could feel him snap to still, wary attention, could all but hear the heartbeat quicken. Legolas turned to look at the White Lady, his eyes wide and anxious, and he gasped. His expression was a jumble of emotion: confusion as to where he was and how he got here; lingering panic, and stunned reaction to the beautiful sight leaning over him. The ocean-coloured eyes tried to slide sideways; he could sense others around him and felt a primal tactical need to know what was going on, who was involved, but Galadriel filled what remained of sense and comprehension, and he could not tear his gaze from hers. The sound he uttered was both musical and heart-rending, speaking as it did of his adoration and terror.

"There is no need to fear, little bird," Galadriel soothed, and traced the pale forehead with her fingertips. "All is well. You are safe now."

Tears welled up and spilled over; a tremulous smile came to the child's face.

"Blessed Vala, I thank you," he whispered, and it seemed far more normal that he should reply to her in Quenya, occasioning little of the surprise it had for Elrond to be so addressed back in the tumbledown hut. "I hope I may be accounted worthy - forgive me if I was not brave enough!"

"You were very brave," she reassured him, not disabusing the child of his belief that she was a goddess; Elrond did not think he had ever seen her look so ethereally maternal. "We are all very proud of you. Legolas, tell me of the Shadow, and I will make it go away."

The young face crumpled in pain. "It was the cup," he breathed, on the merest edge of audible, as if he feared even saying the words. "He made me drink. I did not want to, but I could not stop him!"

"If you will let me, I will heal you of the Shadow," Galadriel told him. "Do you trust me?"

"I am afraid," Legolas whispered, too frightened to be embarrassed at the admission. Galadriel smiled at him, and he forgot both fear and shame.

"You do well to fear, little prince. But do you trust me?"

Elrond wanted desperately to look away, so powerful was the emotion in those young eyes as Legolas nodded, mouthing his assent, unable any longer to make a sound. But for all his own hope of the Blessed Realms, the Lord of Imladris could not have looked away, even if Galadriel had commanded him to do so.

"Good," Galadriel purred. She brought up her free hand and encompassed Legolas' clasped hands within her own. Her eyes never left his; he could not have looked away to save his soul, though in the next heartbeat, it seemed as if his soul was decidedly in need of aid - for without warning, Legolas suddenly stiffened and caught his breath on an inhaled cry of pain. The White Lady said nothing, only slightly narrowed her exquisite eyes and gazed with yet more compulsion at the young Elf. Elrond felt his heart skip several painful beats; not certain of what he should do - or perhaps more to the point, what he should not do - he looked quickly between the frozen, stunned face of Legolas and the smooth, purposeful one of Galadriel.

But before he could do anything more, he felt powerful hands close on his shoulders, and sensed the unmistakable aura of Celeborn's seldom-felt but immutable power commanding him to remain where he was, to do nothing. Legolas had yet to breathe a second time...

"Do not interfere, my son," Celeborn said, gently quiet, and not for the first time in their acquaintance, Elrond actually feared to look up and back at him. He had never even seen the Lord of Lothlorien move from the other side of the bed. "Galadriel's mysteries are not for us to question."

"He can't breathe," Elrond whispered. Celeborn's hands tightened fractionally.

"She will save him from Shadow. That is what you asked of her."

Be careful what you ask for, Elrond thought, unaware that his own hands were tightening on the edge of the bed even as Celeborn's had on flesh.

The moment protracted, stretched out, and became agony for more than just Elrond. Elves are painfully aware of time, even as they move through it with apparent ease, and more especially when they do not. How long could an Elf hold his breath and not perish? Watching Legolas do so, unaware he was holding his own breath, Elrond discovered that to all appearances the boy could outlast him - for he needed to breathe, and that with some pain, long before there was any reaction from the prince. And still, child and Lady locked eyes in a battle of - what? Wills? Life and death? Some combination of either?

Elrond wondered if he might go mad waiting for this to resolve. We'll straighten this out, he told himself, then we'll all go do something terribly normal. We'll have dinner, perhaps...

Finally, Legolas took another inhale - never having let go of the first one - and another - each time on a weaker note of pain and panic. His small hands, strengthened by years of tutelage with bow and sword and knife, tightened desperately on Galadriel's; it was possible to see the outline of the supple young muscles under the pale skin of his forearms. His lips had gone nearly the colour of his eyes. His eyes... those trusting, innocent eyes, not nearly old enough, sweet and earnest - they had become something quite different, almost as if Galadriel carried her fabled mirror in her own eyes, and by looking into them Legolas had become the mirror.

Galadriel bore down once more, and finality shimmered around her like the light of stars through the mallorns. "Le nallon sí di-nguruthos," she exclaimed, her voice all the more harsh for its beckoning softness. "A tiro nin, Fanuilos!" And she clenched her long, fine hands about the boy's.

Whatever had held him motionless was released; Legolas cried out in a hair-raising combination of triumphant agony and terror, his back arching to the extent of all reasonable suppleness. If Galadriel had not held onto him, he might have exploded into desperate action. But hold she did. And before the echo of that wildly ancient cry had died around them, leaving the woods of Lórien utterly silent, the son of Thranduil had fallen back to the bed, mouth open in shock, eyes staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. He did not move; Galadriel did not release him.

He looked quite dead.

"Do not move," Celeborn whispered in Elrond's ear, his breath stirring the small hairs on the other's throat. "Say nothing. Do nothing."

Superfluous advice. Stunned, Elrond could barely nod his comprehension of the words; if he had attempted anything more, he had no idea what the outcome might be.

Legolas was dead.

They had saved him from Shadow; he had died at the hands of another Elf, not of Orcs or Nazgul. He supposed they had succeeded.

He watched Celeborn gently hold Legolas' eyelids and mouth closed until they might remain so on their own; Elrond squeezed his own eyes shut and let tears of exhaustion and grief leak down. The child... ai, Elbereth, the child...

The Halls of Mandos did not look as Legolas had pictured them from the dimmest years of his childhood. There was a hint of magnificent architecture high above him and way before him, hard to see for the dancing, swirling trails of mist and vapor that were everywhere. But even to his keen Elven eyes it looked like hours of weary travel to get there - and he was already quite completely tired. It was like standing in the very center of his father's cavernous Great Hall at home, back when Legolas was a mere baby, not even as tall as Thranduil's knee, when the ceiling seemed unattainable and the effort to walk to the thrones at the end of the vast chamber was incomprehensible. So he did what he had done back in those cherished days: he simply sat down, cross-legged, patient, and waited until something happened. Something always did.

He stared off into space, leaning forward to grasp his feet, and allowed his mind to wander. There were faint strains of music coming from somewhere, and he smiled. I am very glad there is music, he thought. What good, after all, was a heavenly realm of bliss for Elves if there was no music? The harmonies sounded familiar and yet not, and he tried to follow them, but he was weary, could not keep the patterns in his head for longer than a few seconds. Finally he bent double, still holding his feet sole by sole, and put his forehead on the smooth blue tile of the floor. Please, somebody be here soon...

Legolas...

He felt rather than heard his name, and opened his eyes, but did not move. If he looked as far to his right as he could from his curious position, he could just see the embroidered, beaded hem of a gown, pure shimmering white against the deep blue tile, and the littlest bit of a shapely pale foot peeking from beneath. Legolas sat up slowly; the gown came closer, making a soft, clicking swish against the floor that he found enchanting. He smiled and looked up.

Then he frowned slightly.

"Are you dead too?" he asked, and Galadriel laughed.

No, little bird. It is only necessary that Shadow think I am willing to be so. But you most decidedly are, and time is short. You cannot remain here.

Legolas felt suddenly very cold all over. "Was it because I was not brave? I'd really rather stay here - I do not know what any other place is like, but I am certain my mother is here, and I should very much like to see her again."

Galadriel looked deep into his eyes, dropping gracefully to one knee so that she could cup his chin in her hand. Who has told thee thou wast not brave? Legolas, thou may'st not remain because it is not thy Doom to die now.

Everything always sounded so much more correct somehow when said in Quenya. It occurred to Legolas that, when Quenya was said inside one's head by an adult of great power who did not even have to move their mouth to make the words come out, whatever the words might be seemed marvelously cosmic, with the force of Law and Tradition. He laughed, delighted, and when Galadriel took him by both hands he got to his feet obediently without asking any more questions.

Forgetting he was the great old age of twenty-three and a warrior to boot, he danced alongside the grave Elven elder as she led him by one hand toward what might have been a doorway, except that it was so completely suffused in bright light one could not see the outline of anything at all. The last time he looked up at her before they stepped through the door together, Galadriel was smiling down at him with great tenderness and satisfaction. He gave her a return smile of absolute adoration, then threw back his head and sang.

Elrond jumped, earning another dig in his shoulders from the watchful and insistent Celeborn, when Galadriel cried out in fierce anger and dropped her forehead to the tangle of her hands and Legolas' on the child's motionless chest. A powerful tremor shook the White Lady throughout her tall, slender form; she just as suddenly threw her head back, and her features were twisted with agony. Agony... and something else, something Elrond hoped to never see on her face ever again.

He did not have words to describe the mix of battle-fury, immense power, ancient skill, and determined focus that mingled with what was clearly a pain beyond reckoning. The bower felt as still as those moments before a furious summer storm, yet it also felt as if everything was in motion, swirling and raging. Elrond was reminded of the instant in which Isildur had sliced the finger and the One Ring from the hand of the Evil One, and braced himself. A similar, if far less global, wave of onrushing energy burst from Galadriel a heartbeat later, or perhaps it came from her hands and those of the dead prince, he was unable to tell as the wave hit him and passed beyond.

But this wave did not have the evil in it, though it had a similar force, and Elrond was stunned to hear Celeborn calmly speak into his ear: "Now, my son. Give Galadriel your healing, now!"

He wants me to heal? Elrond thought, stunned. He wants me to move?

But Celeborn had never been one to give a command lightly, so Elrond made himself move, forced himself to kneel behind his wife's mother and put his arms about her arms. Healing power such as he had seldom felt before came over him, sweeping away all weariness, all grief, all inability to move. It joined with whatever it was Galadriel was doing, and for what might either have been the most intense few moments of Elrond's existence or the most intense millennia, he knew nothing more than that something of incredible intensity was using him as its conduit. So this is what it feels like when the Valar inhabit your being...

Then there was silence, and presently, the birds began to sing once more. Galadriel was as still as death beneath him, collapsed bonelessly over the body of the child, with Elrond collapsed over her, but he could feel a strong pulse at the base of her neck, and so he did not try to do anything else other than hope this was finally over. Celeborn and someone else - Glorfindel, as it turned out - peeled him off Galadriel's back; he was handed a small cup of miruvor, which he drank gratefully. When his eyes focused, he watched in amazement as Galadriel unfolded herself gracefully to her feet, with only Celeborn's hand upon hers to assist. She came to stand before Elrond, cupping his face in her hands.

"I think," she murmured, "it is time we had some sustenance. We will all be very, very tired if we do not."

Dinner. Sweet heart of Elbereth, she really does want dinner...

"But the little one," he breathed, and all the grief came flowing back. "Whatever shall we tell Thranduil?"

"I daresay he has the wit to figure it out on his own," she said, and smiled.

Elrond was riven. "But Legolas is dead!" he insisted.

Galadriel laughed, a delightful sound that chased all the shadows out of the bower.

"Nothing of the sort. He is only sleeping, but that not for long. You know how it is with the young. And I am counting on his having a ravenous appetite when he does awaken."

With that, she drifted away with her Lord to tardily welcome Elrond's supporters back to Lothlorien, remarking how well Glorfindel looked these days, and went to give orders to her servants for refreshment. Elrond wondered whether he was even awake, himself.

He turned, stunned, to look at the still figure on the bed. He almost did not believe his eyes when he saw the slender chest rise and fall evenly, the breath of sleep. But when the child uttered a light, sweet sigh and blinked several times, then sat up, stretching and singing quietly to himself, it was no longer possible to disbelieve. Elrond watched Legolas look around, curious and confused, not recognizing where he was and seeing no one he knew; the Lord of Imladris rose, and came to sit on the edge of the bed. The prince gazed at him with the directness of the well-born young.

"Hello," he murmured pleasantly. "Who are you?"

Elrond smiled. "I am Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris."

The eyes widened in recognition of the name. "I think my father knows you, my Lord."

"Indeed he does."

The child digested this. "Were you not a Vala once, too, Lord Elrond?"

"Not to my knowledge, no." To forestall any similar questions, Elrond asked one of his own. "How are you feeling? You have had quite a time of it, these last few days."

Legolas considered this, and looked up at Elrond with eyes as wide as plates. "I was a prisoner of Orcs, wasn't I?" Elrond nodded gravely; the child wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Orcs smell very bad. And they are very stupid." He glanced about. "I hope there are no Orcs here."

"No, no Orcs here."

"Good." The child smiled once more, content. "Why are you here? Is this Imladris?"

"No, Legolas, this is Lothlorien." Elrond looked about at the quiet dimness, the light-suffused beauty that was Lorien; he took a deep breath, delighting in the feel of it, immensely glad to be alive. "I am a healer; I went to find you and bring you away from the Orcs."

"You saved my life then, my Lord!" the child exclaimed, and Elrond was stunned at the encompassing warmth of Legolas' smile. Then, very child-like, the little prince said, "I am hungry enough to eat a whole bear. Are you?"

"Do you know what?" the lord murmured, leaning close, a confiding look on his face. Legolas stared, and shook his head; Elrond chuckled. "I believe I am hungry enough to help you do so."

The child laughed, a high and delighted sound. The Lord of Imladris beckoned; Legolas reached up and put his hand into Elrond's, and together they made their way out into the garden of the Mirror to join the others.

The sumptuous longboat, fashioned of silver-grey woods and carved in the shape of a swan, meandered up the Anduin under a hidden power, against the flow and yet as serene as could be. At the prow, one arm draped about the neck of the swan, Legolas of Mirkwood hung over the edge as far as he could, perfectly balanced, trailing his fingers in the water and chattering endlessly on about anything and everything that caught his eye or fancy. Celeborn, who stood placidly beside him, listened with great satisfaction to the excited young voice, occasionally bending down to take the boy by the back of his belt when he leaned too far. The day was painfully beautiful, with a sky so clear that everything stood out in sharp relief all over the Vale of Anduin. Beyond the plains stretching to either side of the Great River, the Misty Mountains towered above them to the west, and the fastness of Mirkwood to the east. The sun was near its apex, bright and warm; it was a day to make one rejoice at simply being alive.

At the stern, under a canopy of pale lavender silk, Elrond Peredhil sat with the Lady Galadriel; they were attended by Glorfindel, who seemed utterly content to stand there and just breathe, relieved and delighted and glad to be heading home to Imladris. What might have been going through Galadriel's mind, none dared even ponder; but Elrond knew a vast, encompassing peace, one that could not be shattered even by the concept that they would be meeting soon with his old nemesis, Thranduil, before they all returned home. It was long past time to reunite father and son, and if the King of Mirkwood had not been changed by all that had happened, it was not Elrond's problem.

Nor, he suspected, would it particularly be the problem of Thranduil's unquenchable son. Smiling, Elrond looked down the length of the boat to where Legolas, no longer dangling off the prow, was now kneeling at Celeborn's feet, utterly enmeshed in whatever that worthy Lord was telling him - some tale of the Elder days, he supposed, by the look on the older Elf's face and the gestures he was making. The prince stared intensely up at him, his mouth in an O of delight; Celeborn was a master storyteller, and had probably lived through the events of which he spoke. Elrond almost envied the child his youth. So much to explore, so much to learn...

No, that child was unlikely to be weighted down by whatever madness had turned Thranduil from a reasonable, intelligent, normal Sindar lord into a seeker after Dwarven treasures, obsessed with things that faded away while ignoring the eternal right before his very eyes. Occasional jests were made in other Elvish realms, generally in questionable taste, that it might be the very atmosphere of Mirkwood that had made the House of Oropher so odd - all those giant poisonous spiders, and the interlocked trees so tall, forbidding and dark, they made the Forest of Fangorn look bright and airy... Elrond knew differently, of course, for he had shared the mind of Thranduil's son, and walked through Shadow at Galadriel's back, and he did not worry for the future of the little prince any longer.

"He does not remember, does he," Elrond murmured. Galadriel shortened her gaze and looked as well upon the child, who was now crowing with delight as Celeborn wound up his tale and brought it to a rousing conclusion.

"He will remember enough, in time," she said softly.

"It seems somehow - unfair." Elrond groped for words. "To have been to Lothlorien and not be allowed to remember he was even there. These two days have done more to heal his spirit than anything else could do, and yet all he will remember is that he awakened here this morning on your swan-ship, was told he was injured but that all is well -"

"And that now he is being taken home to be with his father," Galadriel finished. "I have taken nothing of what he did in battle, or what the Orcs did to him; he has learned the lessons he needed from it all, Elrond. Of Nazgul and their potions, of death and abomination, he will instinctively understand more than enough at need. To let him remember one visit to Lothlorien is to require that he remember all. He has been through a great deal more than either you or I had endured by his age. And someday, he will return to Lothlorien. That much I do know."

Elrond bowed to her wisdom. "At least we will remember his visit," he murmured, not without irony. "And that will not be a bad thing, I think."

It had been an interesting two days. Some long years had passed since Celeborn and Galadriel had had a curious, limber, fearless little Elf loose in their household; that had been their grand-daughter Arwen, Elrond's child, and she was long since an adult herself. The Lord and Lady of Lothlorien had taken all in their customary stride, of course, but Elrond had a number of pleasant memories to help with the partaking of the more frightful.

Finding himself in an utterly new place among Elves he had never met before - people who were delighted to take him into their hearts as much for the sake of what they knew he had suffered, as for his personal beauty and innocent charms - Legolas had made a gallant attempt to be everywhere at once, pointing out every new thing he saw, taking in every sight and sound and taste as if he were newly born into the world. Or re-born, Elrond thought, and quelled a shudder of awe.

One moment the child was watching Celeborn's master fletcher make new arrows, observing the Elven artist's technique and attempting to replicate it; then before anyone quite knew where he was off to next, he was hurtling down some forest path as fast as his strong legs could carry him, only to gather himself up and make an elegant leap onto the branch of a tree. Legolas would thence disappear for long stretches of time into the foliage and reappear at the base of another tree altogether, taking a quick nap with his eyes open.

He stalked rabbits in the Wood with Lorien's seniormost watch captain, Haldir; to Elrond's amusement, Legolas even convinced Glorfindel to teach him how to carve a whistle out of a willow twig, a lesson they accomplished whilst dangling their feet in the chill water off a small bridge over the Nimrodel. Turn one's back on him for a heartbeat, and the next thing one knew, the child was standing tiptoed on the base of Galadriel's mirror, stretching so he could watch in awe as she swirled the waters and showed him the history of their Race... Except for quick Elf-naps, he had not really slept in the whole of two days.

And then this morning, just before they departed, Legolas had come down a path chasing after grasshoppers and singing - only to stop, still and watchful, at the sight of Elrond reading an old scroll with sufficiently intense focus as to catch the child's attention from across the little clearing. He waited politely for the Lord of Imladris to look up; when Elrond did not, but simply beckoned as he read, the child decided he had to know what was so interesting, and sat himself down next to Elrond on the carved bench. Legolas had all but instantly lost his awe of the Lord whose name was an unpleasant epithet in Thranduil's halls, and so sat close with a child's comfortable familiarity, resting his cheek against Elrond's velvet sleeve to ask his favorite question:

"What are you doing?"

"Reading."

Adults could be so obvious. Legolas grinned. "Reading what?"

Elrond looked up at that, and arched an elegant eyebrow at the imp. "A scroll. Now ask me what scroll."

The child giggled at him. He seemed to have quite gotten over the fact that he was all of twenty-three years old and a warrior, thank you very much. "No, because if I ask you what scroll, all you'll say is 'this scroll'. So -" Legolas took a deep breath - "What is the content of the scroll you are reading, my Lord?"

Elrond shook his head, smiling. "I see you are a morning person," he murmured, seemingly apropos of nothing, and moved the scroll slightly to his left so the lad could scan the words. "As it happens, this is the story of the final battle."

Legolas knew enough of his racial history to ask the most intelligent question: "Which final battle?"

"Of the War of the Last Alliance," Elrond said somberly, nodding in approbation of the choice of query. Legolas went all still, making Elrond think of fireflies captured in crystal.

"Oh."

Oh, indeed. Elrond did not admit to the lad that he was reacquainting himself with the incident in preparation to meeting up again with Thranduil, whom he had not seen in person - was it actually so long? Blessed Valar... -- since the departure of the Mirkwood forces for home in the aftermath.

"I've heard my father's songs about it," Legolas murmured after a moment, with careful polity. "What does this scroll say, my Lord?"

Elrond read it to him, making certain to highlight the places where the ridiculous and fatal bravado of Oropher - written down by a far more kindly chronicler than had written the account in Elrond's library at Imladris - were shown to be what they had been, not wise perhaps, but definitely gallant, for this was Oropher's grandson seated so confidingly beside him. And when the tale had been all told, Elrond added in his own recollections, which opened up a veritable floodgate of eager questions: you were there? You were there! You knew my grandsire? What was my father like when he was young? Did you know him when he was my age? Are you older than he? But Lord Elrond -

Thinking back on it now, watching as a similar flood of query went on at Celeborn's knee, Elrond congratulated himself on his forbearance. He had not told Legolas all of how he felt - that Thranduil had always been a curmudgeon, at the battle and even at twenty-three, who clung to old hurts because his father said he should - and he certainly said nothing against Oropher, neutrally choosing only to say that the old King had died like a true hero of old. Elrond felt sufficiently comfortable that his memory of things was accurate, having read someone else's account uncoloured by his personal bias, that he could face Thranduil and be kind for the child's sake.

The child had eventually slipped away into one of his quick naps, head still tucked confidingly against Elrond's shoulder. It had not been too long after that Galadriel had come, bringing news that it was nearly time to depart. Elrond fancied he could still feel the wrench of finality with which she gently took the dreaming child from his side, the warmth of him lingering as she walked away with Legolas in her arms.

The next time he had seen the little prince, he had been deeply asleep aboard the swan ship; when he awakened, the whole thing had to be explained as Galadriel commanded - that fever kept him from remembering how he had come to be there, but his wounds were made whole now, and he was being taken home to his father. Introductions were made all over again. All of Lothlorien and the happy two days of peace were distilled down to the Now, and from some confused moments before the arrival of the Nazgul to this very moment, Legolas remembered absolutely nothing save what they told him he had done, or had had done to him. It made Elrond feel very odd.

Ah well, no mind; they were all more than ready for the reunion. The Lord and Lady would be as they always were, and Elrond's preparations were made. And Legolas - well, it was his father, after all, and adventures are fine - but home is a better place to be in the end. Celeborn rose, drawing the child to his feet, and they came toward the stern.

He looked a proper Mirkwood prince once more. Clothing appropriate to his age and station had been made for Legolas after the style and of the materials favored by his people. His long, sun-coloured hair had been neatly combed back into the topknot appropriate to his youth, tied into place with a strip of green leather left over from the making of his new tunic. Elrond would have liked to gift the prince with new weapons, but Celeborn had rightly pointed out that such a gift was a father's right to give, and Thranduil's pride might chafe; enough, that Elrond had gifted the boy with his life.

"We saw them!" Legolas announced, only just remembering at the last second to make a proper bow to Galadriel before rushing headlong into his words. "Father's outriders - they're coming!"

So great was his excitement that Legolas did not notice the nearly identical reaction among the adults: a kind of deepening focus, an unvoiced sigh. Quicksilver to the core, though, the child realized something in the very same heartbeat wherein the joy of reunion flared: that he would be leaving these stunningly different Elders with whom he had traveled so happily these past hours, and especially the mysterious Lord Elrond, who had found him in the Orc den and had saved his life. He subsided into silence, unsure, and clasped his hands behind his back. "I will miss you all!" he breathed, feeling a great tragedy was about to happen and resenting it utterly. Galadriel laughed indulgently and kissed away the resentment, embracing him until he smiled again.

"We are but returning home, little prince," she reminded him, "not taking ship for the West – not for many years. Someday, you must come again to visit me in Lothlorien. I will show you my mallorn trees, would you like that?"

Elrond could not look the child in the face as Legolas brought his blue eyes to bear on the Lady’s, wide with wonder and joy. "I would like that very much, Lady! I hope it will be soon!"

"The young are so impatient," she said, making Elrond twitch slightly, and Galadriel tweaked Legolas’ topknot in a maternal gesture of teasing. "Mallorn trees are almost as eternal as Elves," she assured the boy. "You will have plenty of time to see everything in the whole wide world, if that is what you desire."

Then she rose, turning Legolas about to face forward, and the barest second later there came a melodious report of silver trumpets from the eastern shore. It was Thranduil, surprisingly not attended by half the known world and then some; no banners flew, and apart from the trumpets – more a signal than an affectation – there was no other show of pomp. Looking at him, seeing how the centuries had changed him, suspecting how the past week had probably affected him, Elrond felt a twinge of pity.

The boat came to shore just below the bridge at the Old Ford. Behind lay the High Pass, whence shortly Elrond expected to see his sons and the warriors of Imladris arrive with a spare horse, to take him home; before, the shadowy opening in Mirkwood’s fastness that was the Old Forest Road, down which Thranduil would bear his son away to Eryn Lasgalen. Lothlorien servants and Silvan Elves moved to make the boat secure and to facilitate the meeting of these great ones; the King of Mirkwood dismounted from a huge, moonlight-coloured stallion and started uncertainly toward the party as they debarked. Quivering with excitement, Legolas looked up at Galadriel for permission; she nodded gravely, releasing his hand.

The child whirled, quick as a deer, and left nary a footprint in the damp sand as he ran to silently throw himself at his father. Thranduil caught Legolas to him with a wordless cry; the prince clung with desperate joy to his sire’s neck, breathing hard, his eyes closed as he dug his cheek into the King’s shoulder and hung on for dear life. Safe… For his part Thranduil did not seem to mind that knowing eyes could see his tears of relief, did not care what he must look like with his son clinging to him like a limpet, the slender legs locked about his waist.

"Now there is reason enough to forgive him much," Celeborn murmured, well pleased. Elrond completely agreed. Nor was he entirely surprised that Thranduil was profound and (for him) effusive in his thanks to them all, but chiefly to Elrond. After he coaxed Legolas to let him go there was actually a rather enjoyable visit, with Thranduil making an effort to be far more pleasant than any of them could remember him being in some long years. He could not take his eyes for long from the face of his son, of course, and every time the child’s voice piped up, excited or thoughtful or delighted by the turns of a heartbeat, there was such naked relief in the King’s eyes that it almost hurt to look at him.

But all things must come to an end, of course, and at length, knowing it would be dark in a few hours, they all realized it was time to make such an end and be about their own affairs. Yet did Thranduil beg their indulgence for one thing more, bowing gallantly to Galadriel.

"There is one matter that needs doing," the King announced, "and that is a thing always best done before one’s Elders." He looked with some significance at Elrond, then at the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, and finally at Glorfindel. "After what has transpired, I cannot think of four better Elders to witness this, than each of you."

"And what is this matter of which you speak?" Galadriel asked formally, looking unsurprised. Thranduil turned to look at Legolas, who stood at his side, poised on the balls of his feet; he smiled fondly, and the child blessed him with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile in return, leaning with familiarity into his sire’s side.

"I know many a warrior who is privileged to wear his hair braided like an adult, who has not carried himself with half the courage as a little bird of my acquaintance," he said, and his son went suddenly very, very still, eyes widening as he stared up at the King. "We Elves are a gallant folk who are known for many bright deeds – but some are brighter than others."

Thranduil looked at the four visitors. "I intend to trade this little bird’s topknot for the braids of a warrior, and I wish you to witness it – and since such things should also come from the hand of Beauty, I would beg that the Lady Galadriel would assist me."

Galadriel’s smile went very deep indeed; she tucked her chin and gazed at the King from under her brows. Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood had not begged anyone for anything in a very long time – and if beg he must, she could think of no better thing for him to ask. For once, she was proud of him.

"I will, and it honours me," she said.

She seemed to know without asking what the custom was among Thranduil’s kin; no one was surprised at that, either. She brought Legolas, who was still utterly stunned, from his father’s side; made him stand with his back to the King, facing Elrond, Celeborn, and Glorfindel, then chucked the little prince on the chin to gain a quavering smile from him before stepping lightly to Thranduil’s side, placing her hand atop his as he slipped loose the tie holding the bright topknot on his son’s head. Only adults were allowed to wear their hair loose among the Elves, and there were as many reasons as there were patterns for the various braids, clasps, and such that were worn in the varied Elven realms. Legolas’ breath came rapidly as the bright hair fell about his shoulders; he did not know where to look, and felt as if his heart might burst for joy.

As his gaze sought something to hold onto, Legolas looked first at Celeborn – but then he thought of just how old the Lord might be, and how many absolute thousands of warriors he must have seen braided in his time, and the weight of that responsibility just made Legolas’ head hurt. So he looked at Elrond – and though that storm-coloured gaze had probably seen quite a few such rites of passage as well, somehow it was easier to look him in the eye because after all, there had been a life returned between them, and that was a very good thing indeed.

Elrond watched with poignant pride and a vast sense of relief as Thranduil took from one of his Silvan folk a narrow wooden comb, much carved and set with ithildin, and handed it ceremoniously to Galadriel. The White Lady bowed gravely in return and combed out Legolas’ golden hair until it crackled about his slim shoulders like a cape of silk, falling halfway down his back. Then Thranduil, as was appropriate, gathered up the top layer of the bright stuff starting just at his son’s temples, and smoothed it to the back, separating it into six narrower strands. These he deftly wove into the warrior’s braid of the House of Oropher, intricate yet delicate, until it fell in a neat plait down the back center of Legolas’ head. The prince was holding his breath; Elrond could almost see in the lad’s eyes an echo of years of being taught the braiding pattern at home, practicing on ribbons, straw, anything but his own hair – because it was important that he someday be able to do it himself, when it was his right, behind his own head without looking.

Then Galadriel stepped back to Legolas’ side and, gathering more bright strands from his sidelocks, created a long, slender braid of three strands, knotting it elegantly with itself so that the free end hung loose to the length of his hair with no need of a fastener. When she passed in front of him to braid the other sidelock, she paused to bow to him – warrior’s inspiration giving honour to warrior – and he was so awestruck at the concept that one could almost hear the music trying to sing out of his heart. Another moment of work, another braid perfectly done – and the little prince was no longer quite so little. Another turn of the wheel, another childhood runs its course, and the world wags on….

"May you always be brave and true, Legolas Thranduilion," Galadriel said, completing the ritual as she knelt to place her hands on his shoulders, brushing back the long, shining hair. She then cupped his face in her long-fingered hands, and kissed him thoroughly on the mouth. Had it been any other kind of moment, the adults might have been indulgently amused at the look of surprised, blushing wonder that overtook the lad’s features at that unexpected salute. Celeborn thought privately that he must have looked like that himself, any of a thousand times over the preceding millennia, and had fatherly pity on Legolas; Elrond, Glorfindel, and Thranduil, who had each grown up in awe of the White Lady, found themselves exchanging looks of amused understanding over the brief tableau.

The new-found gravity and awakening confusion lasted for Legolas all of about a hundred heartbeats, long enough to give proper responses to the formal congratulations of the males, and to return Galadriel’s salute with a kiss to her hand and a promise to do as she bade him. As the final goodbyes were said Elrond was pleased to see Thranduil allow his son to mount the King’s own horse without assistance, which he did with all expected grace, while the Elven-King prepared to ride home on a somewhat lesser mount, though still magnificent and big enough to bear his height and weight with ease. But as the royal party from Mirkwood rode away, there were still echoes of the little bird with the golden topknot when Legolas looked back over one shoulder, flashed a lightning grin, and waved like the child he still was in some sense, until he disappeared out of sight into the Great Forest.

And as he settled down into what he knew would not be a long wait with the Lord and Lady, until the twins arrived to escort him home to Imladris, Elrond breathed a contented sigh and accepted the cup of wine that Glorfindel brought for him. Someday he would see the Prince of Mirkwood again, and someday Legolas would have a journey to Lothlorien that he was permitted to remember. For Elves, it was irrelevant to worry about when such things would happen or even if. There was time enough for all things if one could but live appropriately.

Some days were just better than others, that was all there was to that. And after a week such as this, today was a very fine day, indeed.

The End

Note:

Galadriel’s prayerful battle cry – "Le nallon sí di-nguruthos, A tiro nin, Fanuilos!" is Sindarin Elvish for "To thee I cry in the shadow of death – O look toward me, Everwhite!" which is part of the invocation to Elbereth Star-Kindler, used by Samwise Gamgee in Return of the King by Tolkien.