Disclaimer: Canon characters and places are Tolkien's, and no profit -except that of entertainment- is intended.

Kind of warning... For some unknown reason, I assumed that Legolas was married since the first time I read LOTR, so in this story he has been a husband for more than 2000 years, and is the proud father of an elleth.  

As stated in LaCE, “Thus, although the wedded remain so for ever, they do not necessarily dwell or house together at all times” This line finally prompted me to make my way, cautiously, through this tale, sad but full of hope.  

A/N “…if I had the cheek to make verses about Eärendil in Elrond’s house…” (Bilbo to Frodo in “Many meetings”, FOTR)  

I, too, have disregarded the Dúnadan’s advice, and have dared to write a Greenwood story and post it in a site full of talented and wonderful tale- weavers, so I pray for your indulgence at my boldness and ask for wise counsel for my many mistakes. Please read and enjoy.  

You can find the cast of the royal family of Lasgalen at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 1. 

News. 

Thranduil’s stronghold, last day of June, T. A. 3019 

“Lady Laerîniel! We did not expect you home yet! Are you injured?”  

The king’s secretary tried to keep up with the princess as she purposefully strode towards the family quarters in King Thranduil’s stronghold.  

“I am fine, Lord Brethil, just burned my hand.” The elleth waved her tightly bandaged arm in dismissal. “Where is the king? I must see him presently…”  

“He is in council, my lady; please, take a seat while I announce your presence... shall I call for a healer, too?”  

“I told you that I am fine, thanks,” she repeated impatiently. “My burns have been treated, and I am sure that the healers still have plenty of work; we have had a war here!“ she added bluntly. She stopped then, aghast at her own words and turned to face the secretary. “Forgive me, Brethil, that was inconsiderate…”  

They were in the normally crowded area where petitioners and those waiting for an audience with the king usually stood in the busier hours of the morning. Now, the entrance to the great hall and the council meeting rooms was mostly empty, except for the guards at the huge oak doors that led to the King’s audience hall and servants and messengers crossing the wide passage pursuing their errands.  

“Yes, it was,” the aide observed with a neutral tone. “Now, sit here and wait, my lady,” he offered, nodding to a passing servant. “Bring the Lady Laerîniel some water and then carry away her pack and send word that she’s back home. She’ll take a bath after she meets with the King,” he ordered calmly. “By your leave, my lady,” he added, bowing to her as he disappeared toward the king’s office.  

****  

“I know that your needs are pressing, my friend, but as you surely understand, so are those of the rest of the realm!”   

Thranduil was trying hard to keep his frustration under control, Brethil thought as he quietly entered the meeting room using a side door from the king’s private office. The spacious chamber looked crammed, with elves sitting in assorted types of chairs and some standing against the stonewalls and the coloured tapestries hanging from them, after the king decided that the Great Hall was too big for holding such a meeting. The villages’ leaders, he reasoned, would be more comfortable in less threatening surroundings. And he didn’t want to give the impression that he was trying to put a distance between the crown and its more independent subjects.  

Lord Brethil could never be sure, with Thranduil, when he was being sarcastic. In this case, though, he harbored the suspicion that the change of setting was intended to make the settlers feel uncomfortable and, hopefully, put a quick end to what usually turned out to be endless debates.  

Not that he was succeeding, the secretary thought with some amusement. The king and Lord Bôrgalas, his eldest son, had been closeted for hours now with the stubborn and resilient settlers, and things did not seem closer to an agreement than they had been before they started talking. The leaders of the scattered communities of wood-elves were stubborn, yes, but they were pressed hard by their own people, too, and the war had been heavy on everyone. Now, winter was looming and the prospect of food shortage in the devastated forest was making them cringe in advance. Not that he faulted them, Brethil sighed as he approached Thranduil’s side, but he, too, understood the king’s position.  

“Laerîniel is here, my lord, and she asks to speak to you urgently,” he said for the king’s ear only. Thranduil leveled a sharp glance at him and leaning to his right, he whispered the information to his eldest son, Lord Bôrgalas. He then signaled to Brethil to find another seat and place it at the head of the table, by his left, before sending the princess in. 

“My friends,” he turned to his council, a wry smile upon his face, “I am told that the lady Laerîniel is just returned from beyond the elf path and asks to meet with us. You’ll surely understand this interruption, as I believe she has interesting news.”  

As the front door opened, everybody except the king and the prince –and those already standing for lack of chairs- stood up before the slender, dark haired elleth clad in green and dust who made her way towards the head of the table with a determined, if weary, look upon her fair face. She bowed gracefully to the king and the prince and then sat down at the king’s left at his signal.  

“We’re so pleased to have you home, lady Laerîniel, what news from the south?” Thranduil’s voice was pleasant and warm, even as he cast a curious look at her bandaged hand.  

She drank briefly from the goblet that had been placed in front of her before speaking.  

“The situation is grim, my lord. Our forces are still trying to ensure control of the lands beyond the elf path and the situation is not wholly safe yet. Spiders and stray parties of orcs have been seen moving along our territory. Orcs are burning the forest as they flee, and some of the worst fires are yet out of control. Your grandson, Lord Mallereg," she specified out of habit, "has been forced to evacuate again the scattered settlements along the western bank of the Enchanted River, and the flames are still advancing at a dangerous pace there, my lord,” she sighed tiredly.  

“Where are those people now?” one of the settlement leaders asked, worry in his voice.  

The princess looked at them. “Lord Mallereg had them split into groups. Women and children have been sent to safer places in the settlements north of the Forest River, so I believe that more supplies will be needed there soon. Some are with us, and some others have joined Lord Mallereg’s patrols to help put out the fires and protect the foresters. One of our groups was attacked three nights ago by a band of orcs. We lost two foresters,” she added softly.  

The king inhaled deeply and looked around the table. Nobody seemed in the mood for questions.  

“Anything else?” he asked the tired princess.  

“Yes, my lord. Lord Mallereg asks for more troops to be sent to him, and after seeing the destruction these stray bands of orcs are still causing, I can only agree that warriors are more needed than foresters at the moment. I advice you to consider sending more warriors to your grandson in the hopes that he’ll be able to rid us of this plague soon,” she admitted sadly.  

She caught the grateful look Bôrgalas cast her way and returned it with a small smile of her own. She had argued fiercely with her stubborn, bold nephew, but the last days had proved that orcs where a priority.  She had come to concede that only when she saw the remains of two of her best friends, almost unrecognizable after the orcs had massacred them. She bit her lip, pushing those memories to the back of her mind ruthlessly.  

“We’ll consider the rearranging of our troops later, Commander,” the king said evenly to his eldest son. “As you see, our priorities, unfortunately, still lay in the defence of our realm,” he addressed then the village leaders assembled around his council table. “While we do not dismiss your concerns, for they are ours, too, we cannot see how we can deal with evacuations and increasing needs for troop deployments and yet attend your demands for more support to be sent to each individual settlement under these circumstances. We have offered the communal stores, but that means that you must be ready to abandon your villages for the winter and share your supplies with the stronghold.”  

He made a pause then, but nobody seemed ready to dispute that claim at the moment. “Any other suggestion shall be welcome indeed, for it seems that food is going to be scarce this winter, no matter what we do. If that’s all, lady Laerîniel…”  

She rose and bowed to the king, grateful for the dismissal, and made it for the door with all the dignity she could muster, while behind her the murmur of worried comments rose as morning breeze among the trees.  

The princess walked briskly through the almost empty corridors, nodding to the scarce guards or servants she crossed on her way, her hand to her bosom, fingering the parchment she nursed against her heart, eager to get to the privacy of her chambers to sit and write back to her beloved and dearly missed husband.  

*** 

“Dear husband:”  

Without taking off her travel-worn clothes, Laerîniel had sought quill and parchment and had sat at her desk, anxious to put down the answer she had been composing in her head, but all of a sudden it sounded too cool and detached. She sighed and shook her head.  

“Dear Legolas:”  

Enough. Putting aside the quill with a scowl, she produced a creased parchment from an inner pocket in her dusty tunic and started reading again, for the tenth time, the message that had brought tears of joy to her eyes after months of war, destruction and mounting worry.  

No. She was not yet in the mood for writing. First, she needed to drown in the pleasure of her beloved husband’s words; she wanted to repeat them until she could almost hear him say them in her ear, his soft voice caressing her. If she closed her eyes, she swore she could feel his scent in the room, even if it was almost a whole year since they had last been together there.  

Drown! That was exactly what she needed. She stood up and walked to the bathing chamber to find that the tub had been filled and the water was still steaming, the scent of flowers filling the air and suddenly reminding her of how tired she was, and how fast she had ridden for the last days.  

Laerîniel began shedding her riding clothes as soon as the thought of a long, warm bath crossed her mind, and jumping on one foot while trying to get rid of her trousers with a single hand, she let the treasured parchment on the stool by the tub and finally sat down to pull off the stubborn garment. Then, she slid into the steaming water with a moan of pleasure, mindful of her bandaged arm. It had been too long since she had indulged in such luxuries, she thought, unfastening her long hair with her uninjured hand and submerging her head in the water.  

She surfaced with a wistful smile upon her fair face, wishing he were there with his strong hands to rub her stiff neck and her sore back and tease her softly, slowly, with wicked, experienced touches, until she would turn and force him into a crushing kiss that would convince him to join her in their huge tub.  

She shivered at the thought of his long fingers caressing her body as she absentmindedly rubbed the cleansing root against her skin, relishing the way it came to life, emerging rosy and bright below the dirt and ashes of the last days. 

She had not thought of Legolas -not in that way- for a long time now, for fear that pain and longing would overcome her, but the knowledge that he was safe and unscathed and that he would be returning home in some more moons was enough to send a jolt of excitement down her spine and make her giggle and blush like an infatuated young maiden.  

There had been grief and fear and destruction. But worst of all had been the lack of news, and the fear that he might as well never be back, that they might never be together again under the trees, that they would never meet again this side of the sundering seas.  

She had tried to be strong. She had forced thoughts of him to the back of her mind and had turned her efforts to her duty, holding on to the inner hope that he was still alive and that she would see him ride home eventually.  

“I have seen things that would fill your heart with joy, my beloved.” She had picked up the parchment again and continued reading words she already knew by heart, leaning back and resting her head against the tub, her bandaged left arm hanging outside, letting the warm water embrace her and remind her of strong, loving arms. “I have seen the white mellyrn of Lórien in winter and the mighty city of the Galadhrim, who still keep flets upon the trees as they used to in the time of Nimrodel… I have seen the old Onodrim of Fangorn Forest and despite the urgency of our errand, I could not help thinking of you and how your fair face would shine at the sight of their powerful trunks and their bottomless eyes. I promised myself more than once that, once this war was over and the world freed from the shadow, we would roam the forests of middle earth for a time, just as we wanted to do in our youth, free of care and duty, just you and I.”  

A tear of joy ran down her cheek as she tried to picture the promise contained in his words now that the shadow was truly conquered.   

“Laerîniel?” the deep voice of the queen’s secretary and best friend interrupted her musings.  

“In the tub, Saelleth!”  

“I should have guessed! What happened to your arm, child! The king was worried that your hand was bandaged but...” The tall and nimble lady who had seen the king’s children –and grandchildren- learn to walk was now picking up discarded garments from the floor and placing them upon the stool.  

“It’s only a burn, Saelleth, and it is healing; please, I’ll do that! Only I was so eager to get a bath that I just let it fall...”  

“I don’t mind. Do not move. You will not want that bandage wet, here, let me help you… give me that, or you’ll ruin it!” She pointed at the parchment the princess was holding tightly in her bandaged hand and smiled amusedly when she let go of it reluctantly.  

“You’ll never come out of that tub if you do not stop reading and dreaming, little princess, and the Queen wants to know if you shall join us for dinner and celebration,” the elder elleth said, soaping the princess’ hair and pushing her head softly under the water while she spoke.  

“I suppose that I should, although I… feel a bit guilty…” Laerîniel answered shyly with her eyes still closed.  

“Do not, child,” Saelleth softly reprimanded her, “Eru knows that we have had little chance for rejoicing lately. The fact that your husband is alive and coming home is joyful news for everybody in this household. Thranduil and Gaildineth were only too happy to receive Legolas’ message, and they have been waiting eagerly to share the news with you…Let me, there!”  She helped the princess stand up and spread a huge towel for her.   

“Does he say when he plans to be back?” she asked, this time from the main chamber, where she was busy now, Laerîniel thought, choosing her gown for dinner.  

“By narbeleth!” the princess answered, using the more specific name, “sun waning,” for that particular period of autumn that was so dear to both of them. She found a smaller towel and started drying her hair while she spoke.  

“Oh, Gaildineth will be glad to hear that...Legolas shall be her little elfling even when Sûlgalen makes him a grandfather,” she called amusedly from the sleeping chamber. “Now sit, child, let me do that. Is he happy?” Saelleth was again in the bathing chamber, moving around with an energy and efficiency that always overwhelmed those around her.  

“Yes,” the princess tried to sound convincing, “he’s most happy to be alive, and he sounds so relived that the shadow has been destroyed…”  

“You do not sound that excited, though...” Saelleth had started disentangling her long, raven locks, and Laerîniel closed her eyes and enjoyed being cared for.  

“Well, it is difficult, after seeing the destruction in the south and thinking of all the loss,” the princess sighed, “and then, our own losses entwined with those of our people, and the forest’s... I fear it will be long before I dare feel whole again,” she added in a voice that was laden with grief.  

Saelleth embraced the princess in silence. She was no stranger to grief, either. Her husband had died in the Last Alliance, side by side with Oropher, and her son had been one of those who had been killed when the shadow last returned to Dol Guldur. She had personal grudges against the Lord of the Dark Tower, but she had refused to fade, she had refused to sail west and she had chosen to remain there, hoping against hope that one day darkness would be defeated.  

And now the shadow had departed, but not without taking away another loved one. Borgil, the king’s second grandson and second child of the Crown Prince had died in the Battle of Mirkwood, the bitter battle that had been fought under the leaves of their beloved forest and that had left a trail of destruction enough to shock even the most seasoned warriors.  

 “I... I don’t want to sound selfish, but I thank Eru that I have been blessed with a daughter in place of a warrior prince, Saelleth,” the princess said softly, obviously thinking along the same lines, “I don’t think that I could be as brave as you or Luinil…”  

“Come on, child,” the elder elleth comforted her, “just thank Eru you did not have to go through it. You don’t know how strong you are until you’re confronted with your doom. But let’s speak of happier things! Our beloved Borgil is in the care of Námo and we shall meet him again someday. We will not forget him until that day is come…”  

“I wished Luinil would see that…”  

“She’ll just have to, child. She still has a husband and another son who need her,” Saelleth told her sternly, as she finished braiding her long hair. “I must leave you now. I’ll tell the king that you’ll join us for dinner and that you’ll bring along your happiest smile…” 

“I’ll save that for my husband, if you don’t mind!” Laerîniel called to the retreating elleth, laughing in spite of herself.  

*******    

“My lords.” With a smile and a curtsy, Laerîniel entered the family dining room, wearing a pale-grey gown with long sleeves that helped hide her bandage and with her dark hair loosely tied in one long braid. The king and Bôrgalas, his eldest son, were standing by the fire with their goblets of wine.  

“Come, child, and let me embrace you properly!” Thranduil waved at her, opening his arms, a warm smile upon his fair face. “I am so glad to have you back home!”  

“I am glad to be home, too, Adar” she said softly as the king put a kiss upon her brow, and then smiled up at her husband’s brother, who nodded to her with a fond grin.  

“It is good to see you home, Laerîniel, and with such good news to share,” the prince said, embracing her carefully, “even if you are a bit battered, aren’t you? What happened to your arm?“ he inquired worriedly.  

“Fire,” she sighed, tiredness and desperation suddenly slipping into her voice. “But it is healing fast, there’s no need to worry…” She tried to sound reassuring.  

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bôrgalas smiled, “Let me offer you a goblet of wine, while Saelleth and Naneth join us,” he added, walking to the side table where a glass decanter added air and temperature to what seemed to be the king’s most treasured Dorwinion, by the colour of it.  

“Mallereg sends his love, Bôrgalas. He was well when I left him,” she said, accepting the goblet, “although he was worried for his nana… how is Luinil?”  

The prince sighed heavily. “She is getting stronger every day. She’ll overcome her grief, eventually, I have no doubt, but it is difficult to … come to terms with…it all,” he said, his voice catching slightly.  

“We’ll all come through it,“ Thranduil chimed in firmly. “We are a family and we’ll overcome the grief and be stronger for it. Come, children, let us drink to Borgil, who is now in Mandos’ care, and to Legolas, who will be returned to us soon,” he added, raising his goblet.  

“I am sorry, Laerîniel, but I too still find it hard to talk about…it,” Bôrgalas whispered after they drank, while the king listened to a servant that had entered the room quietly.  

“Please, do not apologize, it was me who asked.” She pressed his arm comfortingly. ”Anyway, you might like to learn that Mallereg and I spent a whole night away talking about Borgil and drinking and crying, too, and… we felt better for it…”  

“After you recovered, I suspect,” Thranduil quipped, joining again in the conversation, hardly containing his amusement and happy to see his eldest son sharing a short laughter at the thought.  

“Well, yes, my lord, your Dorwinion was not available at the time!” she admitted hurriedly, raising her goblet to the king.  

“Of course it wasn’t,” the king nodded sternly, but with a glint of mischief in his grey eyes, aware of the blatant lie. He led them to the table. “Let’s start dinner, I’m told that the Queen and Saelleth will not join us tonight...” He lifted a hand immediately, seeing concern in his eldest son’s eyes. ”Nothing to worry about, son, your wife is sleeping peacefully, it seems, but your nana and Saelleth had something they wanted to take care of…”  

“Luinil was most sorry that she could not meet you tonight, Laerîniel,” Bôrgalas said, as he escorted his brother’s wife to the table and held back the chair for her, and then forth, “but that sleeping draught is most powerful… she said she was looking forward to seeing you tomorrow...”  

Laerîniel nodded in understanding. Luinil had been a shadow of her happy self since news of their youngest son’s death had arrived, barely three months ago. The news had stricken all the family, as well as the stronghold, for the younger prince was well loved by everyone. Bôrgalas was slowly coming back to himself, but Laerîniel was pained to see the weak smirk that had replaced his usually broad and self-confident grin. Losing your child must be like losing a part of yourself, she thought with a shudder as a servant entered with a bowl of steaming broth.  

“Cook sends his excuses, Lady Laerîniel,” the servant dipped his chin before her, “and warns you that if you were kind enough to keep him informed of your comings and goings, then he could manage his best to surprise you…”  

“Pray tell Cook that he’s most appreciated no matter what he has in his sleeve. After three weeks on porridge and lembas, even his most… indescribable creations would taste wonderfully to me...” the princess smiled as the king and the prince roared with laughter at the look upon her face. She bit her lower lip, glancing at them with feigned reproach and finally smiled. “Oh, I see. I forgot to mention cram? Did I mention that we ate cram, too?” she said, referring to the mannish way bread the foresters usually carried in their packs for long treks and that had become a commodity and sort of stale joke, too, among them. 

The servant left discreetly, trying to disguise his amusement as the three royals started their modest dinner in the best mood that had been seen in that dining room for many a week.  

“I don’t think food supplies have been magically restored since I went away, have they?” the princess inquired worriedly, eyeing the watery broth and the scarce vegetables that floated with apparent ease in it.  

“They have not,” Thranduil agreed calmly. “But we will worry about that tomorrow, child. Tonight, you are home and we have news from Legolas. Let’s enjoy and be thankful for what we have,” he added softly, looking pointedly to both of his table companions.  

She eyed him gratefully. He was always a source of strength and calm for her, knowledge and compassion shining out through his stern countenance, the face of one who had endured almost endless loss and destruction and had lived through it all hoping for better days to arrive. The pain was there, but it hadn’t marred the beauty and wisdom of that powerful elf lord. Looking at the king, she always felt that there was no evil that Greenwood would not survive.  

“So, tell us, daughter,” Thranduil turned his attention to his son’s wife, his voice light, “how is it that you received a message from your husband before the King heard of his son?”  

“Oh!” she blushed at the thought, “we were close to the elf path when we heard that Farother and his party had stalked a strange elf carrying messages for the king. I suppose that…somehow…they managed to learn that those messages were from Legolas…  

“And your son-in-law being there, he surely managed to learn that there were messages for you and your daughter, too,” Bôrgalas offered helpfully, with undisguised mirth.  

“Well, yes. As far as I understand it, they cornered this Elf and questioned him about his errand. When they learnt that he carried messages for my daughter and me, as well as for the king... somehow… they...managed to convince him to deliver mine first…” She stopped then, hoping against reason that they would be satisfied with that, but both Thranduil and Bôrgalas seemed perversely amused by the situation.  

“And…?” the king urged her.  

“Well… I was told that they…offered to escort him to my encampment, but the messenger wasn’t inclined to go off his due course and…they must have… come up with… powerful reasons to convince him, for the message was in my camp when I arrived two days after… I should not be telling you this, Adar,” she added hurriedly,” but since you have received a message, too, you must have heard the story altogether.” She was trying to sound properly mortified, but indeed she had been grateful to her son-in-law and his fellow hunters for cornering the messenger and forcing him to deliver her message first.  

“I have, indeed,” the king laughed, “but what I want to know is why on Arda this poor Eelf has been made go all the way to my granddaughter’s settlement after he met her husband in the forest? Surely Farother could have had the message sent to her?”  

“You know how Farother is, Adar” she smiled, ”Neither he nor any of his fellow hunters are expected back home for at least four or five more weeks…you are telling me that the messenger went all the way to deliver it by hand? Sûlgalen must have been so pleased!”  

“I am sure she was, daughter, although I fear I cannot say the same about the messenger...I offered to have one of our guards deliver it, but he insisted on taking the trip, so I assume that Farother has been more than persuasive,” Thranduil added with a grin.  

They were all laughing when the servant entered again with a tray of mushrooms. The conversation turned then to a friendly father-son bantering about how many different ways of preparing mushrooms each knew, and Laerîniel let her gaze wander idly along the huge table, full of vacant places. Memories of happier times, of a crowded room and eager faces of joyful children assaulted her as her eyes took in each seat and recalled its usual occupant, and she wondered whether they would ever regain a semblance of normalcy.  

“My lord?” she blinked away the tears welling in her eyes, coming back from her reverie to confront the king’s understanding face.  

“I was wondering whether Legolas mentioned in his message when he expected to be back,” Thranduil smiled.  

“He says he’ll be back by narbeleth,” she sighed, and suddenly felt colour rising to her cheeks at the memory of the last words in her husband’s message.  

“Something more precise, perhaps?” Bôrgalas pried, a teasing smile upon his face.  

“Bôrgalas…” the king grunted.  

She winked conspiratorially at her brother-in-law, the one who had gladly –and very expertly- meddled as a go-between until she and Legolas had finally acknowledged what they felt for each other, more than two millennia ago. There was little that she could hide from him, and less that she would.  

“Before the old beech is bereft,” she whispered, a wistful smile upon her tired face.  

“Then, my lady,” the crown prince offered seriously, ”I shall have that beech under close watch, and I’ll keep you informed of her progress timely,” he promised, his right hand to his heart.  

“But for now, you should go to bed, daughter, you look dead upon your feet,” the king recommended, “we shall meet with the council tomorrow after breakfast, to discuss the situation thoroughly, but until now, you should go and rest and dream of his returning, for I know that you miss him dearly, child, we all do!”  

She stood and curtsied to the king and the prince and then bowed to put a kiss upon Thranduil’s brow. ”I know it’s been less than a sun-round, and we have been apart for far longer than that,“ she whispered, her voice catching in her throat as emotion threatened to finally overcome her determination, “and yet I miss him more than I ever expected to, Adar!” she confessed hopelessly.  

“I know, child,” Thranduil sighed, taking her hand between his and pressing comfortingly, “for these have been strange and ominous times, and this single year has brought more change and loss to us than many an enni before it, so don’t feel guilty if you rejoice now, for we all do, Laerîniel. Times have been hard for all of us and I fear that there may yet be more pain ahead,” he added thoughtfully, dismissing her with a warm smile.  

Laerîniel could not remember how she had made it to her chambers. She went about her nightly routines distractedly, exhaling a tired sigh as she finally slipped into the fresh sheets of their huge bed.  

I don’t know how long we shall remain here, but this I promise, my Sûlaer: I’ll ride to you before the old beech is bereft, and we shall dance upon the auburn carpet of narbeleth and clad ourselves in the fallen leaves under the moon, and we shall be consumed in the love that burns as bright as the first day after more than fifteen ennin.  

Your loving husband,  

Calenben  

With the feel of her husband’s words still lingering in her lips and his message tightly held against her breast, she walked down the elven path of dreams with a happy smile upon her fair face for the first time in many moons.

TBC

Some useful translations:  

Onodrim: Sindarin for ent-people

Narbeleth: Sun waning. Sindarin for a part of October.

Enni: Sindarin for yen; 144 years

Sûlaer: “summer breeze”, Laerîniel’s epéssë, given to her by Legolas 

Calenben: “Green one,” the epéssë by which his wife calls Legolas

The Cast of the royal family of Eryn Lasgalen:  

Thranduil: King of Lasgalen

Gaildineth: (bright light bride) Queen of Lasgalen  

Bôrgalas: (Steadfast plant) The Crown Prince. 

Luinil: (The name of a star, probably Rigel, in Orion.) His wife

Mallereg Belegorn: (Golden thorn, mighty tree.) Their first son.

Borgil. (The name of a star, Betelgeuse, match to Rigel -his nana’s name- in Orion) Their second son. He was killed in the Battle of Mirkwood, T.A. March 3019

Calenben: (Green one) Legolas’s epéssë, given to him by his wife

Laerîniel: (summer remembrance) Legolas’ wife. Legolas’ epéssë for his wife is Sûlaer: (summer wind) 

Sûlgalen: Their daughter (Her name is a mix of her parents’ epéssë, wind and green)

Farother: Her husband. (Hunter)

Saelleth:  The queen’s best friend, secretary and counselor. (Wise elven woman)

Lord Brethil: the king’s secretary (silver beech)

Praise Redheredh with great praise, for she has kindly agreed to nitpick my chapters, so you’ll be spared those annoying mistakes and typos! Of course, there may (shall) remain some, but they’re my sole responsibility! 

A/N: Laerîniel is Legolas’ wife. He calls her Sûlaer. She calls Legolas Calenben.

Everybody else is listed at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 2. Troubles ahead

Thranduil’s stronghold; Midsummer’s eve, 3019.

“Forever, Sûlaer, forever...”

“Stay, Calenben! Where are you going?”

“Forever….”

Laerîniel stretched her hand in vain, the words drifting away as if carried by a gentle wind, echoing in her mind… or was it in her ear?

“Over there, please, over there… Laerîniel, are you awake?” That voice was definitely resounding in her ear and too close for comfort, Laerîniel thought, fighting the last threads of sleep and focusing her gaze.

The smell of newly baked bread was enough to let her know that she was at home, and she got up lazily, taking in the surroundings.

“Luinil?” she asked with incredulity, seeing the slender form of her sister-in-law moving in the outer chamber, helping the maid arrange what looked like an oversized breakfast.

“Morning, my friend! Put something on and let’s have breakfast! I’m very busy with tonight’s celebrations and you are to attend council this morning, I am told!” the princess said with a warm smile, dismissing the maid with a wave of her hand.

“Luinil!” Laerîniel crossed the room to embrace her friend. “How good to see you up and about!” she managed, almost choking with emotion. When she had last seen her, three weeks ago, Luinil could barely stand unaided and she had looked closer to despair than anyone Laerîniel had ever seen.

“I know. But, tell me, how are things out there?” The princess was still pale and thin and there was that haunted look in her eyes, but she was smiling bravely. “I hardly saw Bôrgalas this morning and it takes time to clear my mind from that vile concoction...You saw him last night, didn’t you?” she asked while sitting across the table and picking at the bread.

“Yes, we had dinner together, and I told him that I left Mallereg south of the Path; he was well when we parted and he sends his love to his nana.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I could hardly see him when he was last here,” she sighed softly. “But now, tell me of Legolas! When is he coming home?”

“I expect him by Narbeleth,” Laerîniel smiled. “I’m already counting the days; it is unbelievable how much I have missed him this time, Luinil. It is not as if we have never been apart, but this time... I guess the lack of news was the worst part.” Laerîniel confessed between mouthfuls.

“Well, that - and the strengthening of the shadow, too,” her friend answered thoughtfully, “You’ve been apart with no news for far longer, after all. Do you remember that time when you were busy in the north and Sûlgalen was almost at her majority and Legolas decided that the eastern bank of the Enchanted River needed close watch? How long did he stay there until we managed to bring you back together?” Luinil offered a ghost of her beautiful smile remembering that episode.

“That’s hardly fair, Luinil. I was busy indeed in the north and it wouldn’t have been fair to move then, not for Sûlgalen,” Laerîniel complained with little conviction. Their many duties, as well as their slightly differing interests, had kept them apart for different periods of time during their long ennin together, as it was a not so rare occurrence among their kin. That did not mean that they did not love each other any longer. On the contrary, their reunions were the sweeter because of the separations.

“And that time when you chose to accept the post of head forester for the eastern marches and he was expected to take care of the northern settlements’ defences?’

“You’re enjoying this a bit too much,” Laerîniel grunted in a friendly manner. “Shall I start reminding you of the many times you have tried to bribe Thranduil into sending Bôrgalas to check on the patrols or to pay a visit to Dale?”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear laughter again in this side of the corridor,” a familiar voice chimed in and both princesses stood up to greet the queen, the beautiful lady who had managed to ensnare Thranduil’s heart more than two ages ago and who still looked like the vivacious, charming elleth the minstrels praised in the songs of old.

“Lady Gaildineth,” Laerîniel bowed with a warm smile.

“Laerîniel, my child, I’m so glad to have you home to share this good news!” The queen embraced the princess tightly. “Saelleth told me about your arm so I asked Nestalf to come and have a look at it before you attend Council,” she added, guiding both princesses to their chairs and finding another for herself while Luinil poured a third cup of warm tea.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that Legolas will be back by Narbeleth, Laerîniel,” the queen said, “although I suppose that you’re even happier.” Laerîniel blushed and could not help laughing, picking at some cheese in a fruitless effort to disguise her embarrassment. “We’ve been short of good news lately,” the queen added thoughtfully, “and I do not believe the King’s mood shall be improved after today’s council.”

“Will you join us, my lady?”

“No, thankfully I’m otherwise engaged,” the queen winked at Luinil then, “We three are quite busy with tonight’s celebration - Midsummer’s Eve,” she explained at Laerîniel’s quizzical expression. “Child, you had forgotten?”

“I fear I had,” Laerîniel acknowledged, scowling at her friend who could not hold back an undignified snort. “I had many things to think about!” she complained. The three of them burst out in a fit of laughter at the unintended implications. A knock at the door interrupted their amused chatter as Nestalf, the palace healer, entered the chambers.

“I had feared that your wounds were serious, your Highness,” he smiled, bowing deeply in front of the queen and the princesses, “but I’m glad to see that is not the case. Maybe certain good news is responsible of this?”

“My burns are healing fast, master Nestalf,” Laerîniel smiled, pointing a chair out to the healer. “You’ll see that I’ve been duly careful this time,” she added with a playful grin.

“Let me be the judge of it”, the healer said with a professional frown, “although I can wait till your breakfast is finished, my ladies,” he smiled, looking over the food in the tray.

The queen stood up quickly.

“It is finished, Nestalf. Luinil and I are expected in the kitchens and Laerîniel must attend council soon… you might like to know, Lady Laerîniel, that His Majesty has asked for special preparations for this council,” the queen said, raising her brows pointedly.

“I am deeply thankful that you let me know, my lady.” Laerîniel nodded in understanding, standing and bowing to the queen who waved her hand lightly.

“Now you know, Master Healer, so make sure to be quick and do not cause the princess to incur in the King’s wrath by being late!” the queen warned with a friendly wink, pushing Luinil before her as they exited the chamber. It was as if all the light had suddenly left to follow her trail, Laerîniel thought in wonder.

***

“You’re in time, Your Highness,” the guard before Thranduil’s council room bowed respectfully to the princess and stepped aside, holding the door open as she entered the chamber. The three elves already waiting there stood and bowed respectfully before her.

“I’m glad to see that your injury is minor, Laerîniel,” the Warden said after all had exchanged greetings. “The reports weren’t very encouraging since the last attacks,” he added sombrely. The ranks of foresters and hunters were under his command and the losses had been too high forhis comfort since the war had ended.

“Let us talk of more auspicious matters,” the Steward interrupted in his elaborate way of speaking. “I heard that Prince Legolas is expected soon, my lady,” he bowed courteously to the princess, a warm smile upon his kind face. He had been Oropher’s steward since before the Sindarin lord moved east from the havens in the early years of the Second Age.

“And it is just about time”, Master Prestolon, the Herdir Laegrim, or Head of the Settlements’ Council put in brusquely. “He should have been here, protecting the settlements and the forest, as it is his duty, instead of roaming the lands of the south at the command of that Noldorin lord…”

The animosity between Oropher’s Steward and the Herdir Laegrim, the leader of the scattered settlements of the Green elves, was legendary. Master Prestolon, as some of his fellow settlers did, had bitterly resented the progressive sindarization of their way of life and wasted no opportunity to show his disagreement.

Laerîniel’s adar was one of those; but even he, a grumpy forester who lived alone in the deepest part of the Northern marches, was able to point out some advantages stemming from Oropher’s line ruling. Although, the fact that Thranduil was his daughter’s father-in-law had not served to soften his more critical opinions.

“He was defending our forest, Master Prestolon,” she answered before thinking and berating herself almost instantly for doing so, “at our king’s command, and not at any Noldorin lord’s.”

“As you say, my lady,” he nodded with a mocking smile. “I only know that his command was undertaken by Prince Borgil and…”

“As I said before,” the Steward cut in bluntly, “let us speak of lighter matters. If you have nothing pleasant to say, Master Prestolon, please rest assured that your voice will not be missed at this table,” he added in a sharp voice.

A heavy silence fell upon the council room, hostility plainly written on the stubborn elf’s face. Laerîniel let her gaze wander around the chamber, taking in the signs of the “special preparations” the queen had hinted at. There were fresh flowers and handfuls of fern, dew still glinting upon the long leaves.

We’re going to need more than this to cancel out Prestolon’s temper, she thought tiredly.  She understood the Silvan’s concerns, but she didn’t appreciate his penchant for causing trouble and division. Nobody could deny Thranduil and his family’s dedication to the realm and to the forest, and she doubted that the Silvan people would have survived for long against the shadow, alone and scattered as they used to live before the western elves came there. 

The Warden suddenly lifted his head from the maps spread out in the centre of the huge table and a heartbeat later the rest of his companions heard the voices approaching the door. They were all standing as the guard opened the door and stepped back to let the Crown Prince and the Troop Commander in.

“Sit, my friends,” the prince waved his hand briefly. “Or rather stand,” he said with a wan smile. “The King is right behind us,” he added, pointing at the door that was still open. Laerîniel noticed that Bôrgalas’ usually relaxed face looked tired and the eyes that so much reminded her of her husband’s were dull and lacked their usual animation.

A side door opened and two servants entered, carrying clay plates with delectable-looking pastries and two large jars of cold herbal infusion. That looked more promising, Laerîniel thought, as the king also entered the council room at a brisk pace.

“Good day, everyone, please be seated, my lords and lady, there are some dispositions that you must be informed of,” he said in a businesslike tone that meant he had come to difficult decisions and would brook little to none opposition. “These are the result of the numerous reunions that we have held with most of you in the past days,” he added with a tired smirk, he added, nodding towards the Herdir Laegrim.

“Well, at least we can treat ourselves to these most delicious pastries, my lord, if the meeting becomes too boring,” the Steward smiled, picking up a flower-shaped delicacy.

“I find it unbecoming to enjoy these treats while our people face starvation next winter,” the Herdir Laegrim grumbled as the servants placed goblets in front of each counsellor.

“Enough!” Thranduil roared, hitting the table with his clenched fist and making the plates rattle upon the wooden surface. “I will not tolerate the Queen to be insulted, Master Prestolon! She’s well aware of the state of our supplies, and of those of the realm. If she decides that we can be served these pastries, then none shall dare doubt her judgment, or shall face my rage, am I clear?”

“I…I’m sorry, my lord,” the flustered counsellor apologized repeatedly, “It was never my intention….”

“Let’s begin. Lord Brethil is busy for the moment, he’ll join us later,” nodded the King, acknowledging the apology with an impatient gesture. “Lord Bôrgalas, please, update our council briefly upon the state of our defences.”

Laerîniel almost gaped at Thranduil’s mastery. Not a single day passed whithout her learning something from the king, she thought. Prestolon was always the thorn on everybody’s side, and none of Thranduil’s counsellors liked to gainsay him because he would soon fault them for being only too loyal to the king and afraid to challenge his opinions.

But today, Prestolon’s outburst had been extemporaneous and careless and Thranduil must have expected it, she thought with wicked pleasure. Acting offended on behalf of the Queen he had managed to reduce his headstrong councillor to a cautious silence, lest he would earn another harsh rebuke from the king, having spent much of his credit for further disagreement in that simple mistake. Laerîniel could hardly suppress an appreciative smile.

“As you well know,” the Crown Prince was saying, while his commander laid out recently drafted maps upon the massive table, “we are facing different fronts. The territory of the Home Guard is secured, as are most of the Northern marches -for now.

“What do you mean?” the Steward asked with undisguised curiosity. Laerîniel noticed that he, too, had trouble masking his satisfaction before Thranduil’s stratagem.

“Later, lord Steward, let the Prince explain the situation first.”

“Thanks, my lord. The lands beyond the Path, as Lady Laerîniel told us yesterday, are yet unsafe, as they have always been, Master Prestolon, I am well aware of that,” Bôrgalas anticipated the Herdir Laegrim remark sternly, and Laerîniel wondered whether father and son had planned the systematic hammering of their most recalcitrant councillor early in the session so as he would be more compliant when the time for actual discussion arrived. If that was so, she reasoned, then the news must be bad indeed.

“…for the fact that surviving spiders and stray companies of orcs are still roaming the lands out of control and fleeing the remaining forest fires, as the Warden shall explain later.” Bôrgalas was fixing Prestolon in his Chief Commander look, which had lost nothing of its edge, Laerîniel thought in apprehension.

“The orcs’ armies have been massacred and defeated, but let’s not forget that they still have their strongholds intact in the mountains to the west and south,” he continued, pointing with his long, calloused finger upon the map. “So it will take some time before we can be certain that the situation is under control regarding stray parties and scattered survivors. For now, I believe that it is more dangerous than ever, above all for the settlements beyond the Enchanted River, and even for those between the Enchanted and the Forest River. I fear that their safety cannot be ensured without risking that of the rest of the realm, my lord,” he concluded grimly.

Master Prestolon moved in his seat, but did not even try to speak. 

Thranduil nodded almost imperceptibly, a brief smile playing upon his lips.

“On the other side,” the Prince kept on with a grimace, “the devastated areas make it harder for our enemies to find refuge. It is easier to spot their movements and to prevent their attacks, but I’ll let the Warden explain that later. Lord Mallereg’s vanguard is patrolling this line, about twenty miles beyond the Elf Path. Our most pressing need is to get that area wholly cleaned up, as well as that between the rivers, and then we shall need to concentrate our troops along that line to better protect the settlements behind us, while separate patrols undertake the cleansing and securing of the remaining areas here, here, and here.”

“This means,” Bôrgalas’ troop commander took up, “that most of our troops shall be engaged in keeping this perimeter, my lords and lady. We consider keeping the Home Guard at its lowest, and concentrating the population in this area close to the stronghold and with the protection granted by the riverbanks, once they’re safe, while our troops patrol and cleanse the rest of our territory.” He bowed then to the prince and leaned back.

“Next year,” Bôrgalas kept on sternly, “we should come to an agreement with the forest men, and maybe the men of Dale, to undertake a joint campaign to clean out the last orc dens in the Mountains of Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains.”

“I must protest!” Prestolon chimed in, but less forcefully than in other occasions.

“Of course you would,” Thranduil answered evenly, “but not before I give you permission to speak, and that shall not occur until you all have listened to the reports in full.” That was an unusual event in Council and Laerîniel noticed that even the Steward squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

“Now, Lord Bôrgalas, please inform us of the situation in the north,” the king added with unmistakable tiredness upon his clear voice. Laerîniel tensed up. The North was her home and her command, as chief forester for the northern marches, a post her father had held for many years before her. Their daughter had been born there and still lived there and it was the place where she and Legolas had spent some of the happiest years of their lives.

“You are all aware that the attack that we suffered in March was only a piece in a larger-scale operation,” Bôrgalas started bitterly, “that cost both Dale and the Mountain heavy losses as well.” The Prince’s voice was steady, but Laerîniel saw that he could not help casting the briefest glance towards the place where his youngest son used to sit when attending council, and she felt again a fresh sting of pain pulsing in the open wound.

“Dale was razed, as were their farms, fields, and crops. Both peoples have been deprived of their lords and have sustained serious damage. They haven’t yet asked for help, but they soon shall or, worse, they’ll start poaching for wood and game. I suggest that we reach an agreement on special conditions for this winter, my lord, and then we shall have to position enough troops over there to ensure its fulfilment.”

A dismayed silence fell across the room as they all pondered what that news meant. The door to Thranduil’s private office opened and Lord Brethil entered the council room silently, nodding briefly to the king before taking his place at the table.

“Master Warden, please, let us know about the state of your province, so we can wholly understand what we are facing.” Thranduil drove his council relentlessly.

“By your leave, my lord,” the Warden bowed to the King as he rose respectfully. “As Lord Bôrgalas said, there are still fires out of control in these areas.” He pointed the line south of the Elf Path to the west, and the wide arch between the two rivers.

“This is a problem,” he conceded, worry clear in his voice, “but not the only one. The forest area around the mountains was heavily charred in March, but scattered fires have been burning since then, for we cannot risk our foresters that far. In some areas those fires have become canopy fires, and I need not tell you how devastating this can be,” he added seriously in his calm and competent, heavily accented voice.

“Those fumes and rising warmth have caused heavy and unexpected rains. Our scouts report mudslides, widespread uprooting, floods and general devastation along the Enchanted River’s banks, from the mountains down to almost the Elf Path.” The Warden looked up at the worried faces around him. “Most of that land was for long corrupted and made rotten by the arts of the enemy and now we are losing soil and vegetation rapidly. I honestly cannot tell if the recovery of those areas is possible or how long will it take, but there are other pressing needs.”

He stopped hesitatingly at Master Prestolon’s groan, but the Herdir Laegrim urged him on with a wave of his hand.

“These fires, as Lord Bôrgalas pointed out, are causing the surviving spiders to flee west and north, and many of those are still unaccounted for, since we have not been able to track them properly. Wildlife is moving northwards as well, because the area is devastated. We have already lost most of this year’s broods, be it to the fires or to starvation, as the flames have consumed seeds, berries and small animals the forest creatures feed upon. Those surviving are moving north as I’ve said, so they shall be putting unexpected pressure upon the feeding grounds for the northern herds.” 

Laerîniel fought the urge to cover her face with her hands. She had seen the destruction with her own eyes, but this dispassionate account of such utter devastation was heart rending. Yet she was a counsellor to the King of the Woodland Realm, she thought with determination. She would not cower or lose heart in the face of adversity. Another look at the king’s stern and set face helped her regain control. If he still had hopes, then she would not despair.

“… We cannot count on the settlements’ orchards or forest gatherings for this year,” the Warden kept on saying, “and we cannot overuse the resources in the north, for our wildlife has been seriously decimated too, and shall need time to recover, so we cannot compensate the lack of food with more intense hunting -not in our own lands.” He paused, then calmly added. “Least of all if men and dwarves are going to have a share.”

“My thanks, Master Warden,” Thranduil said softly, and by the look in his eyes Laerîniel could tell that he was grieving as well for the losses in his forest.

“So, my lords,” the king continued slowly, “we must make some difficult decisions. First, and attending Lord Mallereg’s plea, we have sent orders for the patrols protecting the foresters to reinforce the Prince’s companies. The foresters will pull back behind the Elf Path and the Home Guard shall stretch their already thin lines to help protect them, as the Troop Commander suggested.” Laerîniel observed the grimaces around the table at Thranduil’s last remark. The Home Guard had been sorely decimated in Borgil’s desperate last stand, only a few miles south from the stronghold, and they were still recovering from their heavy losses.

“This is a temporary measure, of course,” the king kept on steadily, “until Lord Mallereg is able to clear out a wider perimeter. Master Prestolon, your turn.”

The Herdir Laegrim seemed burdened by the enormity of the news, and with little strength left to undertake his customary role.

“I fear I cannot say much at this time, my lord,” he said softy. “Except that I would like to know with detail where we shall be resettled and for how long”

Thranduil bared his teeth in a feral smile. “That, Master Prestolon, is one of the things you and your council must tell me no later than tomorrow.  As far as I understand it, we have some priority actions that need be undertaken; cleansing and securing our territory goes first, and Lord Bôrgalas has already ordered the necessary measures to ensure it.”

He looked then at his heir. “I disagree, Lord Prince, with your proposal of waiting another year before razing the orc dens in the mountains. We must begin conversations soon with the Forest Men to enlist their help and attack this winter, before they have time to regroup. We have long discussed your objections, but it is still my decision, Commander,” he added lifting a hand to stem Bôrgalas protests. The Crown Prince nodded briefly, his lips tightly pressed into a thin line.

“Also, wildlife recovery and protection become a priority; the trees will have to wait,” the king continued ruthlessly, ignoring the winces around him. “Our people must eat this winter, my lords, that’s a priority,” he added harshly, letting all his fire come to his voice.

“Lord Steward,” he kept on sternly, “the Queen has been informed of this situation and will summon you to start an estimation of the provisions and supplies needed to sustain our people through this winter, and the Warden will arrange a schedule for hunting, fishing and gathering parties to be set up as soon as possible. He will set the number and type of prey allowed in the northern marches, and we shall also send parties to the Misty Mountains. Smoke houses shall be built this or the other side of the Great River. Our foresters will reinforce the hunters’ parties and spend the season providing food for our people.” He looked at the worried faces around and nodded slightly. “This is going to be a long winter, my lords.”

“How can the settlements be of help, my lord?” Master Prestolon seemed to have finally grasped the true dimension of the problem and had easily pulled out the old Silvan resilient and positive attitude that had seen them through uncounted long winters, before and after their western kin came to them.

“I have drafted the places Lord Bôrgalas deems more suitable for the protection of the settlers. If you see it fit, we can meet with your council right now and start deciding when and how to move, master Prestolon, your people’s help will be invaluable in starting the recovery of the nearest areas.“ Lord Brethil’s calm manner could wring cooperation from a Balrog, rumour said. Slightly less stubborn than one of those creatures, Prestolon bowed courteously, grateful that he had been spared the Steward’s assistance in that matter.

“We shall meet after midday meal, Lady Laerîniel,” the Warden added softly, “for I shall need your insights to come to an estimation of the hunting rates to be allowed in the northern marches…”

“Of course, Master Warden,” she bowed to her superior officer, her mind reeling with all that had been said there.

“Will you consider arming and training the settlers, my lord?” Bôrgalas asked tightly. Laerîniel turned her attention to the head of the table. It sounded as if that had been another subject of disagreement between the king and his heir.

“We will not deliberate upon that decision until they are relocated. Lord Legolas should be back by that time, and he is the most qualified in this council to decide upon that.” Although carefully controlled, the king’s tone held a tinge of warning that all present could recognize.

“I thought that Legolas would take care of the northern defences...” Bôrgalas insisted, in a most unusual display of belligerence. For a moment it looked as if Thranduil was about to sharply rebuke his son, but he managed to control his temper and simply shook his head, turning his attention to other matters.

“We’ll meet again in two days’, my lords and lady, and by then I’ll hear your proposals and schedules. If you deem it necessary, Master Prestolon, I’m ready to meet your Council and present them with this same information and assure them that this is only a temporary measure. We can by no means protect and feed such scattered populations under the present conditions, but there shall be better times, my lords! Our forest shall be great again!”

The king’s inextinguishable optimism was contagious, Laerîniel thought as they rose, following the dismissal wave and bowing to the king and the prince, who remained seated as the room cleared.

“I expect you all this evening at the Sward, my friends. This Midsummer’s eve, more than ever, we need to be together. Our people need our support, and we need to know we count with theirs,” the king added thoughtfully, collecting bows and nods with a satisfied smile.

“If you’re tempted to go and give a hand with the preparations, Lady Laerîniel,” the king addressed her in an amused voice, “be informed that you, and Prince Bôrgalas and myself have been formally banned from the kitchens and surrounding areas. I suggest that we meet in the Queen’s garden for a well earned refreshment, daughter,” he suggested warmly.

***

After verifying for herself the extent of the ban, and being unceremoniously dismissed from the kitchens, Laerîniel gave up and went to sit on the stone bench under the leafy shelter of the Queen’s garden.

The trees moved softly to greet her, and she released a heavy sigh, unburdening the strain and anguish that had been building during the tense council. The sun filtered through the leaves and warmed her face, and she closed her eyes and enjoyed its soft caress for a while, rejoicing in the contented humming of life around her. Comforted by her surroundings, she leaned back and opened up the creased parchment, and started reading again.

Minas Tirith, May 8^th, 3019, T.A.

My beloved Sûlaer:

You cannot know how glad I am to be finally writing to you. This message has been growing in my mind as I wandered these lands of the south, and I cannot tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of the moment when I would get to write this letter and let you know that I am alive, that we have succeeded and that the shadow has been conquered by the strength of all of us, the peoples of Middle Earth. Every day I held on to the hope  of being alive by night, and every night I prayed to Elbereth that I’d live to see another day. Through darkness and danger, through fire and shadow I have walked this path, keeping your beloved face in my mind, holding on to your sweet memory as times grew bleaker. The thought of not seeing you again has weighed upon me, and the fear of failing in our purpose and leaving this world open for Sauron’s domination kept me going on even when my faer cried to surrender.

But now I am here, at the end of my journey, breathing this summer breeze that comes from the river and dreaming of you as I see the blessed land of Gondor come to life by the grace of her Lord Aragorn, King Elessar that we knew as Strider, the Ranger of the North.  

Even the stones rejoice, my love, and what can I say of the trees and flowers? Their song, if dim, is growing stronger every day. How I wish for you to come and see The Tower of the Sun and the Garden of the Moon with your own eyes, as well as many other wonders I have passed along our trail, longing for you to be there, with me, in happier times!  

I’ve seen the Nimrodel, and I almost choked on my tears as I sang her lay, sitting by the clear waters before they get into the forest of Lothlorien of old and thinking of you and the leagues that lay between us.  

I have seen things that would fill your heart with joy, my beloved. I have seen the white mellyrn of Lórien in winter, and the mighty city of the Galadhrim, who still keep flets high within their trees as they did in the time of Nimrodel.  

I have met the old Onodrim of Fangorn Forest, and despite the urgency of our cause I could not help thinking of you and how your eyes would shine at the sight of their powerful trunks and their bottomless eyes. I promised myself more than once that, once this war was over and the world freed from the shadow, we should roam the forests of Middle Earth for a time, just as we wanted to do in our youth, free of care and duty, just you and I.  

I have come close to the Great Sea, and I have heard the seagulls that cry forever in the white shores, calling to the deep longing it is said that lies asleep in our race… but of their song I’d rather speak not now.  

I have seen mighty mountains and great halls of stone. I’ve traveled the endless grasslands of Rohan and watched the wide stream of Anduin bending its silver waist towards the Sea.  

But, above all, I have seen people, my love; men, as well as dwarves and Periannath, leaving their lands and homesteads, their wives and children, to fight the growing darkness in the hopes that even death would not be proven vain in the end, if a day arrived when their children could stand without fear of shadow.  

And that day has finally come, my love, by the grace of the Valar and the sacrifice of many, whether they fought here or away in distant lands.  

Shadow we have battled for most of our lives under the leaves of our beloved forest, and I dread to think how dark these times have been for our people, how many friends and trees shall not be there when I finally come home, but I am comforted now by the knowledge that we were not alone in our struggle, my love, and that many people from different lands have fought and died, too, in this terrible war, because, thanks to all, hope has been finally restored.  

But of all the selfless creatures that I have encountered in this long journey, halflings and dwarves have been the greatest wonder.  

I recall nothing of interest being told about the Periannath at the time they dwelt this side of the Hithaeglin. They were known to be peaceful people of homely habits. Little did we know of the strength and selfless courage of this race, and of their boldness in times of danger. Yet it was their steadfast loyalty and bravery that finally made me change my mind and led me down this long path south, instead of returning home after crossing the mountains, as I intended at first.(1)  

So they are partly to blame for my long absence, my love, but since they are, too, ultimately  responsible for Sauron’s defeat, among other valiant deeds, I am sure that you’ll find it in your compassionate heart to forgive them -and me- for this long detour. I’m proud to be counted among the Nine Walkers mostly because of the feats of these four noble “hobbits”- as they call themselves- that were deservedly entrusted with the fates of Middle-earth by Mithrandir and Lord Elrond. 

The greatest surprise, though, had to come from the dwarf, my love -as it is often with these troublesome creatures! But Gimli, son of Glóin, has proved himself a worthy warrior, an entertaining fellow and a true friend. From an open dislike on both parts since the beginning of our journey –his father was one of the twelve who honoured my Adar’s dungeons not so many years ago- we came to form a fast, if startling, friendship, but not before he managed to surprise Lord Celeborn himself by gallantly flirtingwith the Lady Galadriel!   

I only hope he’ll live up to his loquacity when he meets you, or I swear that our friendship shall end there and then!  

Old as I am, compared with all these short-lived creatures, I humbly bow to their courage and disregard of time and change and loss. Even Aragorn, granted the life of the Númenorean Kings, will be but a drop in the sea of time in some years, as shall be the Lady Undómiel, Lord Elrond’s daughter, as she embraces the fate of Luthien…  

But it is amazing, my love, how these people followed Aragorn, ready to surrender life, family and position and to take up arms to defend their land for a King they barely knew…May the King live long and peaceful years so his hopes -and those of his subjects- come to fruition.  

I am awed by these people and by their land, although I find their stone walled cities a bit stifling. There’s a forested land here, called Ithilien, between the river and the mountains, which is a garden of splendor even after bearing the full weight of the shadow for the last part of the age that has just passed in glory. I’m sure you would love it, though there is still plenty to do to restore it to its original beauty, but time, now, is on our side, for the shadow has finally departed, my love, relieving the lands of its grimness.  

I won’t tell you anymore, withholding the rest of the news for our sweet reunion. I’m sending this message in all haste by the strangest messenger Mithrandir could have summoned. I don’t know how long we shall remain here, but this I promise, my Sûlaer: I’ll ride to you before the old beech is bereft, and we will dance upon the auburn carpet of narbeleth and clad ourselves in the fallen leaves under the moon, and we shall be consumed in the love that burns as bright as the first day after more than fifteen ennin.  

Your loving husband,  

Calenben.  

“Laerîniel?”

Trapped under the spell of her husband’s words, Laerîniel did not hear the king’s voice at first.

“Forgive me, my lord, I was…” she stuttered, blushing furiously as she stood to greet the king.

“Reading Legolas’ letter, I see,” Thranduil smiled in understanding. “I don’t want to intrude, child, but I thought you would like to meet someone...”

Laerîniel then noticed the elf standing respectfully behind the king.

“Lady Laerîniel,” he said with an accented voice that reminded her of the Warden’s and her own father’s speech.

“Laerîniel, this is Haldir, Marchwarden of Lórien, the messenger sent by Lord Celeborn,” the King said with a pleased smile. “He met Legolas when his company crossed the Golden Wood, and he has many a tale about his adventure and his companions….”

TBC

Notes

(1) In Elrond’s words, “Gimli and Legolas agreed to go to the mountain passes and maybe beyond.” To me this means that they had agreed to escort the ring bearer at least while their paths were more or less concurrent. Events made them change their mind on the way, as we know...  

Translations:  

Sûlaer: Wind of summer, the name Legolas gave to his wife.

Calenben: Green one. The name by which Laerîniel calls Legolas.

Herdir Laegrim Lord,chief of the Green Elves.   

Faer. Sindarin , soul

Onodrim: Ents

Ennin: plural of enni, Sindarin word for 144 years.

THRANDUIL’S COUNCIL

To avoid confusion, almost everybody in council is addressed by title, rather than by name.

Warden: Master Pador. In charge of forests and wildlife. Foresters and hunters’ patrols report to him

Steward:  Lord Bronadir. In charge of supplies, stronghold management and politics advisor.

Secretary: Lord Brethil. Chief Advisor to the King. In charge of Treasure.

Herdir Laegrim. Master Prestolon. “Lord of the Green elves” Represents the settlements in the King’s council.

Crown Prince: Lord Bôrgalas Chief Commander. Military and foreign policy advisor to the King

Troop Commander:  Commander Hîrvegil. Crown Prince’s second in Command. Military affairs.

Crown Prince’s heir: Lord Mallereg Belegorn. Captain of the Western and Southern Area.

Crown Prince’s second son: Lord Borgil. Captain of the Eastern and Northern Area (Dead)

Crown Princess: Lady Luinil. Stronghold staff.  Well-being and support to military’s families. 

Second Prince: Lord Legolas Home affairs and settlements’ defense advisor to the king. Captain of the Home Guard. Military advisor to the Crown Prince.

Second Princess: Lady Laerîniel; Chief Forester to the Northern Area.

The Queen assists the King and deals with the Steward in matters of stocks and distribution, as well as running the day-to day affairs in the stronghold.  

The queen’s secretary, lady Saelleth, assists her.

Praise Redheredh with great praise…and blame perelleth for the rest.

A brief reminder….

Laerîniel is Legolas’ wife; he calls her Sûlaer

Bôrgalas is Legolas’ elder brother

Luinil is Bôrgalas’ wife

Chapter 3: Underneath the same bright stars

Thranduil’s stronghold, Midsummer’s Eve, 3019

The first stars opened in the deep blue summer sky, hailing a reluctant Anor as she headed for the Doors of the Night, willing, she seemed, to join in the celebration.

All the elves who lived around the stronghold – and many who had found refuge there when their settlements had been razed in the Battle beneath the Trees – were gathered in the great sward before Thranduil’s halls for Midsummer’s Eve celebration. Families along with friends met around fires and shared whatever they had. The queen had arranged the distribution of lembas and she had made sure that everyone was well-provided with mead and food for the feast.

An expectant silence covered the fragrant lawn surrounded by trees when the King of Eryn Lasgalen joined his people in celebration.

“Long has been the war, my friends, and hard-fought; and we have yet again paid a bitter price for peace, as we did when we thought that we had overcome the shadow an age ago.”

Flanked by his family and clad in plain, verdant clothes, a crown of new leaves upon his brow, Thranduil searched the eager faces turned to him.

“We have long known bitter victories, terrible losses, dreadful battles. Heart-rending bereavement and destruction.”

Not even a leaf could be heard in the stilled night. The heartbeat of the forest drummed now in its king’s voice, as if all living creatures were clinging to his words, waiting for him to sing them back into hope and life.

“Yet we know not despair; we, who never gave up fighting nor conceded defeat against the dark enemy – no matter the cost.”

Laerîniel felt a sudden ache, as the king’s voice brought to mind painful images of the almost endless misery they had gone through and the resulting desolation while they relentlessly fought the Shadow for millennia. A deep longing almost overwhelmed her as she stood before embracing families, missing her husband and her daughter more keenly than ever.

“Dwindle and fade shall we before the Secondborn, if that’s the fate Eru appointed to us. Yet, we will not submit to any other will than His, to any other power than that of Time, to any other call than that which lies dormant within each of us. And we will not desert this forest, these trees that had offered shelter and life to us, no matter how troubled the times may seem!”

As Bôrgalas leaned back briefly to pass a comforting arm around his wife’s waist, pulling her lovingly against him, Laerîniel caught sight of the King and Queen’s entwined hands and the reassuring, tender glances they exchanged as the King made a pause in his speech.  

She turned her attention to the assembled elves before them, trying to blink away the sudden pain and jealousy that assailed her –and also the sting of unwanted tears- as the memories of all her missing loved ones became even more unbearable.

“We will not bow in bitter victory, we who remained tall and straight in overshadowing darkness and fear. We will strive together in peace, as we did in war, my friends, and together we shall see our forest grow great again!”

The power in the king’s voice was irresistible and Laerîniel could see that the faces of those standing on the sward brightened with hope, as Thranduil conjured the rebirth of their wood before their weary eyes.

“There shall be new beeches and oaks, and chestnuts and birches, and new broods of birds and squirrels –new voices that shall sing back to life those now silent! For they shall live forever in the rustle of the new leaves in the summer breeze, in the songs of the morilindi greeting Anor, in the calls of the forest creatures and in the voices of the Quendi singing under the stars.”

Laerîniel swayed upon her feet, her yearning suddenly becoming agonizing, and she gratefully leaned into Bôrgalas’ chest as her brother-in-law finally took notice of her anguish and offered what comfort his strong embrace could provide in place of what should have been Legolas’.

“Let us sing, my friends! Let us sing our forest back to life! Let us sing for those who can sing no more and let our voices reach them in the Halls of Waiting. Let them know that we, the elves of Eryn Lasgalen, shall never forget them…”

As the king’s voice resounded in the night, as powerful and charming as that of Yavanna when she first sang her creatures into being, a soft, tuneful murmur arose in the windless night. The trees moved their weakened branches following the king’s bewitching command, and first one then another trembling, wavering elven voice rose up in an ancient song of hope that matched and strengthened that of the forest.

Soon, the whole clearing was alive with the voices that had echoed in that forest for ennin and Laerîniel could feel their song spreading beyond hearing, faster than a canopy fire, carrying the new hope –and the king’s healing power– to the farthest reaches of the forest, to every dying tree and every grieving elf.

As the feeling of renewal ensnared her, Laerîniel urged her song to reach and comfort her missing loved ones; her father, alone in the northern marches; her daughter, who had stubbornly remained in her settlement to celebrate with her neighbours instead of joining her family; her daughter’s husband, out in the forest with his fellow hunters; her nephew, deeply wounded by his younger brother’s death and intent on forgetting the pain by drowning in duty…

But she hoped, above all, that Thranduil’s spell would reach her husband underneath Elbereth’s stars, and would call him back home soon. With that fervent wish she raised her face to the night sky and joined her voice with those around her. Tears streamed freely down many proud faces as that valiant people shared their grief and hopes with their beloved forest.

***

Minas Tirith, Midsummer’s Eve, 3019

The full moon travelled his way placidly across the summer night sky, peering down from his vantage point, shimmering brightly on the calm surface of Anduin, pausing in his erratic course to enjoy the fireworks, the merry dances and happy songs coming from the city built by the men of Númenor, alight in fires as it had been only months ago, when not even the silvery rays of the last fruit of Telperion had managed to pierce the dreadful darkness that had then shrouded the besieged fortress of stone.

But tonight’s fires were of different nature –as were the voices that echoed within the white walls– and Tilion could not hold back his fascination at the joyous display in the usually stern and dour city.

He could trace Olórin’s hand in the playful colours of the fireworks and he felt glad for his fellow Maiar, who had survived many dreadful ordeals and had managed to fulfil Manwë's plans without faltering in his duty. He sighed sadly, though, at the memory of the other four who had failed and the renegade who had been overcome by his own malice.

A soft tune that charmed the night breeze caught his attention then, distracting him from his gloomy thoughts. He looked down in wonder, for that clear voice, he knew, could only belong to one of the Firstborn.

A dishevelled carpet of green, few tamed trees and an overturned bed of fragile, pale roses was all that was left of Lady Finduilas’ garden in the citadel, yet it had become Legolas’ favoured hiding place since Faramir had been kind enough to disclose that secret spot to the one who would become his neighbour in Ithilien.

Despite its dismaying appearance, Legolas was sure that the garden would blossom back to life under the blessed hand of the Queen of Gondor as soon as she arrived. Thus, he had taken to quietly singing to the frail trees, instructing them in the ways of the Firstborn, while finding comfort for himself when the stones became too stifling.

He loved to sit at the angle of the battlement, in a position that allowed him to look south, following the silvery strip of Anduin as it hastened toward the treacherous Sea. And north, as well, where the other half of his faer awaited his return under the beloved trees that had sheltered them for all of their lives.

Tonight though, his eyes were unwaveringly fixed north, as a deep longing and an aching dull pain settled upon him. He had come there to sit alone, hiding from the celebrations as soon as protocol allowed, singing softly to himself and grieving for the losses in his forest home.

“Gimli swore that you were barricaded in the King’s cellars. Meriadoc and Peregrin claimed that you might be found in the stables instructing your horse to drop Gimli next time he rode with you. And Frodo suggested that I looked here….”

“The judgement of the Ring-bearer is not to be taken lightly.”

Lord Celeborn’s soft voice had broken through his revery, yet Legolas was suddenly grateful for the interruption and the lord’s company, so he rose and bowed courteously, greeting his visitor in the same light tone.

“He has grown wise indeed, if he can guess that a garden among stones is the most likely place to find a wood-elf, and a son of Thranduil at that.” Celeborn smiled, arching his brow slightly.

“Meaning that, had he known my father, he would have suggested the cellars too, my lord?”

“It wasn’t you certain captain that got mixed in a dubious episode involving Thranduil’s Dorwinion and a troop of dwarves, was it?” Celeborn retorted, sitting against the parapet and motioning for the prince to do the same.

Legolas shook his head, a pained smirk showing in his face as he recalled another incident involving the King’s preferred wine and his younger nephew as an innocent victim. He sighed, remembering the serious, dutiful Borgil trying to explain to the enraged Steward where the Dorwinion for the king’s table had ended, after his elder brother and some of his friends replaced a barrel of the king’s wine with one of lesser quality, with some excuse or another, while the younger prince escorted a wagon to the stronghold. Legolas blinked back unwanted tears. He was still struggling to believe the news that Celeborn had briefly whispered to him that night before joining the ecstatic King of Gondor and his overjoyed bride in the Merethrond.

“I am sorry that I was the bearer of such sorrowful news, Thranduilion.” Celeborn apparently read his pained countenance and Legolas relaxed the firm grip that he had set upon his feelings in that night of celebration and widespread joy.

“Do not apologize, my lord,” he answered bitterly. “This war has been heavy upon all of us, and I’m sure that there are many who have lost more…”

“And some who shall bear more loss still,” Celeborn reminded him in a soft voice.

Legolas cast a sharp glance towards the Sindarin lord, but decided not to pursue the subject.

“I fear that I did not take the time to properly express to you my gratitude, Lord Celeborn. Sending Haldir to deliver my messages and to bring news to Glóin was extremely kind of you,” he offered instead.

“Well… when Gwaihir arrived with Mithrandir’s news and your messages it seemed the right thing to do, as I supposed that Gimli’s family would be wondering about his fate, too. Had I known that ambassadors had been sent from Dale and the Mountain to the crowning of Elessar, though, I would have never made Haldir go to Erebor.”

“Oh, but I am sure that Glóin appreciated it!”

“Yet, I doubt that Haldir does.”

Legolas smiled briefly at the thought of the formal, solemn marchwarden making his way through the busy, noisy dwarven city. His mind turned then to his own father and a particular piece of news that had caught his attention.

“My father must have been glad to know that Amon Lanc was freed of shadow after so long,” he said softly.

“So glad that he consented to release it into our care,” Celeborn observed with a pleased nod, telling Legolas in all detail how he and Thranduil had reached an agreement to divide the forest between them.

“Let’s hope that this time you’ll succeed in keeping it free from evil,” Legolas said sternly, and he immediately bit back his tongue, mentally berating himself for that discourteous remark.

“And here I had feared that Oropher’s spirit had slipped a generation!” Celeborn’s gentle laughter made it clear that the sarcasm had been noted. Legolas let escape a nervous chuckle.

“You’ve met Mallereg, it seems,” he smiled, shaking his head at the thought of what his temperamental, blunt, sharp-tongued eldest nephew, the one everybody said was Oropher’s living image, might have said to the Lord of Lórien.

“He was with your father when we met in the New Year after we destroyed the foundations of Dol Guldur,” Celeborn answered evenly. “Had I not known better, I would have taken him for your grandfather. The name would have suited Oropher, too.”

Legolas laughed more easily then. To him, his grandfather was but a collection of family gossip and tales of bravery. “What I meant is, well, the power that protects Lórien… “

“We are fortunate that it won’t be needed any longer, since you managed to defeat Sauron so thoroughly. It shall not be available anymore, I fear,” the lord said dryly, waving his hand at the implied apology.

“Are you sailing, then?” Legolas curiosity was now aroused.

“Long must grow the ennin before a land wholly forgets the elves who once dwelled there, and my lady wife’s presence was not one that passed unnoticed,” Celeborn joked, without directly answering the question. “We’ll be safe, even without *that* power,” he added softly.

They remained in silence for a while, watching the stars that crowded Tilion’s path that night, each lost in his own thoughts.

“How close did you come to the Sea?” Celeborn asked suddenly, after a long stretch of companionable silence, interrupted only by the dim sounds of merrymaking in the lower circles of the city.

Legolas tensed up; the memory of the shrilling cries of the seagulls pierced his mind and blew away the comforting images of the well-known trees and starlit glades under which his mind had been peacefully –if sadly- wandering that night.

“To Pelargir, in fair Lebennin.” He wondered that his voice sounded so harsh.

“Not that close, yet you’re deeply wounded, it seems.” Celeborn shook his head, compassion showing in his bottomless, knowing eyes. “The sea-longing is a steady, dull pain in the Noldor, but they may learn to endure it while necessary,” he said in an almost casual voice. “Yet in our kin, I am told, it becomes unbearable, like a devastating fire, if awakened and not heeded.”

“I’m sure that I, too, shall learn to endure it for as long as it is necessary.” Legolas’ pride was stung by the mere suggestion that he would fail where a Noldo would succeed. “I intend to establish an elven settlement in Ithilien. The breeze from the sea will sustain me,” he added stubbornly, glaring defiantly at the Sindarin lord.

Suddenly, it all made sense to him.

“You mean that you are remaining and your lady wife is sailing?” he gasped, not managing to conceal his dismay at the thought.

“There’s no other power that can drag a Moriquendi from Middle-earth but that of the Sea.” Celeborn’s voice was slightly amused, relieving the words of their bitterness.

“Not even love?” It was Legolas’ turn to feel compassion for the other.

“I still hope that love shall help me, in the end,” was the Sindarin lord’s pained admission. “I lived by the shores of the Belegaer for many a year in this age and in the one before this; in Lindon first, in Belfalas later, watching as it pulled at my lady’s faer with its unrelenting, merciless pulse. Yet I have never felt the slightest stir, except that of loathing,” he confessed in a soft, sad voice. “You were warned and yet you chose to run the risk, Legolas,” he kept on in a stronger voice, “and that choice honours you. But, do not let the sea-longing fester in you. Once it is stirred, there’s no way to deny it. Embrace it as a gift, even if it may seem a bitter one.”

Celeborn patted Legolas’ shoulder and stood up, drawing a deep breath. “It is true that the breeze brings the taste of the waves up the river,” he observed. “You’ll be fine here –for a time,” he warned, bowing slightly to the prince and descending from the battlement.

“You can learn, Lord Celeborn.”

The Sindarin lord turned slowly and tilted his head in silent questioning.

“The sea-song also lies deep within that of the forest,” Legolas explained carefully, wondering if it made sense, meeting those sharp eyes. “If you listen intently, you may hear the waves rustling in the new leaves, a voice that calls all of us home. Even the trees, though they cannot sail, long for Yavanna’s undying meadows.”

“Yet her Two Trees died there, I’ve been told.”

“And their last fruits now bring light and growth to Middle-earth.” Legolas was undaunted by the lord’s hopeless sarcasm. “If it is a gift indeed, Lord Celeborn, then let me wish you that you too find yourself blessed with it soon. If only for your lady wife’s sake,” he added seriously, bowing curtly and leaning back to rest his head against the battlement.

“And let me wish you that you are spared her last wound,” Celeborn answered softly, mostly to himself, as he slowly started on the way back to the Merethrond and the bittersweet celebration that was taking place there.

****

Thranduil’s stronghold, later that same night.

“Have I heard right, Laerîniel, that Legolas will be back soon?”

Weary of circling the bonfires exchanging compassionate words with bereft, grieving families, Laerîniel had found refuge among some of her husband’s friends beside a roaring fire around which ale, wine and even miruvor were being almost continuously passed on.

“By Narbeleth” she answered distractedly, watching across the sward to where Luinil finally succumbed to fatigue and was asking for the king’s leave. She observed as her friend then looked around wildly, searching for her husband. She felt a surge of anger when she saw Bôrgalas kiss his wife goodnight briefly and wave to Saelleth to lead her to their chambers while he returned to his friends’ fire.

“…what do you think?” She turned her attention back to the conversation around the fire, noticing expectant glances fixed on her.

“Think of what?” she asked.

“I was wondering how Legolas shall take, well -the news.” Belmagor, one of the few surviving officers of Legolas’ command asked vaguely, waving his heavily charred and disfigured hand dangerously close to Laerîniel’s face. “A pity our captain wasn’t at home while we were being trounced,” he said gloomily.

“He was away on duty,” another offered, casting a warning glance to his companion.

“Yes, on duty,” Belmagor was in no condition to catch the hint, it seemed. “So, tell me again, why was he seeing that ranger to his throne in the south while the Shadow hit us?”

The news of Legolas’ mission had only slowly filtered down, as not even his own family had had a clear notion of his whereabouts for long months. First, Elrond’s messengers had arrived past autumn with a short letter to the King, in which the prince informed that he was engaged in some mission. Then, Thranduil had returned from his meeting with Celeborn after the New Year saying that Legolas had been in Lórien, alive and unscathed, by the end of last year. The latest news, in the prince’s own handwriting, had been brought by Haldir, but still Laerîniel was unable to explain the full extent of what her husband had been involved in, for she was far from understanding all its implications even after the marchwarden’s detailed account at midday’s meal.

Yet she would not remain silent any longer.

“He went to Mordor, as his grandfather did before him, to fight Sauron together with the armies of Middle-earth! And they succeeded!” she retorted angrily, refusing another draught someone was offering.

“Of course they succeeded, seeing that the true Shadow was here, as it has always been since it took residence in Amon Lanc!”

“We don’t know, Belmagor,” another elf tried to calm down the incensed guard. “It is said that it was but one of his servants.”

“Don’t tell me that we don’t know, Maentalf! My son was killed there; I know what I’m talking about! We have been fighting the Shadow for longer than anyone and then that Golodhrim sorceress sent our captain away when we needed him most! She left us to bear the brunt of the attack, only to come out of hiding when there was no danger!”

“And then she robs us half of our forest!” another chimed in, resentment clear in his voice.

“I won’t tolerate another offence against the Lady of the Galadhrim.”

Laerîniel recognized the firm voice of Haldir as the tall marchwarden stood threateningly before the clearly intoxicated Belmagor. The few songs dimly heard around them died out abruptly and a deep, tense silence took over.

“You speak of what you know not,” Haldir kept on, his voice icy and his face menacing in the flickering light of the flames. He grabbed the flask from the inebriated elf’s hand and cast it to the fire. “Were it not for her, your whole forest would have been turned to ashes and your stronghold flattened, just as was Dol Guldur!”

“We fought to our very doorstep!” Belmagor stood up with some difficulty, a menacing look on his face, rage and raw despair clear in his voice. “And I did not see your sorceress helping us!” he added roughly. Laerîniel observed that some of his fellow guards nodded in assent and stood up too, as if to support their friend.

“You fought but the smallest part of the dark lord’s army, you fool!” Haldir spat out, losing some of his composure. “Yet, as it is your wont, you thought you were the only ones in Middle-earth who were engaged in war!”

“What’s going on here?” Bôrgalas suddenly stepped into the crowded circle that now surrounded the arguing elves, a tinge of warning in his soft voice that anyone who knew him could recognize. Laerîniel looked at him with deep relief as the situation was threatening to get out of control.

“He insults us, Commander; he says we didn’t fight Sauron’s armies…”

“It is not kind of a guest, Master Haldir, to mock the merits of his host’s army.”

“Yet the guest shall rather be cast out than bear hearing his people and his rulers maligned by an intoxicated, ignorant elf, my lord Prince,” the marchwarden answered tightly.

Bôrgalas let his wary gaze wander from the offended marchwarden, to the seething guard, now being restrained by two of his fellows, then to his brother’s wife, and sighed wearily.

“We are all tired and grieving, Master Haldir, would it be too much asking of you that you blamed it all on the wine and put any offence aside?” he suggested.

“It may be the custom in –here,” the former name of Lasgalen lingered in the stern marchwarden’s lips as he seemed to savour the pause, “to let pass a slight to a prince’s honour. Still, my lord, I demand an apology to my Lady’s.”

“Belmagor!” Bôrgalas’ voice held a feral threat and he did not even look at his warrior. He kept his gaze on the stubborn marchwarden as he fought not to feel insulted himself by Haldir’s words.

“I apologize... for what I’ve said about the Lady of the Galadhrim.” The now more sober guard knew better than to disobey their Chief Commander when he was in such a foul disposition.

“Are you satisfied, Marchwarden?”

“I am, my lord Prince, my thanks.” Haldir bowed courteously.

“Then know that no one is questioning Lord Legolas’ honour here and that my lord King would not take it kindly were he to learn that you suggested otherwise,” Bôrgalas added coldly.

“I hear you, my lord.”

“I shall not demand an apology from you, though, Haldir.”

“My thanks again, my lord. Lady Laerîniel,” he said, turning to the princess, “know that your husband’s name and deeds are held in the deepest respect by the world outside your forest.” He bowed low before her and retired towards the stronghold without looking back. 

“I’ll see you at dawn in my office,” Bôrgalas said sternly to the gathered elves as soon as the marchwarden was out of earshot. “All of you!”

“My lord, they didn’t... it was my…”

“Did I give you the impression that I was interested in your explanations, Belmagor?”

The Home Guard officer blanched at the prince’s uncanny impersonation of the king’s worst temper.

“If you care to join me, Laerîniel?” the prince suggested in a softer voice, offering his arm to his sister-in-law.

“They blame Legolas, don’t they?” she asked quietly, trying to keep up with his long strides, still upset by what she had witnessed.

Bôrgalas did not slow down as he led her away from the bonfire. “They’re venting their frustration, Laerîniel, and anyone is a suitable target for that. It shall all be forgotten by the time he’s back, and he’ll once again be their beloved Captain,” he stated, a tinge of bitterness in his voice. He stopped abruptly then, as if finally taking notice of her worry. “Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking,” he sighed, passing a hand over his brow. “They are wounded and they miss him, as we all do. Come, join me and let us find some respite from our woes tonight!” he gently urged her.

She looked around and caught a glimpse of the king, sitting by a tall elm with his wife resting comfortably in his strong embrace, waiting for the celebration to wind down while continuing to offer what strength and comfort he still had left to his people and his forest. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fresh surge of pain and longing that struck her at that sight.

“I’m glad that you’re not departing to Erebor with Haldir,” she whispered to her brother-in-law, standing on her tip-toes to plant a soft kiss on his tired face. The row between the king and his heir after midday’s meal had been quite loud. “Although I could hear that you really wanted to. So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, my brother,” she decided, bowing briefly and crossing the bridge towards the gates at a brisk pace.

She shut the door of her chambers and rested her head against the soft wood, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, fighting back the wail that threatened to escape her throat, the anguish rising within her in an unstoppable tide.

She walked to her desk and toyed distractedly with the parchment resting upon the wooden surface since the day before. “Dear Legolas:” She had hoped to pour all her love and deep longing in that message in the hopes that he would hurry back to her side, and she had been disappointed to learn that there was no way that a special messenger would be sent to that city where his husband was.

Her daughter not coming home with Lord Celeborn’s envoy to join in that Midsummer’s Eve celebration and share Legolas’ messages had hurt her, too.

“Your daughter asked me to tell you that she was glad to have news from her Adar and that she sent all her love to all of you, my lady,” the marchwarden had told her. “She also said that she felt it her duty to remain in the settlement with the children and the women and share these times with them…”

So like her father! Laerîniel thought with mounting resentment. She had missed her daughter’s presence sorely this day, but Sûlgalen, as Legolas, cared so deeply for those around her that she’d forget her own well-being – and that of her family– in order to attend to the needs of those she considered under her protection. Much as Laerîniel loved that trait in her husband, there were times when she wished he would not be so generous and would rather devote more time and concern to his own family –instead of wandering the lands of the south protecting Periannath and battling foreign armies.

“I’m being selfish and unfair,” she acknowledged judiciously, but almost immediately a harsh sob escaped her throat at the sight of his short bow, waiting patiently against the stone wall, and the hunting knife with the carved hilt that Farother had presented him when he had asked for Sûlgalen’s hand, and which Legolas had stubbornly refused to use, and the harp he would lazily pretend to pick up some nights, while she insisted on resting against his chest… The room was so full of memories that it was suddenly too much for her to bear, so she lay down on their bed and surrendered to her sorrow, allowing her tears to flow freely.

“After this, I won’t let you slip from my side, my love, not anymore,” she promised betweensobs, “and together we’ll see our forest grow strong and hale again.”  Heavy sighs continued to escape her lips as she finally fell asleep short before Anor announced a glorious Midsummer’s Day. 

****

Minas Tirith. Midsummer’s Day at dawn, 3019

The last stars were twinkling out unwillingly in the western sky, tarrying around the silvery needle that crowned the tower of Ecthelion, trying to mingle with the mithril ones that flapped in the black banner, vainly hoping to catch a first glimpse of the Evenstar on her brightest day. 

Yet only Eärendil the Blessed was allowed to share the morning sky with blazing Anor as she purposefully heralded that long-awaited dawn.

The very stones of the city echoed the anticipation brewing in the citadel, the hopes and sorrows, the love and despair that would find fulfilment on this significant day.

The elf resting against the parapet over Lady Finduilas’ garden stood up and lazily stretched his long limbs while looking south over the battlement to the lands that would soon be his home.  The morning mists were still threading among the bushes of thyme and the thickets of olive trees buttoned upon the other side of the river, making Ithilien appear to his eyes like a blessed island out of the UttermostWest, docked there by the grace of the Valar.

Legolas breathed in deeply, savouring the faintest tang of salt that flew upon the wings of the southern winds and felt renewed by the bright morning.

“We’ll be happy here, my Sûlaer, and these lands shall grow fairer because of your presence,” he smiled softly, wistfully, casting a last glance towards that beautiful country before descending to join his friends in the last event of their long-fought battle.

****

“Upon the very Eve of Midsummer, when the sky was blue as sapphire and white stars opened in the East, but the West was still golden, and the air was cool and fragrant, the riders came down the North-way to the gates of Minas Tirith…” “…and beside him upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen his daughter, the Evenstar of her people” (ROTK, “The Steward and the King”)

“And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer, and the tale of their long waiting and labours was come to fulfilment.” (ROTK, “The Steward and the King”)

A/N I’ve been told that the chapter title resembles a line from a well-known song, (terribly sappy) back from the 80’s… and that it featured in a cartoon movie about a migrant mouse…:-) Did not know about the mouse, or the movie, but the song hit me when thinking of this chapter, because it brings some mixed memories to me, of a time when that song would bring some comfort, in the AGE BEFORE E-MAIL, even if we were not technically  “Underneath the same bright stars…” :-)

Morilindi: Sindarin for nightingales

Merethrond The great hall in the Citadel, in Minas Tirith.

Amon Lanc:  It was the place where Oropher first settled down in Greenwood. It was already deserted when the shadow came there and it became Dol Guldur, (at least Tolkien suggests so in a note in UT)

Mallereg: means Golden thorn. (Or golden holly, :-)…) Thranduil’s eldest grandson’s moniker.

Sûlgalen: Legolas and Laerîniel’s daughter

Faer. Sindarin, soul.

Many thanks to Redheredh for her kind help. 

A brief summary: By Midsummer 3019, Legolas’ wife received a letter from her husband where he said that he would be back home by narbeleth –Sindarin for autumn- before the old beech lost all her leaves. At Missumer Eve's festival, Thrnaduil's people struggle to recover from the effects of the Battle under the Trees and Legolas ponders the effects of his sea longing away in Minas Tirith.

A brief “who’s who”:  

Bôrgalas is Legolas’ eldest brother and Chief Commander of Thranduil’s army  

Mallereg is Bôrgalas’ eldest son.  

Borgil is Bôrgalas’ younger son. He was killed in the Battle beneath the Trees.  

Sûlgalen is Legolas and Laerîniel’s daughter. She lives in a settlement north from the stronghold.

Warning: Long chapter ahead

Chapter 4: Narbeleth

“Who goes there?”

The sun hid behind the eaves of Eryn Lasgalen turned orange by the first signs of Narbeleth, as an exhausted patrol made its way to the foresters’ camp beyond the line of King Thranduil’s army.

“Laerîniel! Good to have you home!” The elf on guard duty relaxed his stance and greeted them as soon as he recognized the call of their chief forester. 

“And it is even better to be back!” the princess answered back, leading the tired and bedraggled group into camp. “Is everybody else returned?” she inquired as they dismounted and stretched their numb limbs.

“All patrols are accounted for and ready to be tucked in, yours included!” the guard joked softly. “How did it go?”

“Bad enough,” one of the foresters complained. “It’s a shame the dwarves didn’t kill all when they burst out of their mountain, for they managed to ravage the forest as they fled, accursed orcs!”

“And what’s worst, the damage seems recent,” another informed. “I fear that there is a small band hiding in the Mountains and attacking from there. I don’t believe Mallereg’s patrols have reached this area yet!”

“You can go and ask them, Cûrion,” the guard smiled wryly. “The Prince stormed the camp and has closeted himself in Laerîniel’s tent short before your arrival, but his merry company is still at hand,” he said softly, pointing at the group of seven heavily armed and dangerous-looking warriors who usually escorted the prince standing by one of the closest fires, well apart from the rest of the encamped foresters. 

A chorus of groans arose from the tired foresters at the news. They noticed for the first time the unusual number of horses grazing in the small clearing by the river as they led their patient steeds to their well-earned rest.

“How did he find us? Has he said anything?” One of Laerîniel’s companions asked with concern.

“Not to me,” the guard answered with a wide grin. “Let me,” he offered, taking care of the princess’ horse.

“At least he cannot claim that we’re unprotected now!” another forester snorted, pointing at the stern warriors.

Laerîniel exhaled resignedly, patting her mare’s neck. The group of foresters under her command had been recurrently pushing the limits set by the crown prince for their activities. They were just returned from a four-day’s ride into a yet unsafe part of the forest and, in all truth, even their camp was so beyond the line that there was no way of explaining it. Other than deliberate disobedience, Laerîniel thought in dismay.

“I’ll go and inform him now,” she said unenthusiastically, putting her pack over her shoulder and waving to her fellow foresters.

“Good luck!” her companions joked as she shrugged tiredly and walked into the unusually quiet camp. She nodded briefly at her nephew’s escort and could not help the shiver down her spine as she considered their dour, bleak countenances. Mallereg and his troops had been fighting incessantly since March, she had to remind herself, and that was a grim occupation for an elf.

A string of curses in a muffled voice greeted her even before she pulled the flap of her tent open. She sighed and braced for the predictable argument, and stepped in with resolve. She left her pack on the makeshift table and walked to the sleeping area.

“Good to see you, Mallereg, please make yourself comfortable, don’t let me interrupt you,” she offered amusedly as she pulled back the woollen curtain that gave some privacy to that part of the tent.

Three faces turned to look up at her while she took in the stained bandages scattered on the ground among discarded clothing and weapons. Her nephew was half-sitting upon her cot, supported - or rather restrained - by Thalaûr, his guard and one of Bôrgalas’ best friends, while Maegolf, the most qualified healer in camp, tried to clean one of the many cuts on Mallereg’s chest.

“I apologize for invading your tent Laerîniel.” The prince offered her one of his charming smiles, pretending a lightness betrayed by his pale face, the dark circles around his eyes and the painful appearance of a nasty, dirty gash that ran along the outer side of his left thigh. His chest and arms were covered in bruises and half-healed wounds and his golden mane was matted and bloodstained. “I’ll clear out as soon as your apprentice healer here finishes torturing me without purpose,” he weakly joked while struggling to free himself from his guard’s firm grasp.

“This gash needs being disinfected and re-stitched, my lady,” the foresters’ healer informed in a slightly annoyed voice, pointing at the prince’s leg.

“It is healing well...”

“Mallereg…” Her voice held a tinge of warning.

“My healer -and he is a true healer- stitched it and said it would heal soon!”

Laerîniel caught Thalaûr’s silent plea and shook her head in annoyance. Crouching beside the healer, she probed the reddened, warm skin, heedless of her nephew’s exasperated groans.

“Well, it is clear to me that this is infected and needs treatment,” she pronounced with cynical humour, “so you better lie down and allow Maegolf do his job while I go find some hot water so you can get rid of all that grime.”

“Laerîniel…”

“Do not “Laerîniel” me, Mallereg!” she straightened up, her hands on her hips, glaring at the stubborn elf. “This is my tent, this is my camp and you are my nephew, so you better do as I tell you, do I make myself clear?” She held his grey, pained gaze until he gave in and relaxed, allowing his guard to lay him back on the cot.

“I’ll be deeply indebted with you, Aunt, if you actually managed to provide me with something resembling a warm bath,” the tired elf mumbled, eyes closed. “This is your camp, after all…”

“I’ll go and see what I can do,” she smiled, pressing comfortingly on her nephew’s shoulder and nodding silently at Thalaûr’s grateful, relieved look.

***

“Maegolf stitched the wound and we got him cleaned up. He’s running a mild fever, but Maegolf says it is of little importance. We managed to pour some broth inside the mulish elf and now he’s resting peacefully under Maegolf’s vigilance. The three of us are heavily indebted with you, Laerîniel.” Thalaûr had just joined her by one of the fires, once he was completely sure that his charge was properly cared for.

“You look better too,” she observed seriously, handing him a bowl of stew. She then pointed at a more private area of the camp, away from curious ears, and the guard the guard followed her expectantly.

“What happened?” she demanded brusquely, even before he could sit on a heavy log and try his meal.

“What happened? We are at war, Laerîniel!”

She glowered at him. “He’s exhausted and covered in wounds, Thalaûr. How did you let him come to such a pitiful condition?”

The sudden, feral gleam that blazed in the guard’s eyes belied his name*, yet he took the time to savour a spoonful of stew before answering such a provoking question.

“Forgive me, Thalaûr; I know that you care deeply for him.” She sat down on another log opposite the elder elf, looking at him worriedly. “But I was shaken to see him in such bad shape…”

“Most are old injuries, Laerîniel, yet he won’t allow them to heal properly. Believe me,” he complained exasperatedly, “everyday I fight the urge to knock him senseless and carry him home!”

“Bôrgalas and Luinil would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

“And he would never forgive me. He’s the Field Commander, and if he decides that his injuries are not incapacitating then I will remain by his side!”

“Until he falls from his mount and breaks his neck?”

“Or until his aunt gives him a proper scolding.” He laughed loudly at her scowl and went back to eating hungrily. “Tell me, how are things at home? How’s Bôrgalas recovering?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“Oh… well, you know how he is. He isn’t grieving openly, yet he’s not been himself of late. He has had a couple of loud arguments with the King –I believe that he needed some time away,” she explained at Thalaûr’s quizzical glance, “but Thranduil insisted he remain by Luinil’s side. They argued fiercely past Midsummer because Bôrgalas wanted to go to Dale and Erebor with Lord Celeborn’s messenger, to start negotiating the hunting and timbering rates for this winter, and the King would not allow it.”

“But I heard that he’s presently busy in the northern marches...”

“Yes, he’s in charge, after all, but I haven’t seen him lately. Last time I was on leave I went to visit Sûlgalen and was told that he was in the stronghold. When did you last see him?” she asked with curiosity.  

“Oh,” Thalaûr made a vague gesture with his head while eagerly scrapping the bottom of the bowl. “After the New Year, when we escorted Thranduil back. We haven’t been home since then, Laerîniel,” he explained in turn, “didn’t you know?”

“I assumed that our leaves were never at the same time!” She was aghast at the news. “Why?”

“We have been busy enough,” the guard shrugged, putting down the bowl with a satisfied sigh. “Besides, Mallereg has been avoiding his adar. Both of them have been hiding from each other, I suppose.” Laerîniel nodded in understanding.

“Does Mallereg blame himself?” she asked softly. The battle that had claimed Borgil and about two thirds of the Home Guard’s lives was a painful memory and she feared that the sorrow was still too raw to allow healing.

“He will not speak of it and I do not press him. There was no one at fault there, but that doesn’t help ease the pain,” Thalaûr explained thoughtfully. “Yet I am afraid that he’s carrying this too far. Bôrgalas has asked him twice to report to him personally and he has managed to evade it until now. He’s bordering open insubordination, and I don’t know what may happen when a direct summons arrives…”

“And that’s why you brought him here in such a wretched state, so that his aunt would scold him back home?” Laerîniel could not help feeling slightly amused by the thought.

“He brought us here out of panic for your safety, despite the excruciating pain in his leg,” was the sharp answer -and Laerîniel froze at the harsh tone in the guard’s voice. “As far as I know, Bôrgalas ordered you to remain “behind Mallereg’s line”, Laerîniel, which is quite vague, I’ll give you that, but this has gone too far!” he reproached her sternly. “Three days south-west from here we ran into an organized party of orcs coming from this side of the forest! I need not tell you how fast and hard we’ve been riding since we dispatched them and Mallereg was barely able to hold himself upon his horse! You are risking your foresters’ lives needlessly!”

“This is not a military unit, Thalaûr.” His last statement offended her. “We all discuss our options and make choices together, and I assume the responsibility when the Crown Prince’s commands are not carried on, yet I answer only to the Warden, as you well know!” She stood up angrily, glaring at the guard. “We are the only foresters left to care for this forest while the rest are busy protecting the wildlife and providing food for our people! Rest assured that we will not sit back in fear behind your line while the trees die!”

“I know,” Thalaûr raised his hands, trying to appease the outraged princess. “And Mallereg knows, too, and that’s another cause for contention between him and his father; for he has knowingly let you and your foresters wander off limits while detaching a number of warriors from our patrols to keep an eye on you! You must be more careful, Laerîniel, for the troops’ safety as much as for your foresters’!” he reminded her softly.

“I wondered how you managed to find us here,” she mused. She had never thought that her nephew would be aware of her exact movements.

“We always keep track of your position; you did not believe that he would let you out here alone, did you? Think of him, Laerîniel, how he would feel if something happened to you while you were supposed to be under his protection, safely behind his line!”

“I didn’t know that I was endangering his troops with my recklessness,” she admitted softly, her voice laden with remorse. She moved to sit on the log beside the elder elf.

“Well, now you do. We all do what we can and he’s very cautious not to put his warriors in unnecessary peril, but he needs your help in that,” Thalaûr said gently, placing a reassuring arm across her slumped shoulders. “I heard that your adar agreed to return to the King’s service...” He changed the subject tactfully, seeing that his lecture had met its intended target.

“Yes,” she smiled weakly. “Although it took the King’s personal encouragement.”

“Did Thranduil go to visit him?”

“Not exactly,” she snorted at the very idea. “He travelled north to oversee the temporary settlements and my father happened to be there helping Sûlgalen...”

“It would be a welcome surprise if the King visited us, too,” the guard pondered, letting his gaze wander over the camp. “We are slowly turning into the enemy, it would seem.”

“Do not say such things!” she protested, following his stare. Her foresters were huddled together around fires, joking, telling tales, singing softly and sharing their meals. Mallereg’s guards, though, kept to themselves at a separate fire, silent, stern, alert and alone. “We all know what we owe you.”

“It would help to be reminded of it from time to time,” Thalaûr observed, standing up and tiredly stretching his long limbs. “At times even I fear that there’s no other, brighter life waiting for me.”

“Oh, but there is, Thalaûr, your wife and your daughters and your grandchildren are waiting for you. Oh! And your son-in-law!” she added playfully.

“Now you make me wish that this was my only life!” he bemoaned. Much to the amusement of Thalaûr’s friends, his eldest daughter had married a healer whose views on life were blatantly opposite to his father–in-law’s.

“Come, I’ve had another cot placed in my tent. You can sleep there and Maegolf shall awake you if Mallereg becomes too restless.” She bossily pushed the exhausted elf before her and towards her own tent.

“I’ll go and tell them to find some rest, first…”

“I’ll take care of your warriors, Thalaûr, this is my camp…

“I’d love to see their faces,” he laughed, holding her briefly. “Thanks, Laerîniel, for everything,” he whispered, opening the flap and entering her tent quietly. She walked then to the most distant -and subdued- fire in camp.

“Lord Mallereg is sleeping peacefully and Thalaûr shall soon be.” Laerîniel waved the prince’s guards to remain seated while she spoke. “I have ordered a tent readied for you and our guards are on their posts,” she said. “Will you allow the foresters to keep the Prince’s warriors for just one night?”

The guards exchanged wary looks among themselves, surprise and anticipation showing on some of their fatigued faces.

“With pleasure, Lady Laerîniel.” Brûnech, the captain of the prince’s guard, stood and bowed before her. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

“It is the least we can do for those who are protecting us, my friends. Go find your rest and let the trees sing you into untroubled sleep tonight,” she smiled, returning the bow and pointing to the only other tent in camp.

After that, she walked to the place where her pack had been placed beside a young birch and with a drained sigh, she took away her cloak and stretched comfortably under the woollen cover, allowing the weak yet comforting voice of the recovering tree lull her into a much needed sleep.

***

“Laerîniel, wake up!”

“What’s the matter?”

“A messenger has arrived!”

She sat up quickly at that and looked around, fully alert. A cold, misty morning was spreading around the camp and one of her fellow foresters crouched by her side with a warm infusion in his hand.

“He’s busy now,” he said with an amused smile, pointing at a several foresters harassing a somewhat bewildered-looking elf wearing the king’s device.

“He’s Geldoron, isn’t he?” she asked in wonder, leaning on the tree that had sheltered her that night while accepting the drink and wondering what was one of the camath-en-aran, the king’s special envoys, doing there, delivering messages to the foresters.

“Himself,” the forester confirmed. “And he seemed a bit put off. He said he had been tracking us for many days!” The forester winked at her, apparently more pleased than worried by the fact.

“Let him fume!” Laerîniel laughed, finishing her drink and patting the birch’s slender trunk gratefully before walking down to the river. She took her time to put on a respectable appearance while considering the presence of such envoy in her camp. The King’s camath were a small group of Thranduil’s most trusted friends, - proven warriors and knowledgeable elves who carried out different missions in the King’s name and reported only to him. Having one of them around always meant that important matters were in motion, Laerîniel mused as she returned to camp at a composed pace.

“Morning, Geldoron, and welcome to our humble encampment!” she offered courteously but with a mischievous glint in her eyes at the disapproving frown on the messenger’s face.

“I’ve been tracking you for almost a week, Laerîniel; you have that rare ability of never being found where you’re expected,” he began without preamble. “This was supposed to be somewhat urgent,” he added, plainly annoyed that his errand had not been fulfilled with the customary efficiency.

“Well, we’re doing our job… ”

“I wouldn’t say that this is what Bôrgalas meant when he ordered you to remain behind Mallereg’s lines, though,” the royal messenger retorted sternly, handing her a folded parchment that bore the seal of the crown prince.

“Oh, but that’s just exactly where we are now,” she teased him merrily, tearing the seal open and letting escape a soft cry of deep joy as a reddish beech leaf fell upon her hand. “Come home” the parchment read in Bôrgalas’ neat, firm handwriting. “A week, now?” she wondered aloud, caressing the leaf distractedly.

“More or less. But the Prince knows his duty, Laerîniel, he sent it as soon as the old beech lost her first leaves, you still have plenty of time,” Geldoron told her with an understanding smile. “Now, tell me; what is Mallereg doing here?” he asked, nodding towards some of the prince’s guards who were helping the busy foresters with their morning chores.

She looked up at him and her eyes narrowed slightly in a conniving way.

“Come,” she said. “And I’ll explain it all to you…”

****

“Morning Laerîniel, you’re just in the nick of time, he’s already pestering Maegolf –Geldoron! What are you doing here?” Thalaûr raised his brows in surprise at the sight of one of the camath-en-aran following the princess inside the tent.

“Morning, Thalaûr,” the messenger answered brusquely, “I understand that Mallereg is here.”

“He is, but…”

“I’ve already told him, Thalaûr, but he won’t listen!” Laerîniel declared.

“Laerîniel…”

“I don’t care if it is the King who summons him,” she raised her voice in an outraged cry. “Lord Mallereg is wounded and he won’t be travelling anytime soon, Geldoron, you can tell the King that!”

“Peace, Laerîniel…” 

“Geldoron! It is good to see you… so far from home.” A faint voice interrupted them and they all turned to see Mallereg limping out of the sleeping area, supported by a resigned-looking Maegolf.

“Good day, my lord,” the king’s envoy bowed curtly. “And a nice surprise to see that you’re still in one piece. My congratulations, Thalaûr,” he added with an ironic nod.

“To the point, Geldoron, what business brings you here?” Mistaking the looks that passed between the messenger and Laerîniel, Mallereg groaned impatiently. “I’ve already heard you all.” He glanced from one to another. ”The King is summoning me,” he stated, and there was the slightest undertone of trepidation in his weakened voice.

“I’ve explained to him that you are wounded,” Laerîniel stated firmly, looking pointedly at Geldoron.

“I appreciate your concern, Aunt,” the stubborn prince smiled briefly at her, “but I do not intend to defy the King’s orders.”

“Mallereg, you’re in no condition to travel and...”  She said, turning to the prince.

“Well, I travelled here, didn’t I?” he retorted with dry humour. “And I was in worse condition, if I am to believe your healer here.” Mallereg turned then to the King’s messenger. “Tell the King that I shall be attending his summons, Geldoron,” he said, ignoring Thalaûr’s exasperated groan. “I’ll be departing tomorrow, by midday?” He cast a cautious, questioning glance to his aunt, who gave in with showy reluctance.

“It is your decision, my lord,” Laerîniel shrugged as she exhaled a suffering sigh.

“You can rest here while Laerîniel finds you a fresh horse, Geldoron. It is her camp, didn’t you know?” the irrepressible elf could not help joking. “Or you can travel back with us tomorrow.”

“I’ll rather depart as soon as I may. By your leave, my lord, and have a safe return.” The cam-en-aran bowed before the prince and nodded to the rest.

“You go back to bed and make sure that you do not put weight upon that leg!” Laerîniel pointed a menacing finger towards her unruly nephew before following the messenger outside.

“Geldoron, wait!  He turned to meet her with a questioning glance.

“I want to talk to Mallereg’s guard,” he informed her, “and instruct them about the safest route. Then I shall accept that fresh horse.”

“I’ll arrange that. Join me when you’re ready,” she nodded. “But first I wanted to thank you for going along with this,” she said with a shy smile.

“His naneth longs to see him,” the cam-en-aran nodded towards the tent with a concerned look on his face, “and because of that I was ready to drag him home by his braid as soon as I learned that he was here. But I’m glad that you thought of this little trick instead, Laerîniel,” he said gratefully.

Reassured that she had done the right thing, Laerîniel parted with the king’s envoy and went in search of the forester in charge of their horses, allowing anticipation to fill her as she considered the number of things that she needed to oversee before departing next day.

She met then with the leaders of the rest of the patrols under a relatively unscathed oak, to discuss the state of the areas each had searched the previous days and to plan their course of action in her absence.

“Stop fretting about our safety, Laerîniel, we can always ask the Prince for support, now that he knows where we are,” one joked and the rest snorted as they concluded their reports. “What did he have to say about our location?”

“Not much,” she winced slightly recalling her conversation with Thalaûr the previous night. “The King has summoned Mallereg, so I suppose that his escort will ride back with us,” she told them.

“I won’t say that we’re going to miss them,” they all laughed at that.

“The south-east is charred but not too seriously damaged,” Laerîniel concluded the conversation as she saw Geldoron striding towards the clearing where they kept their horses. “Meet with Cúrion and show him your draft of the western area. We’ll make decisions over it later,” she suggested, leaving hurriedly to catch up with the king’s messenger.

“We’re only a three or four days’ ride from the stronghold, Laerîniel, two in my case, so I won’t need this,” Geldoron offered her a parcel containing some supplies. “I’ve informed Brûnech that you are travelling tomorrow, and I suggested that you take the north-eastern way from here,” he stopped her protests with a raised hand. “You’ll need to travel slowly due to Mallereg’s wound, but the outposts of the Home Guard are about two days from here in that direction and I’ll send word of your journey  – what? You thought you were the only one who was stretching the limits set by the Crown Prince?” he asked with an amused smile at the surprised look in her face.

“Why in such hurry to leave us, Geldoron?” Thalaûr’s voice could not hide a touch of suspicion as he joined them.

“I’ve completed my task and delivered my message to the lady, so I see no reason to remain in this bleak place for longer than needed,” the messenger joked, patting the neck of the chestnut mare a forester had just brought. “Besides,” he kept on with a twisted grin, mounting the fresh steed, “I must inform Thranduil that he has just summoned his Field Commander home. It was her idea, but I agreed,” he added hurriedly, seeing the frown and the glare in the guard’s face directed towards the princess. “You know that I have the authority to proceed thusly,” the cam-en-aran stated severely, “so do not force me to command you, Thalaûr." They locked eyes for a brief moment.

“You’ll pay for this, Geldoron,” Thalaûr grunted in a not wholly unfriendly manner. “And I would not like to be in your hide,” he turned then to include the princess in his warning, “if Mallereg ever hears of this…” he said menacingly.

“Carry the boy home safely and I’ll take care of the rest, my friend,” Geldoron leaned down to pat Thalaûr’s shoulder. “You, too, need a well-earned respite.”  With a brief, encouraging smile towards Laerîniel he urged his horse and rode away.

“I suppose that you have many things to arrange before departing,” Thalaûr said in a neutral tone, pointing at the parchment that she held open in her hand, while they watched Geldoron disappear amidst the scrubby foliage.

“Thalaûr let me explain…”

“I understand, Laerîniel,” the guard cut off her explanation with a wave of his hand. “But do not ask me to agree. I’ll take it as an aunt’s privilege.” He offered peace with a soft smile and she returned the gesture gladly, nodding to the faithful, understanding guard before returning to where her foresters debated their next steps.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. The western patrol had identified an area where the surviving trees seemed to have been infected by an aggressive fungus that was spreading quickly among the weakened flora and they spent some time discussing the appropriate measures. Food was also a problem, as their provisions were dwindling at an alarming speed, and there was little chance of finding a stable source of supplies in that devastated area, Laerîniel had to recognize, as she and two other foresters returned to camp at sunset, after a short, unsuccessful foray.

“The Prince wanted to see you, Laerîniel,” Maegolf approached her as she warmed her hands in one of the fires. “He’s not worse,” he said, anticipating her question. “The wound is painful, but he won’t let it show,” he added resignedly.

Why doesn’t that surprise me? She wondered. “Have some of that broth sent to him, Maegolf, please,” she begged, nodding towards where that night’s stew was exhaling a tempting aroma. “I’m sure that the Prince could do with a warm meal for a change,” she added, before walking to her tent.

“Laerîniel! Please, come in!” Mallereg’s voice sounded firmer as he greeted her. He was sitting upon a tree stump at her makeshift desk, his long legs uncomfortably spread under the unstable board. Before him, Thalaûr and Brûnech studied a sheaf of crumpled, stained parchments with a worried look on their stern faces.

“Make yourself comfortable, Aunt,” the prince waved at her gracefully. “I apologize for this mess –we were discussing tomorrow’s route. I understand that you’re coming, too.”

“Yes, I am!” She could not conceal the eagerness in her voice. “Legolas promised to be back by Narbeleth…”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the prince nodded coldly. “It is up to you, Brûnech,” he addressed then the captain, disregarding the astonished, infuriated look on her face at his apparent lack of interest.

“It is settled then; we shall follow Geldoron’s advice.” The captain bowed briefly and quietly took his leave.

“Now, Laerîniel let us talk about your foresters...” The prince turned his grey gaze to her. “I could have summoned your second in command, yet I did not want to undermine your authority,” he began sternly. 

“This is not a …” she began, annoyed by his condescending tone.

“…military unit, I know,” he interrupted her firmly. “Yet bear with me, since I’m apparently unable to understand that there are other things apart from war and slaughtering.” He cast a bitter smile towards his guard and shrugged briefly. “Besides, I saved your hide today, as I allowed you to be found “behind my line,” so bear with me, Aunt,” he insisted in a slightly exasperated voice.

One look at the drained face before her helped Laerîniel rein in her temper and hold back an angry retort. Mallereg was bordering on sheer exhaustion. She noticed the way he squirmed and winced, changing position almost constantly in a vain effort to ease the pain in his injured thigh.

“I am listening,” she answered evenly, casting a worried look towards Thalaûr.

“My thanks. Look. The bulk of my troops are covering this area, as the Chief Commander ordered.” She leaned forth to study the wrinkled map. “These are the places where we have killed orcs or spiders lately,” he continued resignedly, pointing at places she had deemed safe, “and this is the area that can be considered secured. Not a great achievement,” he conceded with a sour smile, “but let the King be the judge of it,” he added in an apparently unconcerned voice. “Now,” he rummaged in the pile of parchments upon the desk and brought out a particularly stained map. “This is where we are, close to the eastern edge of Lasgalen. And this is where we ran into this roving, organized orc-hoth about six days ago.” He pointed west, close to the area where Laerîniel’s patrols had reported that disease affecting the weakened trees.

“What are these?” Laerîniel gestured at the dots scattered in a regular pattern heading south.

“Those are my patrols and scouts,” he answered honestly, studying her reaction.

“But you are close to the Mountains?” She was stunned at this blatant disobedience.

“Well, this way you can tell the Chief Commander that you actually were behind my line, as he ordered you,” the prince joked briefly, offering her a friendly wink. “We’ve been tracking and harassing the fleeing orcs to their dens in the Mountains and I have proof that they are gathering there, strengthening their numbers, raiding our lands and ready to seize any opportunity to attack in force…” He straightened the parchment and lowered his voice, pointing at the southernmost edge of the map. “And there’s something else,” he said grimly. “My scouts have reported seeing forest men in many of the orc patrols…” Laerîniel found herself suddenly wondering whether the darker spots in the map were bloodstains, refusing take in what this news meant. If the forest men were in fact allying with the surviving orcs, then the war was far from over!

“There must be a mistake,” she tried to convince herself. “The King shall know what to do...” she straightened up, diverting her gaze from the stained map.

“I’m not finished yet.” Mallereg’s voice had a tone of command that she had never before heard directed towards her, and she looked at him in surprise. “I’m not telling you this to inform you, Laerîniel,” he kept on sharply, “but to make sure that you understand why I want your foresters back to where they are supposed to be, well behind my lines. Four of my guards will escort them to this place,” he pointed at an area too close to the Elf Path for her preference.

“I don’t think...” she looked briefly at Thalaûr’s impassive face, but could see that no help would come from him.

“This is a direct command, Chief Forester,” the prince interrupted her sternly, but with a pleading look in his wan face. “They shall pack and clear this encampment in two days and they shall remain where you and I have just agreed until new orders arrive,” He looked at her expectantly.

She fought the instinct to rebel against such a harsh order. “…Where you and I have just agreed.”  On the other hand, she had to acknowledge the generosity of his offer and she finally acquiesced with a nod.

“As you command, my lord,” she conceded meekly. “May I make a suggestion, though?” she added in the most objective voice she could manage.

He tilted his head, eyeing her intensely, and Laerîniel knew that he was pondering her strategy. Suddenly, she was reminded of the stubborn child who would not be swayed once he had made up his mind unless a sound reason or a more interesting option was presented to him. She had always been very good at manoeuvring around the difficult, self-willed elfling, and she wondered if she could still trust that ability.

“One of my patrols reported a serious disease affecting the trees in an area here,” she began at his encouraging nod, pointing at the place in the stained map. “They could reach your lines from the south and it would only mean a slight detour…”

“…through an area I have just told you that is not safe,” he interrupted her. “Yet I understand your point. I can send word to my commander to have a patrol ready to escort some of your foresters there, once the whole group is safe. Does that suit you?”

“Most appropriately, my lord. My thanks.” She stood up and bowed briefly before the worn-out elf. “By your leave, I shall go and inform Cúrion, who shall be in charge during my absence, of your instructions.”

* * *

Somewhere a week south from Laketown

“I cannot believe that we never noticed how much a forest resembles an arched vault….

“Perhaps you did not look up often enough, Master Dwarf?

“Up? What do you mean exactly with up? It is seldom that we’re under, so that we should be looking up…

“Oh, one would be tempted to think differently, given the average size...”

“Don’t say it! You know perfectly what I’m talking about. We’re not found under trees if we can avoid it, least of all under your father’s trees….”

“The trees belong to themselves; they’re not my father’s…”

“You’d do well reminding him of it, then.”

A clear laugh put an end to the exchange, as Dwarf and Elf rode along the eastern side of Eryn Lasgalen on a cold autumn evening. The wild lands of Rhovanion still showed signs of the recent war, yet the landscape was less depressing here. The Sight of the burnt and suffering trees of Lasgalen was more unbearable for the two companions, even at this distance, as the extraordinary experience of crossing the living forest of Fangorn was still fresh in their minds. The damage in the golden eaves of Lórien had not seemed that terrible when they skirted the beautiful forest on their way north, and Legolas had allowed his displeasure to be known when they met Celeborn’s guards in the barren lands around Amon Lanc. Harsh words had been exchanged then, much to Gimli’s secret delight, concerning who had withstood the greatest destruction in the war. They had grudgingly accepted the Lórien elves’ help that night before continuing their trip.

They were now about a week from Laketown, and the first signs of Narbeleth were visible upon the reddish leaves on the trees that flanked them on their left.

As the sun went down, they found cover for the night the base of a small mound surrounded by dense bushes by the side of the road and decided to set camp there.

“I’m glad that you insisted on taking this road, Gimli.” Legolas told his friend while he relieved Arod of the saddle and packs and allowed him to graze freely. Gimli handed him a water skin just refilled in the stream that sang not far from them.

“Well, the fact that I agreed to cross Fangorn with you doesn’t mean that I’m ready to spend the rest of my life watching trees. I was tired of greenery...” the Dwarf complained as he put down his own water skin and turned his attention to kindling their fire. “Besides, we only spent a day in Aglarond, it wasn’t fair that you forced me through all those unending forests,” he added, rummaging in his pack. “We could do with Samwise’s cooking lore here...” he grumbled. Apart from lembas, kindly provided by the Lórien elves, their provisions were paltry and the dwarf knew that there was little point in trying to hunt anything in that silent and deserted area.

“You’ll have to move then,” Legolas observed as he took seat beside the fire and watched his friend put some dried meat and some roots to boil. “There isn’t much else to see than trees from Erebor, if I remember well, and as you seem to have had enough of them…” he joked.

If Legolas had been wordless after their visit to the Glittering Caves, Gimli had been reduced to a mumbling, awed dwarf at the sight of the mighty, strong trees of Fangorn; the endless arcades of knotted branches and the ever-present breath of a forest that was more alive than anything Gimli had ever known. He had been amazed by the delicacy with which the mighty trees reached for the skies, and how the tallest branches supported each other in a graceful tracery, entwined in their restless dance. He had marvelled at how the forest resembled a neat, well carved vault of stone and had rejoiced in the echo of his own voice mingling with the welcoming rustle of the leaves in that great living hall. Legolas’ patient attempts at teaching him how to listen to the trees’ voices had been useless, but Gimli had been able to feel the heartbeat of a young elm under his heavy, calloused palm, and that was a feeling that the Dwarf would treasure to his death.

“Yet, you forget that it is not the same thing, looking from above than from below, my friend,” Gimli observed sagely. “I have never minded overlooking your forest and knowing that I could pat Thranduil’s kingly head from up there…” he added with a mischievous wink, stirring their dinner and offering the Elf his fill.

Legolas’ mood had become darker as they reached the southern borders of Lasgalen, and his unusual show of temper in Amon Lanc had been a warning sign of his restlessness. Even the most cold-hearted dwarf would have been distressed by the sight of the blackened soil, uprooted trees and devastated lands, and Gimli had been relieved when Legolas accepted to travel round Lasgalen northwards instead of crossing it, after the Dwarf complained that he had had enough trees to last him for a lifetime or two.

“You’re worried because of what your wife is going to tell you, aren’t you?” The Dwarf had taken to provoking his friend out of the long silences he usually fell into those nights.

“I told her that I‘d be home by Narbeleth.” Legolas smiled softly. “Yet I cannot help worrying. The forest is in a worse state than what I had anticipated by Celeborn’s account,” he explained. “You should worry, too. What do you think your King is going to tell you?” he retorted with a mischievous grin.

“Well…I expect him to name me ambassador to Aragorn’s court, what else?” the Dwarf answered matter-of-factly, scowling at the tasteless stew.

“How do you know that he’s not ready to put you in chains? Haldir has been there, after all, who knows what tales he may have told...”

“I should have known that Celeborn would make me pay for daring to court his lady wife...” the Dwarf mumbled. “I only hope that the guards felt the need to bind the Marchwarden’s eyes and to make him bump his way to Thorin’s Great Hall,” he grumbled, remembering the irritating welcome in Lórien, and then smiling at the amused chortle that escaped his friend’s lips.

“I’ll take the first guard,” Legolas offered, putting aside his bowl and climbing the small mound that protected their sheltered spot. The Dwarf shrugged and lit his pipe. It had been the same for the past number of days. The Elf would stand up the whole night gazing west, to the not so distant boundaries of his forest, straining to hear a familiar song that still evaded his ears.

“Maybe the trees are recovering, or maybe they have forgotten you...” Gimli had tried to uplift his friend’s mood some days ago, when Legolas had first spoken of that unnerving silence from the so familiar trees.

“The memory of the trees is long as that of the Firstborn, Gimli,” the Elf had instructed him then seriously. “Yet, as much as I try I cannot hear their voices. I mean, it is as if I heard voices but could not recognize the language…”

Gimli knew nothing of sea-longing and its effects, yet that day he had noticed that his friend was seriously disturbed by this sudden inability to perceive the welcoming voice of his beloved forest.

“Let me know, if they say something I should be aware of...” he joked out loud now, as he settled down comfortably for the night, and was rewarded with a snort.

“Go to sleep, Master Dwarf, or tomorrow you won’t be able to hold your seat upon Arod...”

Tall and straight as a young tree, Legolas stood the night away, singing softly to himself and trying to find comfort in the closeness of the disturbingly silent forest.

“I’m coming, can't you hear me?” he sighed as Anor stretched her golden fingers over them for the first time in many days, announcing the new morning.

TBC

*Thalaûr: (steady fire). Mallereg’s guard

Camath-en-aran: the king’s “hands,” as a team or selected group. Cam-en-aran: king’s hand. Thanks to Redheredh for kindly supplying the translation

Orc hoth: Orc host

Thorin III Stonehelm succeeded Dain Ironfoot as King Under the Mountain, after the War of the Ring.

Many thanks to Redheredh for her kind help.

A brief “who’s who”:  

Bôrgalas is Legolas’ oldest brother

Mallereg is Bôrgalas’ eldest son

Borgil was Bôrgalas’ second son, killed in the battle under the trees

Thalaûr is Mallereg’s guard

Sûlgalen is Legolas and Laerîniel’s daughter

Sûlaer (summer wind) is how Legolas calls his wife, Laerîniel

Calenben (green one) is how Laerîniel calls Legolas

A brief summary: It is mid-autumn and Laerîniel is heading home to await Legolas’ now imminent return. She has managed to trick Mallereg into going back home, too. Meanwhile, Legolas and Gimli are a week away from Thranduil’s stronghold.

Chapter 5. Home is…

The trip back home from the foresters’ camp was a painfully slow ride. A cold autumn breeze blew unhindered amidst the leafless branches. Birds had deserted that dismal, burnt part of the forest, and the woeful laments of the trees echoed in the wailing wind.  

The mood of the travelling company was even bleaker than their surroundings. Mallereg could barely hold himself upon Thalarîn, the spirited mare that had been a present from his guard, but he insisted on riding unaided despite the agonizing pain in his injured leg. His escorts kept a tense, threatening silence and constant vigilance.  

On the first night of their trip, Laerîniel tried in vain to restore the moods of her group with a warm meal made up from their meagre provisions, as there was no time or chance for hunting or fishing.   

“I will not run the risk of attracting even one stray orc, Laerîniel,” the captain of the prince’s escort informed her softly, putting out her fire with a regretful shrug. She looked around gloomily. Mallereg was slumped against a tree, wrapped up in his stained cloak, his face pale and contorted with passing spasms of pain. The rest did not look much better, she thought. She had known them all for a long time, but now she could not find any traces of the joyful, confident, lively elves she remembered.  

“We cannot let the war change us and destroy us,” she thought in despair, remembering Thranduil’s words on the Eve of Midsummer. And for the first time she wondered with trepidation what kind of Elf would be returned to her, what kind of changes, what inner wounds would her husband have sustained during that eventful year, what scars would have been left by the dreadful experiences he had surely gone through. The thought was disturbing enough to keep her awake for the whole night, despite her bone-deep weariness.   

Anor finally took pity of them and on the third day of their trip she broke through the mass of clouds and sent her rays to warm the cold, tired party. Even Mallereg seemed to revive, lifting his face to receive the welcome caress and exchanging some jokes with his guards. That night they ran into a patrol of the Home Guard, and they were able to enjoy a warm dinner and a restoring sleep while the patrol kept the perimeter and took care of the injured and restless prince.  

“We’re all eagerly awaiting the return of our captain, Laerîniel,” the officer in charge told her in the bright morning, as they got ready to undertake the last part of their journey. “We, too, have missed him sorely,” he added with gentle sympathy, offering her a reddish leaf with a friendly wink. Half the forest seemed to know when Legolas was expected, she thought with mild amusement.  

“One would be misled to believe that the Home Guard has been left alone and without command in his absence,” a stern voice cut in just as Laerîniel looked for the appropriate answer. 

“My lord, I… I didn’t mean...” the guard blushed furiously as they both turned to see Mallereg standing behind them.  

“You’d better keep your eyes open, lest your captain passes you unnoticed, much as we almost did last night,” he scolded the officer then –unfairly, in Laerîniel’s opinion.  

“We are ready to depart, my lord.” Thalaûr appeared most opportunely beside Mallereg. “The Commander is showing his gratitude for your hospitality, Megorlas, hard as you may find to believe it,” he smiled apologetically towards the mortified guard, while casting a warning look at his charge.  

“Let’s go, then,” the prince grunted. With a curt nod he limped to where his mare waited, rejecting Thalaûr’s help brusquely.  

The forest looked healthier as they progressed northward, and Laerîniel was relieved to see how the song of the trees helped ease the guards’ troubled moods. Their conversations were lighter in tone and, from time to time, a clear voice would attempt a well-known tune. They were approaching the stronghold from the east, and the land rose noticeably there. The abruptness of the terrain seemed not to disturb Mallereg, though, for he suddenly urged Thalarîn up a winding, almost invisible, path that climbed a steep hill to their left. His escort followed resignedly, dreading what they were about to see.  

Amon Tirith was the highest point between Thranduil’s stronghold and the Mountains in the south, and it commanded an impressive view of the surroundings. To the east, the company could see the glistening waters of the Forest River, as it left the protection of the woods and ran wildly to Long Lake.  

The prince’s gaze, though, was fixed west, and Laerîniel forced herself to do the same. The lands descended abruptly there, and the signs of destruction were more visible in the Enchanted River’s western banks, despite the distance, as well as in the once heavily populated stretch between the two rivers. Yet it wasn’t the view of those charred forests and glades what held the prince’s attention, but the narrow trail that led to the Ford of the Forest River and the road to Thranduil’s stronghold.  

Cail-en-Ernil, the Prince’s Fence, as the ford was known now, was the place where Borgil had led the Home Guard’s desperate last stand, protecting the retreating settlers as well as the way to the stronghold.  They had been caught there between fire and foe and had resolutely held their ground down to the last warrior in what proved to be the turning point of the war. Their staunch defense of the pass had bought time for Mallereg and Thranduil’s troops to end up the armies attacking from the east –while Bôrgalas was surrounded in the south by another orc army that had descended unexpectedly from the dens in the Misty Mountains.  

Laerîniel had never returned to look at that place she remembered well from happier days, and she was stricken by the extent of devastation in the once densely forested area. She knew that Mallereg, hurrying from the east at Borgil’s desperate calls for help, had been the first to arrive there; and that he had been already too late. She wondered briefly what visions were now crowding his mind as he sat there, unmoving, apparently oblivious of their presence. She shook her head to dispel unwanted images of charred, mutilated bodies and placed a soothing hand on her nephew’s shoulder.  

“Let’s go home, Mallereg,” she pleaded quietly. He turned pained, unseeing eyes to her, but nodded in assent, urging his mare down the hill without looking back.  

They rode in silence. The shadows were lengthening when they reached the first circle of the guard and word of the prince and his escort’s arrival was sent to the stronghold.  

“Go home, my friends.” Mallereg spoke for the first time since morning; addressing his guards, who lived at some distance. “Thalaûr and Laerîniel will be more than capable to see me to the stronghold,” he joked softly, dismissing each of them with a grateful arm grip.  

The few elves they met as they continued on their way greeted them respectfully, bowing to the prince and offering them warm welcome. Laerîniel noticed that Mallereg was making a great effort to keep himself straight, and let not his tiredness show as he returned each salute. She let escape a relieved sigh as they crossed the bridge and stable hands hurried to help them.  

“I know the way to the King’s Halls, Thalaûr, you don’t need to escort me there…”  

“You may want to wash and change into fresh cloths first, my lord.” A calm, well-known voice interrupted them. Laerîniel smiled as she saw Lord Brethil taking charge, for only then did Thalaûr seem to consider his duty ended. He nodded briefly to the King’s secretary and headed back towards his own house.  

“Naneth!” The joyful cry caught Laerîniel by surprise, and she looked up to see that Sûlgalen was hurrying down the way to the stables in a very unbefitting manner –grinning madly and waving at them. Laerîniel forgot the bedraggled elf who was stubbornly refusing Brethil’s help, and her own weariness, as she dismounted swiftly and ran towards her daughter.  

“My child! I did not expect you here!”  

“Adar said in his letter that he would be back by Narbeleth, Nana, and I did not want to miss your face as he rode home!” Sûlgalen joked warmly, giving her tired naneth an affectionate hug. Laerîniel laughed and held her at arm’s length, savouring the resemblance she bore with Legolas despite the blue- black hair and the dark eyes. Yet, the determined, faintly amused expression on her fair face, and the lively spark that brightened up her features every time she smiled were so Legolas’ that Laerîniel could not hold back a wistful sigh.  

“Sûlgalen, let your naneth breathe,” Lord Brethil suggested from behind Laerîniel as he waved over to a couple of guards that had followed the younger princess with a stretcher obviously intended for the wounded prince.   

“Who is this stranger and where’s my gallant cousin?” Sûlgalen asked in mock surprise as soon as she fixed her eyes on the tired Elf now leaning heavily upon Brethil.  

“It is not yet time for tales, my little princess,” Mallereg joked, shaking his head at the sight of the stretcher and refusing the guards’ help. “But I promise to go tuck you in and tell you a bed-time story after we adults are finished with our business…”  

“I doubt that your naneth will let you escape once she gets hold of you, Mallereg. You look terrible!” she returned lightly, stretching up on her toes to place a soft kiss on her cousin’s face. She then took hold of her naneth’s arm and led the way back to the stronghold.  

“Don’t think that you look better, cousin,” the prince groaned, limping laboriously behind them. “If I were your adar, I would call your husband to task…”  

“Let Olchaldir and Belthôn help you inside, Mallereg,” Laerîniel interrupted the friendly bickering between the two cousins, signalling to the guards who walked behind them. “Dragging you home was not among Brethil’s set tasks for this evening, I’d say…”  

“The King shall see you later,” Brethil added, waving to one of the guards to take his place.  

“My adar should be warned of our arrival, too.” The worn-out prince accepted the guard’s stronger support without protest, now.  

“Your adar is inspecting the garrisons that protect the temporary settlements and he’s not expected in some more days. Get some food and rest and do not trouble yourself,” Brethil answered, patting the prince’s shoulder comfortingly. He smiled briefly to Laerîniel and then hurried back to the stronghold, while the rest continued at their slow pace up to the heavy doors.

**

Laerîniel soon got used to the ordered routine that was life at the stronghold. First thing every morning, she would walk to the Home Guard’s command at the time they received the reports from the patrols, hoping to hear that Legolas had been sighted. After that, she usually had breakfast with the family and then sat at the Warden’s office, wading through the reports piling upon Master Pador’s desk, the Warden being busy in the northern marches. She also spent time helping Saelleth and the Queen in seeing to the daily distribution of provisions with the Steward, as well as checking the stores of medical supplies. Sûlgalen was busy helping those taking care of the many children that had been displaced from their settlements, while Luinil devoted most of her time to her wounded and discouraged son, who had been confined to his chambers by the palace healer.  

After the midday meal, Laerîniel would follow a trail that skirted the northern bank of the Forest River to the east, and led to the glade where the old beech stood. She usually carried a basket of wool and would spend the afternoon carding or spinning as she sat listening to the song of the trees, waiting for them to bring the news of her husband’s arrival.  

The old beech was a descendant of the one Legolas had planted after he asked for her hand –so long ago. It had grown in that glade since Sûlgalen’s birth, and her leaves had provided welcome shade to family outings and useful shelter for children’s games when Borgil and Sûlgalen had been very young. The glade was a favourite meeting place for all the family, and Laerîniel found peace just sitting there and letting the days pass by, soothed by the comforting, familiar humming of the old tree.  

****

A week later, somewhere between Thranduil’s stronghold and Laketown.  

“It is fine Legolas; I’m a Dwarf of many journeys. I can walk the distance to Erebor with my eyes closed… “  

They had reached the end of their journey together, a stony beach by the Forest River where, seventy something years ago, a band of sick dwarves had spent the night in thirteen supposedly empty barrels after escaping Thranduil’s stronghold with the help of certain Bilbo Baggins. From here, Gimli intended to continue north to Erebor and Legolas would ride home.  

And still they were lingering; sharing a last meal and reluctant to part with each other’s company after so much travel and toil.  

“So you think that Thorin will attend Aragorn’s plea and send your people to help in the rebuilding of the city?”  

“I suppose that it depends on how busy we are with the repairs, but yes, I have little doubt. It is going to be a challenge for our skills, and an honour, as well. What about you?” 

“It shall depend on the damage in the forest and the settlements and how much I am needed,” Legolas sighed, casting a sad glance towards the now much closer and still silent trees. “With my younger nephew’s death and the heavy losses that we have sustained in the war, all captains must be sorely needed. I doubt that I’ll be able to return to Gondor before next summer, but I shall bring back trees and birds, and, hopefully, a group of elves with me.”  

“Faramir will be thrilled,” the Dwarf acknowledged, biting into his remaining lembas with delight. “Do you think that your wife shall feel the same?” he asked inquisitively.  

“Sûlaer loves trees, and she will like it down there, I have no doubt. I would have not even considered moving there if I weren’t sure that she would get used to Ithilien...Together we will restore the land to its beauty. She’s going to love the idea,” Legolas answered with his maddening self-confidence. The Dwarf shrugged and continued eating in silence.  

“For some reason, I find it hard to believe that the King of Mirkwood, sorry, Lasgalen shall be ecstatic at the prospect, though,” Gimli insisted after some time. The thoughtful look that crossed his friend’s face was enough for the Dwarf to know that his worries were not wholly unfounded.  

“Well,” Gimli finally said. They both had finished their meals and drinks and the sun was beginning her slow descent. “We had better keep going now, before we decide that it is too late for today. Your wife awaits you, and I long to feel solid rock over my head,” he added grumpily as he collected his belongings and readied his heavy pack.  

“It’s been an honour to fight alongside you, my friend,” Legolas began, standing up to bid Gimli goodbye, but the dwarf shook his head and raised his hands to stop him.  

“Let us do without all that, if you please?” he brusquely cut off the Elf’s words. “We shall meet again in Minas Tirith some time next year, and that’s settled. Now, have a safe return, and present my respects to your lady wife. I’m looking forward to meeting her in fair Ithilien,” he grunted, piercing the Elf with an affectionate look that belied his gruffness. “I do not have the whole day to spend in some wordy elven ritual, you know…”  

“As you wish, then,” Legolas smiled openly at this last show of his friend’s temper. “Have a safe return, Gimli, and may our paths bring us together in Minas Tirith soon,” he added, bowing before the Dwarf with his right hand over his heart.  

The Dwarf returned a brief nod, and there was a sad, melancholy gleaming in his dark eyes as he turned his back on his friend and started walking down the trail that followed the river until it struck another, wider road heading north. He did not look back even once, and Legolas followed his stout, up-right figure with a fond smile on his face.  

“Let’s get ready, my friend,” he told Arod when Gimli became a dim silhouette in the distance. He packed his belongings and put out what was left of their fire. “We are only a day from home and Sûlaer is waiting for me,” he said softly, casting a thoughtful glance to the silent forest. The sea-longing, he suspected, prevented him from understanding the voices of the trees, and that made him uneasy. He turned his mind to his wife, then, trying -not for the first time- to feel her presence beyond the tenuous pulse that was their bond. He wondered if her voice, too, would be dimmed by the persistent thunder that now drummed almost constantly in his ears.   

“Tell her I am coming, please?” he cried pleadingly to the unresponsive trees. Then, he mounted Arod and urged him on the path.  

“If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.” *  

The Lady’s words echoed in his mind with the finality of doom as he entered the woods before sunset, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he strained to hear the voices of his beloved trees above the distant rolling of unknown waters that muffled every other voice around him.   

He closed his eyes and sighed. It shall take time, he told himself resignedly, forcing his horse to a slower pace. He inhaled deeply and allowed his mind to take in the sounds, the smells and the play of the changing light through the naked branches. The forest had been shedding its reddish mantle for some time, it seemed, and he wondered how many leaves the old beech would still keep, since Narbeleth seemed now well in. He closed his eyes again, calling to mind an image of his wife waiting for him by the ancient tree, and he willed his faer forth in a wistful, beseeching call.  

That night he chose an oak that stood not far from the Forest River and calmly climbed its twisted trunk, relishing its touch. It had been months since he had last slept on a tree -since Lórien, actually- and he snuggled happily against the welcoming trunk, exhaling a deep breath and letting the forest sounds lull him. The Forest River’s waters sang happily to his right and a soft breeze played with the fallen leaves down in the forest floor.  

“I’m here, Arod, I’m not going anywhere...” The steed’s nervous neighing and pacing was breaking the spell of the night. “I’m a Wood-Elf, you know?” he informed the horse, bending dangerously over the branch so that the beast could see him. “I’m used to sleeping up in the trees, and you must get used to it too for this is how we do it when we are out on patrol.”  The horse seemed to calm down, although Legolas wasn’t sure whether his snort had been one of contempt or despair. He lay back again on the trunk and allowed his mind to drift away, hoping that he would find his way to the forest’s soul while resting under its sheltering embrace.  

***  

“Nothing yet, Laerîniel, how’s the old beech doing?” At the Home Guard’s headquarters wagers had been made on the exact date of Legolas’ arrival, though nobody dared comment before the Captain’s wife. 

“Not bad, considering the winds and the progress of the season. I believe that she’ll still hold on for a week or so…” Laerîniel caught the glances that the two assistants exchanged and sighed wearily. “Don’t think that I don’t know that there are bets…”  

“And don’t think that the Chief Commander shall take it lightly, if he ever gets word of it,” a stern voice warned. Belmagor came out of Legolas’ second-in-command’s office, waving a heavily scarred and mutilated hand menacingly towards his aides. “Honestly, we cannot know, Laerîniel,” he explained, offering her a mug of a warm infusion. “Our patrols are very thinly spread and currently concentrated in the western stretch of the Elf Path and the old Forest Road, so if Legolas is coming by the eastern road - which seems the most sensible choice - we might not know he’s arrived until he steps in here asking for the latest reports…” 

“And what if he decides to cross the forest?” one of the aides gloomily asked. Laerîniel shivered remembering the news Mallereg had brought home about orcs regrouping in the Mountains.  

“The Captain is not a fool,” Belmagor remarked brusquely. “He won’t risk crossing a territory that has been deemed unsafe for almost an age. I’m sorry that we have no good news for you,” he addressed the princess in a gentler voice. “I’m sure that he’ll be back as he promised, and he’ll take the safest route… ”  

“I hope so,” Laerîniel nodded, sipping the warm tea. Mornings were getting colder as winter approached. “I am glad to find you here, Belmagor,” she commented then. “I thought you had been transferred to the Steward’s office…”  

“Bôrgalas dispatched Hîrvegil west yesterday to undertake Mallereg’s command. He needed someone here who was familiar with the Home Guard’s routine, so…” he answered, gesturing around with his deformed hand, a hand that would never again hold a bow or wield a sword, Laerîniel thought with sorrow, wondering how it would feel for a warrior to find himself thusly incapacitated to fulfil his duty.  

“What’s wrong with Bôrgalas, Laerîniel?” The blunt question brought her abruptly back from her musings. 

“Why do you ask?” She proceeded cautiously. Belmagor was not particularly renowned for his discretion, she reminded herself, recalling the incident in Midyear’s Eve. The two assistants seemed overly busy all of a sudden.  

“Well, he demoted Mallereg and sent his second-in-command to oversee the western troops from the field, instead of summoning a force and launching an attack to the south! Those orcs must be starving and in complete disarray; allowing them time to regroup is…”  

“Mallereg needed a good rest, and he had actually defied Bôrgalas’ orders. The Chief Commander did what he considered best for the safety of the settlements and the hunters’ parties,” she cut him sternly, before he could further disgrace himself. She found it hard to believe her own words, though, as she had rebuked her brother-in-law the moment she had heard how he had summoned his son to his office, disregarding the state of his wounded leg, and had temporarily removed him from command for his insubordination. But she did not intend to undermine the Chief Commander’s authority before the Home Guard.   

“I suppose that you are right,” the officer nodded grudgingly. “And the western marches are not wholly safe, after all. They must be awaiting Legolas’ return to make decisions concerning the south,” he mused, exhaling deeply.  

“I think so,” she agreed, getting up. “Thanks for the tea and, Belmagor…”  

“Yes?”  

“Don’t be too stern,” she begged of him. “Bets and jokes have always been a part of the Guard. None of those gone would like to see that you’ve become such a solemn lot…”  

“Just pretending,” he joked with a crooked smile, following her to the entrance and opening the door for her. “Only, I’m annoyed for I have already lost my bet, it’d seem, since today was my chosen day for the Captain’s return,” he explained, glaring immediately at the two assistants who could not hold back their amusement any longer.  

“I hope that you will not hold that against Legolas, too,” she returned lightly as she stepped outside, smiling at the burst of laughter that followed her.  

She worked distractedly the rest of the morning. She had been so sure that she would receive news of Legolas that day! She had slept well and had awoken feeling light of heart and full of hope, and that surely meant something!   

Arien was winking auspiciously through fleeing clouds that travelled north under the wings of the southern wind, the one that brought down ripe chestnuts and surviving leaves, as Laerîniel walked to the place where she kept her daily watch. The old beech stood proudly in the midst of the glade, surrounded by a thick carpet of golden brown and red and almost naked but for scattered bunches of leaves in her lower branches.  

“You better hold on some more days, my friend,” she begged the tall tree. Giving into a childish whim, she piled a comfortable bed of leaves beside the tree trunk. “He must be surely getting closer,” she sighed softly, dropping down into that nest. “Can you hear him coming?”  

**  

Legolas awoke that morning feeling refreshed. He could not remember where the path of his dreams had led him, but a deep joy he had long missed lingered among the last threads of sleep. He bathed on the clear stream of the Forest River and the singing waters filled him with inexplicable happiness. Surrendering to a strange impulse he instructed his horse to tag along as he walked the paths of his forest. He followed familiar trails, acknowledging trees, recalling from memory each corner of those well-known woods, each glade and grove, each crossroads and river bend, naming the forest and retaking his place there, despite the insistent thunder of the sea that rolled tirelessly within him.  

“I belong here,” he called out loud, and it seemed to him that the trees murmured among themselves and then bowed slowly as if to greet him. “I am Legolas Thranduilion, and I belong here!“ he again called, opening his arms and looking upwards to the tall, imposing trees he had known since saplings, and the sight made him laugh in joyous rapture. He could not yet hear their voices clearly but, all of a sudden, the forest looked again like an old acquaintance instead of the distant stranger that had frozen him out. As his hopes that he might somehow regain his peace within the forest were kindled, he felt the deep longing that had been waiting to ensnare him suddenly taking over. He could only think of riding to the old beech and getting lost in his wife’s embrace.   

“Go swiftly now, Arod, for she is waiting and I am long overdue!” He mounted his steed and urged him into a wild gallop along paths that he knew by heart, relishing the southern wind and the whispers of the trees. And it seemed to him that they parted to ease his way and that the branches moved in silent conversation, conveying the good news across the forest as he rode to her with an urgency that he had never felt before. 

 ***

Laerîniel intended to spin the afternoon away, but she found it hard to keep her rhythm and the fibres got loose more often than not. From time to time she would lift her head and listen intently, mistaking a bird’s call or the whisper of the wind playing with the fallen leaves. And she could not hold back a smile that persistently tugged at her lips, together with a feeling of elation that slowly crept into her until it swept away her concentration.  

“He must have entered the forest,” she thought, looking up in anticipation, hoping to hear the news from the trees.  

Yet it was her heart that warned her first. At one point she let fall spindle and wool in the basket and stood up, leaning on the trunk of the old beech, knowing that he was hurrying to her.  

The wait became more unbearable as the certainty grew with the song of the trees. She wondered whether to run and meet him on his way, or climb the old beech to catch sight of him even before he knew, like they used to do when they were younger and they would await the other’s return in their home in the northern marches.  

Relieved from making any decision by the sudden certainty that her knees would buckle under her if she tried to move, she just stood there –waiting- supported by the faithful beech and looking east.  

***  

The old beech was shedding some leaves as horse and rider entered the clearing at a slow canter, and Arod stopped on his own accord at the sight of the beautiful elleth standing still under that peaceful, red rain.   

The moment he met his wife’s gaze Legolas understood what a tidal wave was. Their minds touched and her bright presence surrounded him and washed away everything except the cry of his faer desperately reaching out for hers. He dismounted quickly and reached her side, and they embraced tightly, fitting together as if they had been one ever since the making of Arda. Legolas hardly had time to wonder what Laerîniel might have read in his troubled eyes as bodies and minds rushed forth, reclaiming their other half. Soft endearments died out quickly, as mouths began to trace familiar paths and hurried fingers made short work of cloaks, laces and buttons, both surrendering to a call that had been smothered since his leaving.  

It seemed to Legolas, as he lost himself within the wide embrace of his love, that he had finally arrived at a place he had long missed; the place where he could shed all his fears and doubts and be safe forever. Her faer sang joyfully within his, unravelling with tender care the tangled threads of dark memories and pain, soothing his sorrow and easing their way to the blissful moment of fulfilment, when they became again one, in mind and body. Such was the strength of their bond -and the healing power that it held- that as Legolas moved to rest beside his wife, and his breathing calmed in his chest, he realized that the unrelenting rolling of the waters had almost disappeared, replaced by the clear voice of his beloved trees welcoming him home.  

“I missed you so much, my Sûlaer,” he sighed hoarsely against her, holding her tightly and wishing that moment would last forever; the two of them, naked under his cloak and resting on a bed of leaves until the world changed and Arda was renewed.   

****  

They lay under the old beech, laughing as she shed more leaves in homage to the prince’s arrival, until the shadows lengthened and the first stars began to show in the autumn sky. Now, they rose and got dressed unhurriedly, delighting in each other’s presence and stopping often to exchange soft caresses and tender kisses that spoke, better than words, of longing and recovering.  

“We’d better go home, before Sûlgalen comes looking for us,” she finally sighed, reluctantly letting go of him and walking to where Arod waited.   

“She’s always been an impatient elleth, just like her naneth,” Legolas smiled fondly at the thought of his daughter. He picked up his cloak and patted the faithful beech’s trunk in gratitude. All around him the trees seemed to rejoice in his return, and he cast a grateful look to his wife, relieved that he was, eventually, able to hear them.  

“Who’s been impatient, now?” she returned his joke lightly, but her deep glance spoke of understanding and forgiveness, and Legolas felt that his love for her would overwhelm him.  

“Let me introduce you properly,” he smiled, walking to where she stood by the horse. “Arod,” he addressed his mount with a conniving wink, “this is my Sûlaer, the one I used to sing of, speak of, dream of… “  

“I’m glad to meet you, Arod.” Her clear laughter interrupted his speech, and she whispered something into the horse’s ear and then waited as if listening. “He says he has never heard of me,” she complained after a moment, looking at her husband with feigned disappointment. 

“I was going to tell you what a brave and valiant steed he is, and how much he deserves the best stall in the King’s stables,” he claimed shaking his head, taking hold of her slender hips and lifting her up onto the great horse while he spoke. “But, I might have to reconsider his merits,” he joked, avoiding the playful shove of the beast’s head and mounting nimbly behind her. “Now, take us home, my friend, and I promise you the best dinner and shelter you have enjoyed in a long time!” he said, encircling his wife’s waist with his arms and prompting Arod into an easy stride.  

They rode in silence for a while, enjoying their closeness and relishing every touch. Words were not needed as their faer engaged in deep conversation, exploring each other’s feelings and tentatively prodding open, sore wounds. The night’s breeze carried a rumbling, deep, heartfelt welcome to Legolas’ ears and he could not hold back a shiver.  

“What is it?” Laerîniel turned back briefly to look at him with concern.  

“I’ve just felt my father’s power in all its force…I had not realized until now how much I missed his presence,” he said thoughtfully, pulling her closer and burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I could ride like this all the way to the Grey Havens and beyond, my Sûlaer,” he whispered huskily. “I don’t want to ever let go of you…”  

“Who cares for the Grey Havens, my love?” She relaxed against him and rested her head on his shoulder as she laughed again, joy and relief ringing in her silvery voice. “You are home, Calenben, and that’s all that matters. See, even the trees missed you. Now we can truly begin to heal!” she said earnestly. Too moved for words, Legolas just kissed her lovely neck, and would have ventured more but for a cheerful greeting.  

“Welcome home, Captain, is it truly you?”  

“Belmagor shall have a fit! Lord Legolas is here! “  

They had inadvertently rode into the main path and were now crossing a sparsely but yet inhabited area, so he laughed ruefully and sat back, still holding his wife’s waist possessively. He waved at the amused guards in the first circle of the perimeter without allowing Arod to slow down his pace. Legolas was now eager to reach the stronghold, and his heart began to beat wildly as he recognized familiar faces among the many elves that went out of their cottages to hail him as they passed. He found out that a lump had formed in his throat as his father’s fastness came to sight, and had to hold back tears when they finally reached there and the guards saluted him in greeting.  

Stable hands ran to meet them, yet Legolas only had eyes for the group of familiar figures hurrying out of the stronghold at a not so dignified pace.  

“Adar!” Sûlgalen was the first to arrive, and she clung to his neck as she had done since she was a little girl, hopping around him even before he could help Laerîniel off the horse.  

“Stop it, you silly elleth!” he pretended to chide her, but ended up holding her up and whirling her around, delighting in the sound of his daughter’s laughter. “I’m so glad that you are home, my child!” he sighed gratefully, embracing her tightly and reaching out to include his wife in his hold.  

“Is there room for anyone else?” an amused voice demanded by his side. He looked up from the place where he had so dearly longed to be to meet his mother’s understanding, loving eyes, and soon he was enveloped in caring, affectionate and comforting embraces. The Queen, Saelleth, Brethil, Luinil’s… He trembled as he pulled his sister-in-law’s thin, fragile frame against him.  

“I… I’m so sorry, Luinil.” He tried to keep down a harsh sob.  

“Hush, be at ease, Legolas,” she whispered against his chest. “We’re so glad that you are finally home!”  

“Where are...”  

“So here you are at last! You had us counting the old beech’s leaves, brother!” A booming voice cut his question short, and a moment after he was buried in his brother’s firm hug.  

Absorbed by his family, Legolas had hardly noticed the tumult around them as the stable hands and their master, the errand-runners, guards on leave and passing elves welcomed him. Now, as a heavy silence fell around them, he lifted his head from Bôrgalas’ embrace to see that the throng surrounding them parted to make room for the King, who strode towards them with a faint smile of satisfaction flickering in his stern, regal face. Legolas advanced to meet him and tried to go down to one knee, but Thranduil stopped him by clasping his arms.  

“We are so proud of you, my son, and so happy to have you returned to us!” he rumbled, pulling him tightly against his strong chest. “Lord Legolas is back after great deeds!” the King proclaimed then in his thunderous voice, a powerful arm over his youngest son’s shoulders, addressing the gathering elves. “Tomorrow we shall feast in the sward. But, let us all drink to him tonight!” He gestured then at the Great Doors and two barrels of Dorwinion that had been laboriously brought up from the cellars by the butler and his assistants. Pleased by the happy cheer that greeted his words, Thranduil nodded and waved repeatedly to his people, inviting them to join in celebration, before finally steering his family inside.  

“I thought that we could have dinner right now, so you could then retire to your chambers freely. What do you say, Legolas?” the Queen asked him as they all entered the palace.  

He shrugged, and nodded to his naneth. He was being almost hauled along the wide corridors, trying to keep up with his father’s strides, with Laerîniel hanging from his arm and the rest of his family on tow, all chattering excitedly among them. Every Elf they met stopped to greet him, and Legolas was beginning to feel overwhelmed. He had to concede that, were he and Laerîniel allowed to their chambers at that moment, not even the news of Sauron’s return would serve to drag them out before morning.  

They eventually reached the family’s dining room, where Mallereg was already waiting for them, leaning on a crutch and with a brave smile on his wan face.  

“Good to have you back home, Legolas!” he whispered, clasping his uncle’s arms in welcome. “Your ladies were beginning to fret,” he added with a grin, as they all took their places around the huge table and servants brought the meal.  

“A Dwarf in Caras Galadhon? I would have loved to see the look in Lord Celeborn’s face!” Brethil let escape an amused chuckle and sat back on the armchair, enjoying the warmth of the flames after a pleasant dinner. They were all gathered by the fire, listening to Legolas’ adventures and savouring a last goblet of wine.  

“My kinsman carefully considers each decision, and rarely allows his temper get the best of him,” Thranduil grunted in response. “Although I doubt that he accepted the Dwarf freely, but rather at his wife’s insistence…” he added with an undisguised scowl.  

“And that’s why he is called the Wise, isn’t it, my lord?” The Queen’s serene voice could not hide her amusement, as she let her hand run lightly along Thranduil’s face.  

“Most assuredly,” he admitted amidst the general amusement, capturing the roaming hand and kissing it softly. A servant chose that moment to quietly enter the family dining room.  

“My lord,” he bowed respectfully to the king. He then nodded quizzically to Legolas and showed him a heavy bundle. Following the prince’s silent directions, he left it by the door and disappeared in the same unobtrusive manner.  

“By your leave,” Legolas addressed his father, disentangling himself from Laerîniel’s embrace. He walked to the door and bent down, handling the pack for a while, keeping its contents from his family’s curious looks. After some rummaging, he walked back to the fireplace and went down to one knee before his father.  

“These I wore at Dagorlad, Your Majesty,” he said formally, presenting Thranduil with the rounded shield and the helm chosen from the armoury of the King of Rohan in Edoras. “I fought there with the armies of Middle-earth, under a foreign banner but in the name of my King and the Woodland Realm.” He paused briefly to clear his voice, and then lifted his eyes to his father. “Please, my lord, do me the honour of receiving them, as a token of respect,” he finished in a firmer voice, meeting his father’s unwavering gaze expectantly.  

“We accept your offering, Lord Legolas,” Thranduil said sternly, sitting in his armchair as regally as if he were upon his carved throne in the Great Hall, and he took the pieces of armour with a solemn nod. He cast a severe look around as if to make sure that his words had made the intended impression, and then continued on. “We are very proud that the Woodland Realm was again present when the Shadow fell. You have honoured our House and our Realm. Stand up, my son,” Thranduil said affectionately, a pleased smile upon his noble face. “Lord Brethil shall see to it that they are set upon display in the Great Hall,” he declared, addressing his secretary.  

“As you command, Your Majesty. They shall fit splendidly beside King Oropher’s spear and your own bow,” Brethil nodded, receiving the items from the King’s hands and passing on the helm to Bôrgalas at his silent gesture.  

“I wouldn’t say that Rohan’s blacksmithing has been much improved in three ennin,” the crown prince commented dryly, turning the helm in his hands. “I am glad that we do not depend upon them for our weaponry.”  

“Yet, it is a fine work, and suitable for its purpose,” Legolas objected as he brought the pack to his seat beside his wife and began searching in it, slightly annoyed by his brother’s contemptuous remark. “I hope that you find this worth of your approval, brother,” he added, handing him a cloth-wrapped parcel. He offered similar bundles to Brethil, Mallereg and Thranduil, and smiled knowingly at their amazed gasps. Mumakil-tusk hilted knives and daggers had become a prized gift in Minas Tirith after the war. The talented craftsmen of the fifth circle of the city had developed a thriving business by offering a wide choice of carvings to enhance the exotic ivory hilts of these already famed, well-balanced weapons.  

“Worth indeed,” Bôrgalas laughed, weighing the dagger in his experienced hand while Thranduil and Brethil admired the handicraft of their own blades. Thranduil’s device -a slender beech crowned by a winged moon- stood out exquisitely thanks to a fine, mithril inlaid work.   

“And these are for the ladies,” Legolas added with a courteous bow, handing more carefully enveloped parcels to his mother, his wife, his daughter, Luinil, Saelleth and Brethil’s wife. “They are no match for our spring wreaths,” he warned, resting an arm over his wife’s shoulders as she untied the ribbons and opened up her bundle. “Yet, I hope, they are a good substitute until the alfirin blossoms,” he smiled, enjoying the expression in his daughter’s face, and her delighted squeal, as she held up an exquisite necklace made out of pearls and coral.  

“It’s so beautiful, Adar! What is this?”  

“It is made out of sea-creatures,” he answered as he helped an equally delighted Laerîniel put hers around her slender neck. “The Prince of Dol Amroth, who rules a city not far from the ruins of Edhellond, says that his people dive very deep into the sea to gather them.”  

“It is wonderful, Legolas, but you needed not bother,” his mother said with a warm smile. “It is enough to have you back home.”  Luinil, Saelleth and Brethil’s wife agreed wholeheartedly, exchanging appreciative comments as they admired their own and each other’s.   

“By your leave, my lord…” Mallereg had sat in silence for most of the night, and now he was getting up from his chair with some difficulty, fighting to mask the pain his injured leg still caused him.  

“Go, child,” Thranduil dismissed him with a concerned smile. “You must be tired, this is your first day up and about, I’m told...”  

“Not exactly, Grandfather,” the prince observed softly after he wished the ladies goodnight. “I walked all the way to the Chief Commander’s office and back the other day,” he said, casting a hurt, almost pleading look to his adar, who deliberately eluded his gaze.  

Mallereg shrugged sadly and made for the door. “Welcome home, Uncle, and many thanks,” he said with a pained sigh, and gently pressed Legolas’ shoulder as he walked past him.  

“We’ll try that knife tomorrow,” Legolas said to his nephew’s retreating back, cringing at the way Mallereg tried to disguise his pronounced limp. He caught the reproachful look that Luinil shot her husband but before he could ask, Brethil nodded to his wife and stood up, bowing to the King.  

“We should be going too, my lord.” It was the signal for everybody to take their leaves, and the King and the Queen stood to bid their guests goodbye. Goodnights were still resonating in the corridor as Legolas closed the door to his and Laerîniel’s chambers behind him.  

“What’s wrong between Bôrgalas and…” he began, but Laerîniel’s mouth sealed his in a demanding kiss and he surrendered gladly, following her to their bed and into frenzied, passionate lovemaking.  

Later that night Legolas awoke to the sound of soft whimpers. It took him some moments to realize where he was, but the warm body of his wife pressing against his soon brought back awareness. Her limbs were firmly entwined in his, like those vines that threaded themselves around some trees. “Until they suffocate them,” he thought half-asleep, feeling the way she pushed against him in her slumber, as if she tried to imprint herself upon his skin with an urgency that was not that of desire but rather of despair.  

Blinking away the last threads of sleep, Legolas found out with surprise that his eyes were wet with tears, and he lifted a hand to trace the salty trails. He suddenly remembered the deafening roll of unknown waters and the piercing shrills of the seagulls invading his dreams, and he had to conclude that the sobs that had awakened him had been his.  

He buried his face on Laerîniel’s silky mane and inhaled deeply, delighting in her familiar scent and willing his heart to calm down its deafening pounding.  

“Where were you going?” He felt her soft breath and the silky touch of her lips on his chest, and he held her even closer.  

“Nowhere my Sûlaer; I’m here,” he whispered gently in her hair.  

“You were far away in your dreams, Calenben,” she mumbled against his skin. “You were walking in a strange land and you were calling my name…”  

Legolas closed his eyes as more pieces of his dream returned to him. He had been walking in a deserted, treeless land, as tempting waves broke endlessly at his feet. He had called desperately to her, but only the seagulls answered him.  

“It was only a bad dream, my love.” He tried to sound reassuring, but could not hold back a shiver.  

“You’re not leaving me anymore,” she informed him in a sleepy voice.  

“Not ever,” he promised, his voice raspy with emotion, stroking her back and tightening his hold, feeling how she moved against him, adjusting to the welcoming bends of his body. “You’ll always be by mi side,” he added quietly.  

“I’ll hold you to that,” she nodded, and satisfied with his words, she curled up and fell asleep again.  

Legolas let his hands roam her beloved wife’s body, caressing her soft skin, holding on to her as if she were his salvation. “Much like Samwise to the sides of his Lórien boat,” he thought, amused in spite of himself as that particular memory came unbidden to his mind; no doubt aroused by the thunder of waters again resounding in his ears.  

He clung desperately to his wife, entrusting himself to her steady faer, knowing that she would not let him drown or drift too far away. Guided by her calm breathing, he finally allowed himself to follow the path of dreams, sure that she would be there to keep him afloat.  

TBC

Thalarîn: (steady crowned-lady) Mallereg’s mare. As it was a present from Thalaûr, the prince thought it funny to give her a name after the donor’s.

Amon Tirith (the hill of guard) This place is my invention

Cail-en-ernil: (The Prince’s Fence).  A Cail is “a fence of spikes and sharp stakes.” The place where Bôrgalas’ youngest son died protecting the settlers. My invention, too.

Legolas’ armour. “Helms they chose, and round shields, too…” TTT, “The King of the Golden Hall”

Thranduil’s device.  My invention. The winged moon was on Thingol’s emblem, and it made sense to me that Oropher would have assumed a reminder of Doriath in his coat of arms.  

* Galadriel’s words to Legolas as conveyed by Gandalf, in TTT, “The White Rider”

A brief who’s who:  

Laeriniel is Legolas’ wife. He calls her Sûlaer.                                       

Sûlgalen is their daughter

Bôrgalas  is Legolas’ elder brother

Prestolon is the Herdir Laegrim, the chief of the settlements’ council

Luinil is Bôrgalas’ wife

Mallereg is Luinil and Bôrgalas’ eldest son

Borgil was their youngest son. He died in the Battle Under the Trees, defending the Ford, now called Cail- en- ernil, the Prince’s Fence.

Thalaûr is Mallereg’s keeper

Camath-en-aran, The king's hands. A group of warriors who carry out special missions for Thranduil.

Brethil is Thranduil’s secretary

Belmagor is Legolas’ second in the Home Guard

A brief summary: A sea longing-stricken Legolas has just returned to Lasgalen after the War of the Ring, to find a realm devastated by fire and loss.

A brief A/N: What can I say? I am not one to leave things unfinished, so I'll go and inflict this upon you since it took so much effort, and not only from my part. Thanks to Redheredh for her kind help and patience. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 6. Autumn skirmishes

“Lord Bôrgalas is currently engaged in a meeting, Lord Legolas, he cannot receive you…”

“I shall wait here until he is finished, then…”

“You should have warned me in advance. Maybe I could fix an appointment for you…”

“I shall see my brother this morning, Maentêw, thank you,” Legolas insisted pointedly, meeting the stern aide’s glowering unflinchingly. They locked eyes for a moment and then Bôrgalas’ assistant lowered his with obvious reluctance.

“Let me see what can be done,” he grunted disapprovingly. “It would have saved us both the inconvenience if you had just asked for an appointment,” he grumbled while Legolas sat with an air of defiance and braced for the wait, mentally rehearsing the points he intended to discuss with his brother. 

In the few days that had passed since his arrival he had spent most of his time reacquainting himself with his various duties, from the settlements’ welfare to the ordering of the Home Guard. The food shortage was plain, despite the efforts made by the hunters’ parties deployed beyond the Anduin under the comand of his son-in-law. The recovery of the devastated areas and the settlements was a matter of serious concern, not to mention the efforts to keep the Men of Dale and the Dwarves from exceeding their allotted hunting quotas on the northern marches. All had been taken care of in his absence with the efficiency that was usual in Thranduil’s court, he had discovered without surprise. “Take your time,” his father’s secretary had told him when Legolas showed up in his office the day after his arrival. “Take some rest and get used to being back home…”

And he could do with the time indeed. The extent of loss the forest had suffered was almost overwhelming; and it weighed on his already troubled faer adding to the feeling of estrangement caused by the ever-present sea longing, no matter how hard he tried to deny it. 

“What is the purpose of your urgent meeting, Lord Legolas?” He looked up to meet his brother’s aide stern face.

“I want to discuss the current state of the Home Guard,” he answered curtly.

That was not exactly the truth, he thought, drumming his fingers on the carved arm of the chair. Actually, he wanted to confront his brother and learn the reasons behind the aloofness that he kept in their exchanges. His brother had welcomed him home, but as Commander of the king’s troops he was yet to share information with him. Bôrgalas had neither called him to council nor fully updated him on the military situation, and Legolas was beginning to feel truly annoyed by that state of affairs.

But that was not the only reason for his restlessness.

He had stopped asking for friends and acquaintances, fearing the almost unfailing answer -“He fell in the Cail”- he had come to expect. He grieved for those friends that were there no more and, somewhere deep inside him, something resembling guilt tinged his pain.

And the sea-longing made it worse, even if he stubbornly denied the thunder that rolled relentlessly in his ears, convincing himself that Thranduil’s power and the bond that tied him to Laerîniel were enough to keep the sea-longing at bay forever. He tried to focus on the needs of his people, only to find himself constantly summoned by a song that was not the forest’s, to a land only glimpsed in dreams. 

“Legolas! Good to see you home and hale, after such great deeds! We are so proud of you!” A warm voice coming from the door to Borgalas’ office, now open brought him from his dark thoughts.

“I am glad to see you too, Pador!” He stood and embraced the warden tightly. He had served for a time under Pador’s command and he owed most of his forest knowledge to that patient, skilled teacher.

“Come to see me when you are finished here,” the warden patted his arm with affection. “Do not make the Crown Prince wait, he is not in his best mood today…” he added with a friendly wink. Legolas saw that Bôrgalas was leaning on the doorframe, watching them with an indefinable look upon his face.

 “Come in, brother,” he said with a welcoming nod of his head. He sat down on a carved chair at Bôrgalas’ desk while his brother walked to his aide’s and exchanged some quick words with him.

“What can I do for you, Legolas?” he inquired quite formally once he was back in his office, taking seat at the other side of the table and looking at him with impassive, grey eyes.

“I have resumed my duties, as you already know,” Legolas began abruptly, “and I thought it was about time you enlightened me about the military situation in the realm.” As a young child, Legolas had learnt that blunt honesty always worked with Bôrgalas. His brother was studying him calmly, an eyebrow lifted elegantly in puzzlement.

“The Home Guard is in shreds, and I cannot reorganize it since most of my warriors are abroad under the orders of your second-in-command,” Legolas explained. “I want to know what you expect of us presently, and what are your plans for the future. And I would like to know what is going on in the west, as well as in the south, and how do you intend to manage the situation…If I am to be of any assistance to you, that is it,” he added defiantly. He felt relieved as soon as he finished speaking.

“If I remember well,” Bôrgalas started in a soft voice that hardly masked a mounting irritation, “-and I must, since I am the Commander and the Crown Prince, and I am supposed to know those things- you are also the one in charge of the dealings with the settlements…”

“…A duty Brethil seems to have undertaken quite efficiently,” Legolas cut in, plainly irritated by his brother’s undisguised sarcasm. “Prestolon has just told me that he has been meting regularly with both Brethil and the Steward to attend the needs of the settlers. I was not informed that Farother’s deliveries were delayed, but you took measures regarding that matter…and I have just learned that the Commander himself has recently inspected and approved the security of the temporary settlements…”

“Maentêw has the reports; I shall see to it that you receive those that are of your interest.” Bôrgalas was now eluding his gaze, and that enraged Legolas. “And do not worry about your son-in-law and his hunters. Before your arrival I sent Hîrvegil west with part of your warriors to keep a closer watch upon them,” his brother added with a grimace.

“What about the rest?” At his brother’s questioning glance, Legolas unleashed all his frustration. “I am tired of asking for information and feeling as if I were prying, or prodding a dormant wound! I am one of the King’s counselors, and yours, too!”

“Excuse me if I don’t spend time with you in Naneth’s garden, listening to your tales and savouring Adar’s Dorwinion,” the crown prince retorted in a low, harsh voice. “As you have pointed out, there are many fronts open; I don’t grudge you the time it is taking you to adjust to your routine, but do not blame me for that, Legolas! There are more reports about our situation than you could care reading, and, now that you mention it, I would expect that you had by now!”

“And the south? What of those orcs regrouping in the Mountains? Why demoting Mallereg and sending Hîrvegil to the west instead of attacking while they are weak? You’re rendering us vulnerable there, Bôrgalas, and..” 

“Now you dare question my decisions?” Bôrgalas was quickly losing his temper, Legolas could tell by the way his eyes narrowed and his voice became harsher. His brother picked up something from his desk and began toying tensely with it.

“Brethil told me about the council in Midsummer’s Eve, and how Adar wanted that the orc’s dens in the Mountains were razed before the winter was ended; but you did not bother to ask me how things were in the south, even if I have been down there recently!”  It had irked Legolas to no end, to have been thusly ignored without explanation.

“I understand that you did not cross Lasgalen,” Bôrgalas said tightly. He stood up and began pacing his office in an attempt to calm down enough to keep their conversation in a polite tone.

“I met Celeborn’s guards at Amon Lanc and we exchanged news…” Legolas bent over the table and studied the object his brother had been holding, half-hidden behind the piles of reports that towered upon the desk. It was a beech-wood shafted, woodpecker-feather fletched target arrow with a rough inscription in Cirth.

“First Time” it read.

Legolas felt a lump in his throat. That was the arrow with which Borgil had defeated his father in a practice archery contest in what seemed ages ago and in fact had been only two sun-rounds.

“I have had four of the Camath-en-aran down there for three moons now.” Bôrgalas spoke from the hearth, his voice hoarse as he tried to keep his anger under control. “We have been keeping track of the orcs’ movements. And we have been carefully planning when and how to attack, given that, as Brethil told you, the King wants to get rid of this plague before the year is over. I doubted that you could have provided more useful information than what we already had; that’s why I did not ask for your judgment in the matter,” he added in a voice that was patronizing enough to exasperate Legolas.

“I am glad to hear that. May I hope that you shall let me know of your plans anytime soon?” Legolas did not bother to hide his sarcasm as he scowled at his brother.

“Of course, as soon as the King deems the moment ripe. Meanwhile, brother, you are welcome to release Brethil from the charge of meeting with Prestolon and the settlers. That used to be a privilege of yours that we would all like to see you retake…”

“I know what my duties are, Bôrgalas,” Legolas observed bitterly, standing up and making ready to leave. “Only, I have the strange feeling that you are keeping me at a distance –and I wondered why.”

“As I have told you, Legolas, I do not have the time -or the inclination- to sit and talk about what has happened. There are still many concerns ahead. Yet I am very grateful that you are willing to resume your duties so soon. All hands are needed now,” his brother said softly.

“Why don’t you tell Mallereg that, too? He could do with some reassurance, I’d say…”

“I am the Chief Commander.” Bôrgalas’ voice was icy now. “It is not for you to question how I deal with my officers.”

“I was just giving you some advice, brother, from one parent to another!” Legolas let his frustration flow freely at his brother’s inflexibility.

“I cannot afford being a parent now…” There was a weary, grieving tinge in Bôrgalas’ voice that Legolas did not recognize.

“I would say that you cannot afford losing another son, either,” he shot back callously.

A cold silence filled the room, as both brothers glared at each other.

“Is the message to Hîrvegil ready, Bôrgalas? The messenger is waiting.” Neither of them had heard Maentêw push the door open, and his calm voice startled them.

“I will finish it in a moment.” Bôrgalas dragged his gaze from his brother’s face as he answered his aide in a tight voice. “Will you excuse me now, Legolas?” he added, his face expressionless. Legolas nodded briefly and left without meeting Maentêw’s reproving glance.

He strode angrily across the bridge and to his office, cursing his brother’s stubbornness. Since his arrival he felt as if an invisible wall separated him from his family and his people. He dreaded the pained looks in their eyes whenever he asked about what had happened, and he had the feeling that, deep in their hearts, maybe even unbeknownst to themselves, they blamed him for not having been there. And there was the other thing that he kept hidden from everyone…

“Legolas! Maentêw sent this yesterday, after you left...” one of his aides pointed at a thick pile of parchments with a questioning glance the moment Legolas entered the shed that housed the Home Guard’s headquarters.

“The Commander is very generous,” he grunted bitterly. After all, Maentêw was a step beyond Bôrgalas, he thought wickedly, eyeing the parchment on top of the heap critically. Those were the reports on the state of the settlements he had just asked Bôrgalas about. He picked up the pile and walked to Penalag’s office. “Belmagor’s” he corrected himself ruthlessly, pushing open the door to his second-in-command’s office. ”Penalag is dead.”

“Care to give me a hand with this?” he asked, showing him the pile of reports with an apologetic smile. “But not here,” he said with a shudder as the officer nodded his agreement. “It’s not your fault,” he added hurriedly, seeing Belmagor wince.

Nothing was changed in Penalag’s office and Legolas found that disturbing. He recognized his oldest weapons, his desk, his quill, and his collection of carved flutes on the wooden shelf...Everything was the same, except that his best friend would not enter that office anymore, complaining in his booming voice about the new recruits, or the weather, or the weapons, or the healers.  Pain flared again and he suddenly found himself blinking back burning tears.

“It is too hard,” Legolas confessed in a hoarse voice, meeting Belmagor’s sympathetic look. “Let us go to my office.” They spent the whole day working through the reports and assessing the new needs for the defense of the settlements.

“We need to devise a new training system,” Belmagor concluded, sitting back on his chair and exhaling loudly.

“Do you think that we should arm and train the settlers?” Legolas inquired. He had been toying with the idea but he wanted to hear another opinion.

“We first need to get rid of those stray Orc hosts that still roam freely,” his second groaned with his characteristic bluntness. “You must urge Bôrgalas. He should have gathered a force and wiped them away when Mallereg came home with the news!” Legolas snorted and Belmagor cast him a questioning glance. “You already told him, did you?”

“And he did not appreciate my meddling…I have the feeling that you all resent my being here, Belmagor...” Legolas complained, pushing away the last reports with a scowl. He had the faint impression that he was whining, but the knowing look in his second’s face comforted him.

“You are wrong,” Belmagor told him reassuringly. “You are our captain and we have missed you sorely… Not that Borgil was a bad one, poor lad,” he continued with a sad smile. “But…we still find it hard to talk about what happened,” he said thoughtfully.

“That is what Bôrgalas said this morning,” Legolas agreed, beginning to pile the reports with a shrug.

“I can understand that. It will be long before he stops having nightmares about the Ford…” Belmagor sighed heavily and forced himself back to present. “This is what I believe. Sooner or later we must set out and get rid of those Orcs. Once that is achieved, most of the settlers will more likely return to a nomadic life…”

“You do not believe that they shall return to their settlements?” Legolas inquired in surprise.

“I don’t think so. At least not in Ûrtalf.” Legolas frowned. Ûrtalf was the wide plain at the other side of the Ford –the Cail-en-Ernil now; he corrected himself mentally- a place that had for long been the more heavily populated place after the stronghold. It used to be a secluded, safe area between the two rivers, densely forested and with plenty of game and water.  “You should go and have a look there, Legolas,” Belmagor added softly, seeing his incredulous stare.

“Prestolon is going to the Ford… the Cail, tomorrow… And he suggested that I should join him, when I met him this morning,” Legolas mused. He shook his head. “I think I’ll go with him,” he said, coming to a sudden decision. “If you are right, then there is no question that we need to train and arm the settlers. With a roaming population we cannot keep track of their whereabouts and protect them as we used to…”

“That is my point,” Belmagor said, rolling the maps and stacking them away. “We shall have to think of something else. And you could ask Mallereg to help us with that. He is very patient with the novices, and he surely needs some task to keep him distracted…”

“Are you considering asking for a new position, Belmagor? Captain of the Home Guard, perhaps?” Legolas asked good-naturedly and both laughed. “You are right,” he smiled, “and you have been a great help. I shall talk to Mallereg tonight.”

“And you will make your brother happy. It is good to have you home, Legolas,” he added, patting him affectionately before leaving the office. Legolas smiled, comforted by his second’s words. He finished tidying up his desk and put out the lamps before making his way calmly back home.

“Legolas!” He heard the call as he crossed the bridge. His nephew waved to him from the front yard of the stables, and Legolas hastened his pace to meet him. Mallereg’s limp was visibly pronounced, although he stubbornly refused to use a crutch.

“I have just seen your stallion,” he informed Legolas as he reached his side. “He is truly beautiful, sure-footed and pretty fast…”

“You surely did not ride him, with that wounded leg…”

“The healers said that I am fine…”

“I see...” Legolas joked, prodding his nephew’s injured thigh with his knee and smiling at his grunt. He extended an arm and supported the obstinate prince as he stumbled and limped, groaning in pain. “You are welcome to ride him as soon as the healers allow it,” he said pointedly, ignoring Mallereg’s glowering as he strove to keep up with Legolas’ pace. “Meanwhile, would you like to give me a hand? Routine paperwork and reorganizing the Home Guard training scheme, but...”

“Anything; I’m tired of doing nothing,” the younger prince nodded eagerly. “But, did you ask my adar?” he asked wit a hesitant look on his wan face.

“You are released from duty due to your wounds, if I heard rightly,” Legolas said reassuringly, slowing down his pace. “And all hands are needed now, as your adar kindly reminded me this morning,” he continued with a minute scowl as he remembered the circumstances. He greeted the guards at the Great Doors and led the way through the wide, torch lit entrance. “Let us tell him during dinner. He is not likely to object to such a reasonable proposal before the King,” he concluded with an encouraging grin, holding open the door that led to the family quarters while Mallereg limped painfully through it.

Legolas was right. Bôrgalas just shrugged briefly when his son bravely put forth Legolas’ suggestion, and the rest of the family agreed wholeheartedly that it was a great idea and a fitting task, in an attempt to ease off the tension between father and son. Dinner passed in a flow of mundane conversation that helped mask the meager fare, and everybody took their leaves as soon as they were finished.

“Pador awaited you this morning...” Laerîniel was combing her long hair and Legolas watched her distractedly, sitting on their bed with a concerned look in his eyes.

“I was not in the mood after my conversation with Bôrgalas…” He retold the incident to his wife. “I shall follow Prestolon’s suggestion and go to the Ford tomorrow,” he concluded. “What’s wrong with him?” he complained then, pulling his tunic over his head. “He is pushing Mallereg away most heartlessly. His son needs his support rather than his contempt…”

“That is something between them.” She didn’t turn to look at him. “Mallereg - and I - defied his orders and endangered his troops,” she admitted ruefully. “He has every right to be disappointed…although I disagree with the way he chose to express it.”

Legolas let escape an unconvinced groan. “There’s something else. I know him well, and it is not like himself to be so cold and distant,” he pondered, toying distractedly with his tunic.

“You are not yourself, either.” Suddenly she was kneeling on the bed behind him, her hands stroking his tense back, her silky mane spilling over his shoulders. He shivered slightly as he felt her breath in his ear, and turned to capture her tempting mouth.

“There are dark places and closed doors within you, my love, which I do not dare explore,” she whispered softly, embracing him and resting her head in the crook of his neck. “Bôrgalas has lost his child and he is fighting to overcome his grief. You, I don’t know what you have gone through, but I am ready to give you hope and peace until you are healed, Calenben. We have time now…“

Legolas silenced her with another deep kiss, and dragged her to his lap. Without letting go of her lips, he got rid of her nightdress and pulled her to the bed along with him, drowning in her to calm the voice that urged him to tell her about the growing sea-longing and the misery that threatened to overwhelm him. He was not ready to open up to her, not yet; Loss and grief still weighed heavily upon his family and his people. I cannot burden them with my worries, he decided tiredly, before slipping into a troubled slumber.

**

“You are coming too?” Next morning before dawn, Legolas was surprised to find Thalaûr awaiting him at the other side of the bridge.

“Bôrgalas…” 

“I see.”

“I don’t mind, Legolas,” the other reassured him with a half smile. “In fact I am grateful. I am quite out of place at home, and I was considering asking for a post in the Home Guard. After all, you are taking in Mallereg, if I heard rightly?” he joked as they both mounted to join Prestolon, who was coming their way.

“The Chief Commander doubts the safety of his territory?” Prestolon’s acerbic remarks were more often than not directed at Bôrgalas, and Thalaûr’s presence offered him a welcome opportunity.

“Let’s go.” Legolas saw Thalaûr flinch and he cut the guard’s rejoinder quickly. “It is the Home Guard’s territory, and the Commander trusts us wholly.” He urged Arod on and did not wait for the other two to join him as he took the trail that led to the Elf Path and the Ford.

They rode without pause for most of the morning under a freezing rain. The trees were completely naked there, and the path was covered in a wet, rotting carpet of leaves.

Nothing of what he had seen across Rohan or Gondor had prepared Legolas for the vision that greeted him as they crowned the small hill that oversaw the way to the Ford. To their side of the river the trees stood proudly, bereft but alive, over the sea of leaves and mud that was quickly forming after the first rains.

On the other bank, and spreading beyond the reach of their elven sight, ashen, skeletal, burnt fingers reached out towards the sky in vain call. Dead trees swung in a macabre, bony dance under the merciless winds until they silently tumbled down to rest; joining the ever-growing bed of tree-corpses that covered the ground. The destruction across Ûrtalf was so thorough that Legolas could not hold back a pained shout.

They crossed the ford in silence.  The tall, white-limbed poplars that once flanked and shaded the passage that ascended from the southern bank had disappeared; the earth showed its colorless bones there. They led their horses carefully, up the destroyed trail encased between tall cliffs and into the wide, desolate plain.

What had been a forested, populated and thriving land was now a barren waste. Here and there the remains of a cottage or a corral could be distinguished among the burnt, twisted stumps that still stood. Thalaûr guided his horse to a mound that stuck out to their left, and Legolas followed him in silence.

“We buried them here.” The guard’s voice was surprisingly steady. They both dismounted and let their horses free. Unnerved by the bleak surroundings and the woeful laments of the rocks, though, the steeds chose to remain by their masters.

“What happened, Thalaûr?” Legolas asked hoarsely, studying the size of the mound, and the wide, blackened stretch of ground that extended at the other side of the path that led to the Ford. Until now, he had just received blank stares and uncomfortable silences for an answer.

“An army was sighted advancing from the south western side of the forest, while we were engaged in the east fighting hordes issued from those besieging the Mountain and Lake Town. They were too many, swarming the land; we could hardly hold them at bay. Had Erebor fallen, they would have swept us away,” the guard said in a dark, ominous voice.

“The King and Mallereg kept the eastern flank and Bôrgalas marched to meet this new threat,” Thalaûr continued in a softer voice. “Borgil led his rearguard and was charged with the safety of the settlements, forcing them to retire to the ford and the stronghold. The settlers deemed it safer out here than in the stronghold, and they might have been proved right but for this attacking force.” He waved around wordlessly. The wind blew unhindered across the plain, whipping at their hair and cloaks almost mockingly. Prestolon was inspecting the ground to their right; a deeply blackened area where Legolas suspected orcs’ corpses had been burnt after the battle.

“The force that was coming from the south split up in two groups.” Thalaûr forced himself to continue his tale. “One advanced to engage Bôrgalas while the other traveled west to avoid the clash, and then turned again east, gaining the back of Bôrgalas’ army. Bôrgalas’ scouts spotted them in time and sent word to Borgil, with the order to draw back and hasten the evacuation of the settlements. Borgil sent a small part of his warriors to join his father’s forces and hurried back to the Ford with most of the Home Guard. He hoped to complete the evacuation of the area and retreat to the stronghold, where he could make a long stand. Unfortunately, the missing orc army had joined a bigger one descended from the Misty Mountains. They put the forest to fire, cutting Bôrgalas’ retreat and preventing him from sending reinforcements, and then fell upon Ûrtalf in all haste.”

Legolas shook his head, too grieved for words. He could picture his brother’s despair when he realized that he had been cut from his son’s host.

“We were at the other side of Amon Tirith when a messenger arrived… Apparently Borgil had also sent word to the King, but your father was deeply engaged in battle north of the stronghold and the messengers reached him too late.” Thalaûr seemed quite reluctant now. “We were caught in a deadlock with a vicious host, but when word of Borgil’s grim situation reached us Mallereg launched a desperate attack and we succeeded in driving the bulk of the orc host into the swamps. He let a considerable force there to deal with the survivors, with orders to join us as soon as it was deemed safe, and with the numbers we could gather we headed north at all speed. We had to leave our horses behind when we reached the Enchanted River, and crossing it made us lose some precious time. The dark fumes clouded the sun, but the din was quieting down, until only the cracking of flames could be heard.” Thalaûr’s firm voice broke then. “No one was alive when we finally arrived here,” he whispered, horror still clear in his voice.

But Legolas had to know.

“Did you… Did Mallereg find...”

“Yes.” Thalaûr made a great effort to control his voice. “He was almost unrecognizable, but he was still holding that knife that Bôrgalas gave him…”

It was clear that the guard would not say anymore, and Legolas needed no other details. The pain seared him from inside, threatening to tear him apart as he pictured his serious, dutiful younger nephew lying burnt and broken somewhere in that ghastly battlefield; awaiting a help that had never reached him. He fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the horror of it all.

“I should have been here,” he wailed hoarsely, fighting the sobs that choked him. “I should have been here!”

“And we would be mourning you too,” Prestolon’s calm voice broke through Legolas’ despair. The silvan elf had joined them quietly. “You were needed elsewhere, as I’ve understood…”

“My friends died here, Prestolon! They were my warriors, this was my command...”

“And Borgil assumed it with all dignity,” the Silvan leader squatted beside him and put a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Do not deny them the honour and the praise that they earned with their sacrifice, Legolas. Borgil died doing what he had been born and raised to do –protecting his forest and his people…”

“But...”

“I was here when they arrived, and he was well aware of what he was facing. He made sure that all the settlers had been evacuated and then came to meet me. ‘We are outnumbered one to five, but they will not pass, Master Prestolon,’ he told me. ‘We will defend the Ford with our lives. Go now. I entrust you with the safety of our people.’ Prestolon sighed sadly. “They won the war here, Legolas, and they saved the rest of us.”

“Bôrgalas...”

“Your brother feels personally accountable for every life this war has claimed,” Prestolon said flatly, standing up and patting Legolas’ shoulder. “He did not fail, and heavy as his losses were, they served to prevent many more; yet he feels that he could have done better. Your father was the same when he returned from the war in Mordor…” he remembered. “I hope that Bôrgalas will overcome his self-doubt soon. We need to retake the south and ensure the safety of the lands to the west. I don’t believe that anybody will ever return to live here, and long years must pass before the land is healed,” he said, waving around gloomily. And with that he mounted and rode into the desolate field, stopping from time to time to inspect a standing trunk or test the consistency of the ground.

Legolas knelt there; listening to the mourning rocks, fighting to find a ray of hope in that bleak, dreadful landscape that had once been full of life and beautiful voices. Noon was long past when Prestolon put an end to his inspection and rode back to them.

“Let us go, Legolas...” He met Thalaûr’s sad glance and then placed both hands on a dismal patch of grass on the side of the mound.

“May you walk forever on the banks of clear, singing waters; followed by the voices of the birds calling from the branches of the trees you so much loved…” he whispered, choking on the words of the ancient blessing as he cast an anguished look at the desolate waste around them.

“And may your faer find repose beyond the dividing waters, under the shade of mighty beeches that do not die,” Thalaûr serenely ended it for him, offering a helping hand and hauling him up on his feet. “We shall not find peace here,” the guard added quietly. Legolas nodded and followed him without looking back. They rode in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

It was getting dark when they reached the stronghold. Legolas waved his two companions goodbye and, following a sudden impulse, he decided to check on his office. Before he got there a soft, unmistakable sound reached his ears. He dismounted swiftly, instructing his steed to wait for him as he walked to the training grounds and straight to the archery range.

A tall figure stood there in the gathering dusk, but Legolas needed no light to recognize the song of his brother’s bow. 

“I take it that your burns do not bother you any longer,” he said casually, jumping over the fence and approaching the silent archer. On the ride home Legolas had had time to ponder some facts that had worried him. Now he was sure that the nasty scars he had glimpsed on Bôrgalas’ hands and arms were burns, and he guessed that he had got them in a vain attempt to clear a path through the fire to run to his son’s succour. 

But he had also recognized what hid behind his brother’s apparent coldness, and he was eager to make things clear between them.

Bôrgalas did not acknowledge his presence, pretending a concentration that he was far from needing -even in that growing darkness- since he had been massacring that same target for years now, and he could hit the mark with his eyes closed. Undaunted, Legolas walked up to stand before another target and then shot.

The deep voice of the mighty bow of the Galadhrim never failed to stir up curiosity even among those less interested in the noble art of archery; and Bôrgalas was a passionate archer even for Wood-elven standards. He cast a sidelong glance to his younger brother and turned then his attention to the great bow with undisguised curiosity.

“I went to the Cail-en-Ernil today,” Legolas said, his eyes fixed on the mark. His brother did not answer, and they shot in silence for a while.

“Prestolon told me what Borgil did there,” Legolas continued shooting with apparent calm. “You must be very proud of him…” Not a muscle twitched in Bôrgalas’ face, even if Legolas could have sworn that he had heard a sharp intake. But his brother’s arrows still met the mark with the same steady efficiency. They had been playing that game for almost an age, though, and Legolas knew how to press his advantage.

“Maybe you blame yourself for what happened?” he ventured, pretending innocence. Bôrgalas kept firing with a firm hand and stubborn concentration. “Mallereg, then? You blame Mallereg for what happened at the Ford, that’s why you spurn him?” That earned Legolas some sort of reaction.

“No one is to blame for what happened at the Ford,” his brother finally grunted through clenched teeth. “He was doing his duty, we all were!” Bôrgalas remarked angrily, hoping to put an end to that conversation.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Legolas answered airily, taking advantage of the opening to state his point. He shot two arrows at the same time with maddening flippancy. “I had the strange feeling that you blamed me for it, and that would be most unfair,” he said then lightly, “since I was doing my duty, too...” This time Legolas’ arrows hit truer than he had expected. He gasped in surprise when his brother dropped bow and quiver and charged against him.

“Your duty?” Bôrgalas pushed him violently against one of the trees that lined the range. Legolas groaned, feeling the air escaping his lungs as he hit the trunk and his quiver pressed against his back. “Was it your duty to roam the lands of the south while your people needed you?” Bôrgalas roared angrily, holding Legolas by the front of his tunic and shaking him. “While the Shadow tightened its grip upon the forest and the realm you swore to protect?”

“I was serving Lasgalen, Bôrgalas!” Legolas suspected that his brother blamed him for not having been there, but the unfairness of his accusation, his narrow view of what that war had meant for all of Middle-earth enraged him. “What do you know of the lands beyond the forest? Had we not...”

“Had you not what?” his brother slammed him against the tree again, boiling in anger and something else that Legolas did not bother to identify. “Tell me, brother, what did you do? Did you ease the path of the Ring-bearer to Mordor? Did you kill that creature Gollum that caused the death of several of your warriors last year? What did you do that could not have been done by someone else? Perhaps by someone who did not have a high responsibility in his realm?”    

“It would have been cowardice to abandon them…” Bôrgalas’ recrimination had cut deeply, and Legolas was frantically defending himself now.

“I disagree.” Bôrgalas’ voice had become low and menacing, his breathing ragged as he closed the distance between them, until their faces almost touched. “It would have been bravery to acknowledge that you had a greater responsibility towards your people! It would have been bravery to step aside to allow some other take part in that adventure… You got to Lórien, Legolas; any of Celeborn’s guards could have assumed your place from there onwards, while you rode home!”

“I did what I considered best…”

“And I can respect that; and yet, you were wrong…”

“You do not understand…” Legolas argued almost pleadingly now. He could not believe that he was defending his choice, after all that had been achieved –and the price he would still have to pay for it. His brother pierced him with a penetrating glance.

“No, I do not understand, and I shall not even try to, Legolas,” he sighed tiredly, relaxing his hold on Legolas’ tunic and then releasing him. “Your place was here, and that is all that matters. Your people needed you; I needed you, and you failed us…” he added dejectedly. “So don’t ask me to forgive you.” Bôrgalas stepped aside and sat down on the ground, leaning against the trunk, breathing heavily and closing his eyes.

Legolas stood by his side, stunned by that last admission. “I needed you.” Prestolon’s words came to his mind then. “Your brother feels personally accountable for every life this war has claimed.” All of a sudden, he felt pity overwhelming him.

“I am sorry that I was not here to share this burden with you, brother,” he whispered softly, crouching by his side and placing a tentative hand upon Bôrgalas’ shoulder. “I shall not ask for your forgiveness, for I do not consider that I did anything reprehensible,” he added, sitting beside him. “But I wouldn’t lose your friendship...” he pleaded in a broken voice. His brother did not move, but neither rejected his comforting hand.

“I suppose… that I can get to grant you that…eventually,” Bôrgalas finally grunted, without opening his eyes. They remained there for a while, enveloped in a sad silence until Bôrgalas tilted his head and studied his younger brother.

“In the meantime,” he asked in his deep, powerful voice, “Do you think that I could try that new bow of yours, little brother?”  

Legolas chuckled quietly as he jumped to his feet, extending his hand to haul his brother up. “Of course! Let us see if you manage to draw…”

“Draw? Who taught you how to draw, Legolas?”

“Ah, but this is no common bow, my brother…” he poked at him. Bôrgalas’ half smile was enough for Legolas to regain some hope that all wounds –the forest’s, his family’s, even his own- might finally come to heal.

TBC

Chapter 7. Hidden Truths.

“I still know not what to do of this news. I find it hard to believe…” Thranduil poured wine and passed the goblets around for his sons and his grandson, who was fully recovered from his wounds but had yet to regain his command. They had sat in council for the whole day, but they kept discussing the presence of Men in Orc’s patrols while they awaited the ladies in the family dining room.

“Mallereg’s scouts spotted them as well,” Bôrgalas said while the rest drank in silence. ”Men are dealing with Orc hosts, be it for one purpose or another. For all we know, they could even come from well down south,” the crown prince said in annoyance.

Legolas watched the play of the flames in the hearth, trying not to get dragged into a conversation that would surely end up in a discussion. The day had been long, and they were all tired and tense. Since news of increased attacks upon their hunters’ patrols had reached the stronghold many days ago, long meetings had been the rule. Sûlgalen had returned to her settlement, to help look after the wounded hunters under her husband’s command, and the King had summoned his advisors and had studied battle plans with all of them.

“Are you suggesting that even the Men of Rohan would ally themselves with…Orcs?”Thranduil sounded a tad exasperated, Legolas noticed.

This morning the king had convened his war council since an early hour, and they had been studying the latest plans with two of the four Camath who had been sent south in secrecy for the past moons.  Bôrgalas had been unusually edgy during the debates, and he had discussed every proposed action to the slightest detail. And yet Legolas could not fault him. It was Bôrgalas’ responsibility to ensure that battle plans were as accurate and safe for the troops as possible. The tension between his brother and himself had eased off considerably since that talk in the archery range about a moon ago. That also meant that now Legolas was fully aware of the change war had wrought in his brother’s usually more self-assured demeanour, and of the reasons behind it.

“Of course I am not suggesting a formal alliance, Adar,” Bôrgalas shook his head impatiently. “But it would not surprise me if some of the most disfavoured subjects of the King of Rohan decided to recover their lost homelands and moved back north. Having stray Orc hosts harassing us would be useful for them in that case…” Legolas sighed softly and met Mallereg’s equally exasperated glance. Everything was settled now. It was a matter of hours before the king would finally announce the impending campaign. The winter was in and the scattered Orc’s hosts would be pressed for food by now, and thus an easy prey. Before the winter was over -Thranduil hoped- that menace would have been definitely wiped out of the forest and the surrounding lands. There was little point in discussing yet again who those Men were –or were not.

“The Men of Rohan moved to the grasslands long time ago in their reckoning, Bôrgalas, to a land granted to them by the Stewards of Gondor,” Legolas said, trying to sound conciliatory as he joined his brother and father by the fireside. “The North is no longer their home, except in songs…”

“And you are so sure, after riding with them for a few moons…” Bôrgalas sounded sarcastic. “Men are strange people, anyway, if they can forget the lands of their birth after a few ennin…”

“We all agree in that.” Thranduil cut in, seeing Legolas’ frown. “But they are most likely survivors of Sauron’s armies, and as such, too dangerous to be allowed to roam our lands freely. Now, let us change subject,” he settled the discussion firmly with a warning look at his two sons as the door opened and the queen entered, followed by Saelleth and the two princesses.  “We are ready for dinner, my ladies, but would you like a cup of wine first?” he asked courteously, greeting them with a warm smile and taking his queen’s hand gallantly.

“Not for me, my lord,” Gaildineth said, smiling at her children and allowing Thranduil to lead her to her seat at the table. The rest followed, exchanging pleasant greetings. “At this point I find that I am more hungry that thirsty,” she added, waving to one of the servants.

Legolas kissed his wife briefly and sat by her side, holding her hand. The queen and her ladies had been very busy at their looms in the last days, as most of the women in the stronghold, weaving restlessly to provide more fabric for new cloaks for the warriors. He longed to spend more time with her, and he treasured every spare moment in her company for the peace she brought to his troubled faer.

His dreams bothered him more each passing day, as the sea-longing grew stronger, but still he refused to speak of it to anyone, telling himself that it was not yet the time. He knew she had caught him looking up at the trees, straining to hear a voice that now eluded him more often than not. And she would wait patiently by his side as he stood with a dreamy, lost look upon his eyes, looking far away to a distant horizon. She never asked, although he could read the  concern in her clear eyes as she clung to his arm casually or just hugged him for no apparent reason. He was grateful for her steady support, but still he feared to tell her; almost as much as he feared his dreams. So he tried to bury the sea-song deep inside and listen not to its endless chant, concentrating on duty instead,  hoping against hope that, unheeded, it would recede. 

He sat in silence for most of the dinner, fighting the images that assailed him. The conversation went from food supplies to the weather, to the progress at the looms, and everyone seemed relaxed.

“By your leave, Adar?” Right after dessert, Luinil stood up, fatigue clear upon her face. Saelleth followed her without a word, while the rest remained at the table sharing tales for a bit longer.

“They are rebuilding at astonishing speed.” Bôrgalas was recounting some stories of his last visit to Dale and the Mountain. “But they would be more careful with what they use if they had to wait for the mountains to grow strong before hacking and hewing them… Our losses are far worse than theirs…” he said a bit resentfully.

“I wouldn’t say that,“ Legolas couldn’t refrain from chiming in. “You should have seen the desolation in Rohan and in Gondor; the grazing lands and homesteads burnt, the herds killed and decimated, the orchards devastated… this winter is going to be very hard on everyone in Middle-earth…”

“At least this side of the Misty Mountains,” Thranduil observed sharply. “I have not heard that the war ever got beyond the Anduin…or inside Lórien. Our human and dwarven neighbours are faring as can be expected under these circumstances, much as ourselves, and that is our main concern. The new King of Gondor has powerful relatives. He will not have trouble restoring the land… ”

“If they do not destroy everything first, for the sake of rebuilding,” Bôrgalas warned with a sad sigh. “Anyway, I wonder if there’s anything worth restoring left. The Secondborn have dwelled there for an age now...”

“You do not know what you are talking about, Bôrgalas! I have seen the lands of the south and I tell you that they are worth of praise!” Legolas’ voice rose in exasperation. “Have you never sung of the fair lands of Lebennin? Did not Nimrodel stray there?  Have not some of our kin lived in Edhellond?” Legolas become suddenly aware of Thranduil’s frown. “I apologize, Adar,” he said, lowering his voice. He returned Laerîniel’s comforting clasp under the table and met his brother’s curious glance. “There are many wonders out there, brother, even if you have not yet set your eyes upon them...” he added in a calmer tone.

“I am aware of that,” Bôrgalas answered dryly. “And I understand that you are under the spell of your experiences…which must have been powerful, I admit, since you are so impressed by those lands after spending roughly  half a sun-round down there… But I have seen Lothlórien in all seasons, brother,” he continued, leaning back and shaking his head. “And I would not change their mellyrn for the blazing grace of our beeches in Narbeleth, or the sunny green of the new leaves on the poplars…What can be more beautiful than Lasgalen? What do you say, Adar?”

Thranduil tilted his head and studied his sons carefully. His eyes were slightly narrowed and he toyed distractedly with his goblet, signs of his growing disapproval.

“Our ancestors once roamed freely the forests that covered the East from the Misty Mountains to Cuiviénen, long before we ever heard of the Secondborn,” the king said slowly. “The lands do not easily forget the Elves if they ever dwelt there…But this I say too, Legolas,” he added in a serious voice, piercing his youngest son in his steely gaze. “I never felt any affection for the place where I toiled and fought for several sun-rounds, and I fail to see how lands that have been under the hold of Shadow for so long may yet look beautiful in your eyes.”

“That is why you surrendered Amon Lanc to the Galadhrim?” Legolas retorted harshly before catching himself. A tense pause followed. Thranduil frowned briefly and then relaxed.

“Of course,” he admitted coolly, lifting his hand to stall any argument. “It shall take long before those lands are rid of that evil presence, even after the Lady of the Galadhrim exercised her power over those dreadful foundations. The same can be said of the land of Mordor and its borders,” he added warningly, displeasure now ringing in his voice. “You told us that Dagorlad is now a desolate, barren swamp…”

“And yet there is a beautiful land south of it, a land of fragrant herbs and tall trees -the land of the Moon it is called- which stood before the enemy and still preserves part of its beauty…” Legolas felt a wave swelling inside, the wailing of the seagulls at Pelargir, the scent of the sea breeze and the spring in Cormallen, the hope renewed and the overjoyed song of the trees in Ithilien. The sea-song rose deafeningly again within him, and for a moment he forgot himself. “In all truth,” he continued without thinking, “I intend to settle down there with all those willing to help me restore that land,” he announced firmly, casting a brief, arrogant glance to his brother.

A dense, stunned silence followed.

“How you dare!” Laerîniel’s anguished cry tore at his heart, as it rented the suddenly frozen air in the family dining room. Legolas blinked as if suddenly awoken from an unpleasant dream, taken aback by the wave of pain that came from her.

“I…Sûlaer, wait! Let me…” She shook her arm free of his grasp, almost choking in anguish and rage. He caught a brief glimpse of her horror-stricken face as she ran for the door without even asking for the king’s leave, and slammed it behind her.

“I...I am sorry,” Legolas whispered, looking around in confusion. He barely noticed the anger, incredulity, sadness in the faces around him as he stood and stumbled towards the door to follow his wife, overwhelmed as the extent of what he had just said began to dawn upon him. At that moment, Mallereg’s voice stirred them all from their daze.

“I can see your clever game now,” he spat; anger and disappointment clear in his shaking voice. “You agreed to let me give a hand with the Home Guard so you would have a replacement ready when Legolas decided to desert us yet again...” He was challenging his adar with a defiant glare, contempt and hurt clear in his voice. Legolas turned to rebuke his nephew when the king spoke.

“Legolas. To my office. Now.” Thranduil’s cold voice crackled in the silent dining room as he rose in slow, deliberate movements that did nothing to conceal the wrath that shone clearly in his blazing eyes. Caught mid-way to the door, Legolas faltered, too bewildered by his own actions to make any wise decision.

“No. Legolas, go find Laerîniel. You must speak to her.” The queen’s voice sounded calm and affectionate, as if she were addressing a minor disagreement. She had not moved from her seat and she cast a concerned look at her youngest son. “That is the most important thing for now,” she urged him in a warm, sad voice. “And you two,” her voice took a colder, disappointed edge as she turned to Bôrgalas and Mallereg. “You are both behaving like children. I expect that you will find a way to come to reason and see beyond your own, selfish grief; if only for Luinil’s sake! You three are dismissed now!” she added in a commanding, though still soft, caring voice.

With a brief, cautious glance at Thranduil, who was now by the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece with the set, unreadable expression that masked his thoughts when he was most enraged, Legolas turned around and left the family dining room.

***

“Good day, Captain.” After a short hesitation, the guard at the Great Doors settled for a noncommittal greeting to the sorrowful-looking prince who was making his way back to the stronghold under a persistent drizzle.

Legolas nodded briefly in acknowledgement. He had spent the night outside, although he knew that it would be useless. Laerîniel was angry. Worst, she was hurt and disappointed. He feared she would not allow him near her until she had managed to bury her grief deep inside, where it might as well fester before he was able to restore her faith in him.

If ever, he sighed unhappily. He had sat the night away under an elm tree after his unsuccessful attempts at finding his wife. He had tried to discern the reasons for his extemporaneous statement but could only blame himself, and his altered state of mind. I should have talked to her before… he reproached himself endlessly, feeling the weight of guilt taking the place of the familiar anguish that was the sea-longing.

“…Your Highness?”

He looked up blankly to meet the concerned gaze of one of his adar’s errand-runners, who was standing before him in the middle of the corridor that led to the family quarters. The young Elf looked uneasy.

“The King demands your presence in his study, my lord…”

“At this very moment?” Legolas looked at his soaked cloak and dripping hair.

“Well…he said as soon as I could find you, Your Highness…” the messenger answered with a conniving wink.

“It will only take a moment!” Legolas promised, patting the other Elf’s back and hurrying to his chambers. As expected, there were no signs that Laerîniel had returned there during the night. A short time later, clad in dry garments, he knocked on the door to the king’s private study.

“Come in.” Brethil looked at him from a desk in the antechamber and Legolas winced. Brethil had his own office. He only spent time at the king’s when the matter required delicate political handling. “He is with Bôrgalas currently,” Thranduil’s secretary informed in his even voice, nodding to an empty chair.

This meeting was unexpected. Surely they had a previous appointment that has been delayed; Legolas told himself as he paced the office. He felt too restless to take a seat. He had disgraced himself so thoroughly that he wasn’t even sure what approach his adar would choose. He had failed him as a son, as a captain and as a prince of the realm. He sighed, deeply ashamed of himself, recalling briefly last night’s events; his adar’s blazing, outraged look and his naneth’s daring handling of the situation. The conversation after they all left could have not been pleasant, he thought in remorse, almost giving into the desire of burying his head in his arms and began crying. Well, you called this upon yourself, and it is Sûlaer who is bearing the worst of it, he rebuked himself. A harsh voice coming form Thranduil’s office interrupted his musings and made Brethil lift his eyes briefly.

“Do not tell me that you understand!” Bôrgalas’ powerful voice sounded hoarse even through the massive oak door. “We both know how it feels to send our sons to their deaths, Adar!” There was no doubt, Legolas thought with apprehension; Bôrgalas was shouting at the King. “But only I have succeeded until now, so do not tell me that you know how I feel!”

A soft murmur that he could not understand followed his brother’s anguished outburst, and then the door opened brusquely and Bôrgalas stomped out, his face pale and his look distant. He strode away without a word, not acknowledging Legolas or Brethil’s presence.

“Your turn,” the secretary whispered with a sympathetic look on his kind face, although Legolas wasn’t sure whether he pitied him or his adar. With a deep intake and a soft knock he entered the king’s office and closed the door silently behind him.

“My lord?” He walked before the desk and stood there in attention. Thranduil did not look up for a moment, leaving Legolas to boil in trepidation. The king shuffled a pile of parchments, scribbled down something and then put the quill away with purposeful movements. His face did not betray any emotion, but that did not surprise Legolas. He could not hold back a shiver, though, when those steely, unwavering eyes fixed him in a demanding, questioning glance. Out of respect, Legolas lowered his gaze and waited.

“What do you have to say in your defence, Lord Legolas?” It was Thranduil’s most kingly voice. Cold, detached, frighteningly even and smooth.

“I…I apologize, my lord,” he managed, intimidated by his adar’s angered demeanour. Tension was clear in the way he carried himself, the set expression on his face, his straight back and shoulders, his hands extended before him, fingers drumming insistently upon the desk.

“Is that all?” With a barely raised eyebrow Thranduil managed to convey far more displeasure than Gimli with a double string of dwarven curses, Legolas found himself thinking absurdly. Thankfully, his adar saved him from further disgracing himself.

“It was most reckless, careless, inconsiderate, unbecoming and disrespectful from your part, Lord Legolas!” Thranduil thundered angrily; apparently he considered that there was no possible defense. Legolas closed his eyes for a brief moment, acknowledging his adar’s outburst. “But there is something that we must know first,” Thranduil added then in a lower, ominous voice after a dramatic pause. “Is it your purpose to rise up against us?” The question stunned Legolas. He gaped and groped for words to defend himself; how could his adar believe that? And then he met Thranduil’s impassive face and felt colour rise to his cheeks. After all, it was not only Laerîniel whom he had failed. His king had every right to doubt him, too. Legolas could hardly find his voice, almost choking in shame.

“Of course it is not, my lord…” he whispered.

“So shall we take it that you intended to inform us first, at whatever time you considered fitting, and only then ask for our leave to lead south those of our people who would follow you?”

“That was my intent, Your Majesty…But I…”

“There is no but. Your behaviour was unforgivable.” Thranduil studied him in silence for a long while. “May we also assume then that you mean to submit yourself to our judgement?” he finally asked coldly.

Suddenly it felt to Legolas as if a draft of icy air had entered the chamber. He wavered for a moment, fighting a rising tide of despair and resentment that threatened to overcome him. Fighting for words, he looked at his adar’s exacting yet compassionate eyes and tried to steady himself there. He knows! He thought desperately, he won’t let me drown!

“I shall abide by your decision, Your Majesty,” he managed in a thin voice, going down to one knee in submission at the same time. Thranduil regarded him steadily for a long moment and then the tension seemed to ease.

“Good,” he said, sitting back and waving for Legolas to stand up and relax his stance. “Your naneth claims that you are stricken by sea-longing and that I must have known since you arrived. She says it is clearly written in your eyes,” he added, exasperation clear in his voice. “Care to explain how that may have come to pass, that one of the House of Oropher pines for the Undying Lands?” he demanded in a harsh, but not unkind manner.

And Legolas spoke.

Under his father’s compassionate gaze he spoke of Galadriel’s words and the Paths of the Dead; the song of the seabirds and the intoxicating scents in Pelargir; the soft chant of the sea winds and the undeniable longing that pulsed in his faer. He spoke of Ithilien, and the Great River as it paced the lands of the south. Of his promise to the King of Gondor to help restore the land, and his arrogant counselling to Celeborn; his own restlessness at the silent greeting of the forest, and his dreams…In a choked voice he told him of his fear and reluctance to talk about it when the forest was still mourning the losses, and the despair that threatened to overwhelm him every time he felt that he might not ever again feel at home under the beloved trees of Lasgalen.

They remained in silence for a while after he finished speaking. At long last, Thranduil seemed ready to deliver his judgement.

“Hear me out, Legolas, for this is not a matter of minor concern,” the king said seriously. “This is what I ask of you. You shall discuss this with no one else; for now. Not until we are done with the task at hand.” He fixed Legolas in a searching glance. “I am not only speaking of that… idea of yours of going south and establishing a settlement in that land of Men, and lend support to the King of Gondor, but of the sea-longing as well.” He made a pause as if to gather his strength before continuing. “Think carefully about what I ask of you, my son,” Thranduil said in a grave but affectionate voice. “I cannot afford any failure; least of all rumours of division. We are about to begin a dangerous campaign, and I need all efforts turned to it. I need to be certain that you can put the needs of the realm before your own,” the king added pointedly. “Once the Orc’s menace is definitely settled, I shall make my judgement known. Are you ready to obey me in this?”

Legolas met his father’s demanding gaze and discovered there a stony will mastering an immense sadness. He sighed deeply and bowed in acquiescence, ashamed that he was the cause of such grief in one he loved so dearly.  “You have my word, Your Majesty;” he said softly, both hands crossed over his heart. “I shall not discuss what has been revealed here until my king pronounces his decision.”

“I hear you,” Thranduil answered slowly, as if a great burden weighed now upon his shoulders. “We shall meet in council by noon,” he added in a practical tone, after a short pause. “You may go now.”

Dazzled by this sudden dismissal, Legolas bowed again in silence and left. In the antechamber waited Mallereg, slouching on a chair. As soon as he saw Legolas he straightened up in one fluid movement, casting an uncertain half-smile to his uncle as he got to his feet.

“Legolas, I…”

Legolas shook his head. He was not in the mood to discuss his nephew’s insulting words. He nodded briefly to Thranduil’s office. “Do not make him wait. That will not improve his mood,” he advised darkly, walking past the worried prince without meeting his eyes.

“Legolas!”  His naneth was awaiting him outside the king’s office. “How did it go?” she asked softly, caressing his face briefly and searching his eyes worriedly. Suddenly he felt a lump form in his throat as he followed her to a small waiting room at the other side of the passage.

“I am so sorry, Naneth,” he sighed. “I cannot explain…”

“Certain things demand no explanation my child,” she said evenly, closing the door and turning to study his face. “I knew since you arrived. And your adar knew too, although he would pretend he did not see, hoping that if he refused to acknowledge it, you would be cured of sea-longing…The first of our race, indeed,” she sighed with a brief smile. “Only your stubborn adar is capable of such thoughts. It is not a curse, but a calling that lies asleep deep within all of us…”

“But it is a curse, Naneth!” Legolas spat in despair, dropping down on a bench and hiding his face in his hands. “Look at what it has already wrought around me!” he pleaded, raising a pained look at her.

“We Elves have been hearing the call since Tauron first came to us in Cuiviénen, child,” the Queen said in a compassionate voice, sitting by his side and taking his hands into hers. “The call does not bring misery. But denial does,” she said softly. He bowed his head, humiliated by the fact that he had lacked the courage to face it. “None of us ever experienced it, but we have all seen it in others, suddenly forsaking the woods that had given them joy for all of their lives…I cannot pretend that it is easy, Legolas, but we must face it.” She lifted his chin with a finger and made him look her in the eye. “And we shall face it together, my son.” She held his pained gaze for a moment and then let go. “Laerîniel awaits you in the grove beyond the beehives. Talk to her,” she urged him, standing and forcing him up alongside.

“But I just promised...”

“I know what the King asked of you,” she said, pressing her lips into a thin line, the only display of disagreement that she would allow herself. She stretched up to put away a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “But she has to know, Legolas. She needs to know…”

“Thank you, Naneth,” he whispered, embracing her tightly. “And I am sorry that I caused such a scene yester eve…”

“It was not your fault alone. Your adar hates feeling helpless… He sees this as an evil he cannot fight… and he feels responsible for it. It must run in the family,” she sighed with amused resignation. “Do not despair, my child. Something good must come out from this in the end. Now, go...” she insisted, pushing him to the door.

He found Laerîniel sitting at the fork of a thick chestnut. The grove crowned one of the smallest hills that backed the stronghold, and it enjoyed a good view of the river. Children climbed there in autumn to collect the spiny fruits, and in spring and summer nights it served as a gathering point for the honey harvesters. The trail that led there continued its twisting course up to the tallest hill, to a permanent watch point.

“May I come up, my Sûlaer?” He looked up but she did not meet his gaze, intent, she seemed, on studying the contents of a straw basket upon her lap. Her feet dangled from the branch, and he discovered her soaked cloak and her boots of soft buckskin by the trunk. After some more moments, he began to climb the tree, greeting its sleepy heartbeat under his hand. She moved aside and folded her skirt to make room for him as he reached her side, and he caught her cold hand in his. The wounded expression on her face as she finally met his gaze almost made him cry.

“Is that the sea, Legolas? In your dreams?” she asked in a slightly hoarse voice. He gasped, for it was the first time that she openly talked to him about his dreams.

“I fear that it is…”

 “Your naneth said that it might be so, although I already knew that something had happened to you,” she said thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she sounded hurt and he could not fault her. He inhaled deeply and looked around in despair, unable to find the right words. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“I seemed not to find the right time,” he sighed softly, shaking his head at the poor explanation. “There was so much loss, so much grief here…And I did not have the courage to face it…I just hoped… it would vanish…At times I cannot hear the trees, Sûlaer…” He heard her sharp intake and felt the comforting pressure on his hand, and it gave him the courage to tell her the rest of the tale.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered after he finished speaking. She was crying softly, holding his hand against her chest. “Do you think that going south would help ease your pain?”

“I have just promised the King that I would not discuss this… Until the present campaign is over,” he added hurriedly at her outraged look. “I honestly cannot know, my Sûlaer. But I offered my help to the new King of Gondor…you will love it there, you’ll see,” he added with forced eagerness.

“I love it here,” she said tersely, placing the basket on his lap brusquely and wiping her eyes with her hand.  “Come,” she beckoned him, jumping nimbly to the ground and sitting on the ground to put her boots on. “The King awaits you at noon…”  He grabbed the basket and descended quickly in time to help her up with his free hand.

“Will you forgive me, my Sûlaer?” he asked in a thin voice, searching her eyes hopefully.

“I already have,” she sighed resignedly, caressing his face with a sad look upon her face. “There will be time later for arguing, I hope, but this matter is too serious…I do not want to be angry with you now,” she whispered in a weary voice. “Now I just want to make peace…”

He bent down and kissed her slowly, shyly, until she answered in full force. “We are together, my Sûlaer, and that is all we need to be strong,” he said, holding her tightly against him.

“I wished that you had told me before, though, so that we could have fought this together. Now, we are not even allowed to speak about it,” she said bitterly. “How can we find the right path?”

“Spring shall bring its own counsel...and the King’s judgment.”

“But we must be certain that we already have ours by then, that we have come to a decision!” she pleaded softly, resting her head against his strong chest. They stood in silence for a while, lost in each other's embrace, unable to think beyond there. “I am at a loss, let us not speak of it now,” she finally agreed, exhaling deeply before pulling herself from his embrace. She picked up her soaked cloak and started the trail down back to the stronghold. “Do not let it fall,” she warned him, pointing at the straw basket. “I was not idle last night.” Legolas winced guiltily. She must have wandered far indeed, to find those deliciously smelling mushrooms.

“Give me,” she said as they reached the stronghold. “I shall take these to the kitchens. You better make ready for council before you are late,” she added, accepting his kiss with a beautiful smile. Legolas watched her for a moment, feeling lighter of heart than he had felt for many days. He then ran to his office, picked up some parchments he thought he might need and walked back to the stronghold at a more composed pace, in time for the meeting.

“Let us make this as brief as possible, my lords,” the King said as he entered the room followed by Brethil, motioning for everybody to remain seated. His war council in full was present, or what was left of it, Legolas thought, casting a look around the table while recalling the missing faces. He met Bôrgalas’ glance for a moment and was suddenly reminded of his brother’s heated exchange with the king earlier that morning. Thranduil’s voice caught his attention, though, before he could wonder about his brother’s set expression.

“…two fronts that must be dealt with as soon as possible, as you have all suggested. We now have all the information we needed, and soon the Orcs will be only a memory in our forest. The Chief Commander will explain briefly the battle order. Both armies shall set forth as soon as they are ready. Lord Bôrgalas.”

The king sat back and waved for the crown prince to issue his commands. Bôrgalas stood up with unaccustomed reluctance and pointed at the map spread upon the table.

“I shall be in charge of the force that will scour the Misty Mountains,” he said in an even tone. “The bulk of our forces is still stationed this side of the Anduin, but there is also a company already scouting the area, as Commander Hîrvegil informed us. Four main dens have been identified, and there might be two more. We shall attack them all at the same time. We shall raze the whole area after that. Pushed by hunger, the survivors, if there are any, will be forced out of their holes sooner or later.” He stopped for a moment and cast the briefest look at his second. All around the table were already familiar with the strategy, and no questioning was expected.

“Regarding the force heading south, a company of the Home Guard shall join two companies from the western army which have already been dispatched by Hîrvegil, as we all know. They will meet here,” he continued, pointing at a place not far from the eastern edge of the Dark Mountains. “They will be joined by a host of Forest Men there, too, who will help them scout and clean their side of the Mountains. This is going to be a dirty job,” he warned in a slightly exasperated voice. “The orcs roam in smaller, scattered bands, and it seems they are being helped by Men of unknown origin. We haven’t yet been able to spot a main den, although we suspect its existence. But winter shall be on our side here too.” Demech and Maerlag, two of the Camath-en-Aran who had combed the area for several moons nodded in agreement. Bôrgalas shook his head in resignation, as if steeling himself for what was yet to come. “The southern army shall be under Lord Mallereg’s command, with Lord Legolas as his second,” he informed in a neutral voice.

For a moment Legolas thought that he had not heard rightly, much as Mallereg, it seemed, who expressed his doubts bluntly as it was his wont.

“You are not speaking seriously,” the younger prince said flatly. Legolas looked around and saw some brows raised in uncertainty. The King’s face was unreadable and Bôrgalas was looking at his maps, pretending that he had not heard his son’s remark.

“You are punishing me, isn’t it?” Legolas broke the uncomfortable silence, anger boiling within him at his brother’s contemptuous disregard of rank and seniority. ”You think you can chastise me in this way?”

“It was my decision.” Thranduil needed not raise his voice to silence the faint murmur that was spreading around the table. Legolas turned to look at his father in plain astonishment. “Lord Mallereg has been the Captain of the South Host for two ennin, and he acted as my second when we met the Forest Men after the Battle Under the Trees. He knows their leaders and earned their respect,” the king continued in a sharp tone. “It is my will that Lord Mallereg commands this mission. When do you expect that both forces will be ready to depart, Commander?”

Bôrgalas seemed to relax his tense stance and Legolas had the feeling that his brother was somehow conceding defeat before their father.

“My escort could be ready within the hour,” he informed in a neutral voice. “How about your force, Lord Mallereg?”

Mallereg cast a brief, almost stunned look around. When he spoke, though, he was the competent officer, the bold captain of the South Host and the king’s grandson. “Lord Legolas estimated two to three days for the mustering of the Home Guard and the reordering of those remaining, my lord,” he informed sternly, casting a brief look at his uncle for confirmation. Legolas just nodded in assent.

“Let it be in four days from today, then,” Bôrgalas agreed with a curt nod, turning to face the king. “Is that all, my lord?”

“It is,” Thranduil said, standing up and motioning them all to do the same. “Go to your duties my lords. May Elbereth grant that this is the last time we are set to war,” he added before leaving the room. Legolas had the impression that his stride was less purposeful and his shoulders were slightly slumped.

“I would like to discuss the definite arrangements for the remaining Home Guard patrols…when you have them ready, Legolas,” Bôrgalas said softly, as he picked up his parchments and made for the door. Legolas looked around and noticed that the council room was already empty.

“Bôrgalas, I...”

“That is all. I assume that we are all very busy…” his brother cut him without meeting his gaze. Legolas shrugged and nodded to Hîrvegil, as the troop commander followed Bôrgalas’ brisk pace. He waited for a while before going after them, his mind still reeling after the eventful morning and the unexpected developments.

“And this is not over yet,” he thought grimly as he discovered Mallereg leaning on the wall outside the council room.

“Legolas!” He straightened up and walked to him. Legolas slowed down for a moment, but did not stop to meet his nephew.

“I shall give you the list of the available warriors before sunset, my lord,” he said curtly, waving the parchments in his hand, and with a brief bow he resumed a quick pace without awaiting leave or answer. Despite his hurry, though, he caught a glimpse of his nephew’s hurt look and could not help a guilty wince as he walked away.

“Make sure the roll is written in Tengwar and in Cirth!” Mallereg shouted to his back, his annoyance plain. “And I want it with music! Belmagor has a nice voice and you can play the flute!”

Legolas smiled against his will as he stopped to face the aggravated prince, shaking his head in amused exasperation. “You are stretching the privileges of rank quite unwisely, don’t you think, Lord Mallereg?” he asked pretending seriousness. His nephew’s face was a comical blend of frustration, mischief and worry, as he caught up with him.

“I do not mind, if it is what it takes to make at least oneof you listen to me for a change…” Mallereg stated with wounded pride.

“You have just been promoted, if I heard rightly,” Legolas observed. “What else do you want? My congratulations?” he added evenly. It still galled him; above all the fact that it had been Thranduil’s decision. Did his adar consider him untrustworthy, despite his promise?

“You do not believe that the King called me in this morning to compliment me, do you?” Mallereg answered softly, raising his brows and tilting his head in a very telling manner. Legolas sighed and shook his head. Of course not. Thranduil had had a very busy morning, it seemed.

“I know that we are not supposed to talk about this, but I wanted to tell you that I am truly sorry…and that I did not mean what I said of you yesterday.” His nephew looked him in the eye. “Well, maybe I meant it at that moment, but… that is not what I believe. I do not believe that you deserted us. Nobody does, not even my adar,” he added loyally. Legolas nodded at his regretful expression and clasped his arms comfortingly.

“It is forgotten, Mallereg, we all regret what happened last night,” he said with all sincerity. “We better concentrate on the task at hand. I shall fix the list of available warriors with Belmagor. You have enough with studying the maps and adjusting the strategy. Your adar will surely want to hear about our plans before we depart…”

“So he can tear them apart and tell everybody what an incompetent, reckless and unreliable officer I am, most certainly...” his nephew groaned dejectedly

“You are overreacting…”

“You have listened to him for the past moon, Legolas…” Mallereg sounded wounded and Legolas hesitated. It was true that Bôrgalas had been driving his son ruthlessly and exactingly, pointing out even his smallest mistake and reminding him at every occasion of the consequences of disobedience. The uncommon lack of confidence that rang in the younger prince’s voice pained him, and for a moment he considered telling his nephew what he had overheard that morning outside the king’s office, but reconsidered.

This is for Bôrgalas to sort out with his son, he thought. “Your adar may doubt that you ever learnt the true meaning of discipline, Mallereg, but he has no qualms about your value as an officer and a warrior,” he said reassuringly. “And I am looking forward to serving under you,” he added, patting his nephew’s back with a mischievous grin as he resumed walking. 

Mallereg grabbed his shoulder and made him turn around. “Explain that,” he asked, one brow lifted in a gesture of sceptic curiosity that was genuinely his.

“I have heard many a tale about your commands, and I am curious to see if even half of those are true,” Legolas obliged with a teasing grin, laughing as his nephew rolled his eyes and shook his head in mock tolerance.

“Contemptible lies!” Mallereg assured him, putting his hand to his heart and scowling in playful outrage. “You should not pay attention to warriors’ chatter, Lord Legolas,” he admonished with easy grace. “But I am glad that you will be there now, to see it with your own eyes. Now, by your leave, dear Uncle, I must take care of my Battle Plans,” he said arrogantly, and with an impish grin and a flourish he turned and walked toward the family quarters, waving his hand in dismissal as Legolas chuckled helplessly at his back.

***

“…Now go with the forest’s blessings and our own.” A respectful silence followed Thranduil’s speech. The warriors stood proudly in ordered rows before their king. Friends and families, and actually all the remaining population from the scattered provisional settlements around the stronghold, had gathered there to honour those marching, yet again, to war.

“Take care, Calenben. There is still much that we have to discuss…”

“And you still want another chance to be angry at me…” Legolas embraced his wife tightly for a last time. “I’ll be back before spring, my Sûlaer. I have never failed you before,” he reassured her, kissing her again.

They watched sadly as Mallereg took his leave from his adar in a too formal manner and then joined them before the ranks of the Home Guard. Legolas met Bôrgalas’ look and nodded.

“He will come to no harm, I swear,“ he had told his brother some moments ago, as they walked the corridors. 

“That is Thalaûr’s job, brother,” Borgalas had told him with a brief smirk. “You better make sure that you do not give Geldoron a hard time with his,” he had warned then, clasping Legolas’ arms and pulling him suddenly to a quick, tight embrace. “Take care, will you? I do not think I could stand losing any of you,” he had admitted in a hoarse voice.

“Are we ready, Legolas?” Legolas dragged his eyes from his brother as Bôrgalas mounted and led his small company towards the Elf Path and west, to the place where the bulk of his force awaited. He let go of Laerîniel and smiled softly at his nephew.

“And waiting, my lord,” he answered, signaling to his officers. With a last wave towards their loved ones, the warriors of Lasgalen began their march south, to what they all hoped would be the last battle in their forest.

TBC

Camath-en-Aran, the King's hands, are Thranduil's special forces. 

Chapter 8. Winter battles.

“They are coming. Sixty-nine orcs. Ten armed men in the rearguard.”

“I want at least one of them alive.”

The scout nodded and disappeared as silently as he had arrived. Legolas tried to follow his dim silhouette as he carried the information to the rest of the patrol.

“Let us hope that we shall succeed this time,” he whispered to Geldoron, who was crouching at the other end of the trunk that hid them while they awaited their prey.

“We shall see…” his guard answered, shifting his weight and accommodating his quiver.

Legolas nodded and turned his attention to the track before them.

Let them come, he thought coldly, listening to the orc’s stomping feet as they ascended the small hill where he had set the ambush. He looked around one last time to make sure that all of his warriors -elves and men- were well out of sight behind fallen trunks.

A cold gust dispelled the clouds shadowing the waxing moon and Legolas could distinguish two short, stocky shapes that had just crowned the hill.

Scouts, he thought, tightening his grip on his bow.  

The Orc scouts checked their surroundings diligently, but in a quick manner. They surely had expected a trap at the rim of the hilltop. They gave now the signal that meant the road was safe and advanced slowly, allowing the rest of their troop to join them.  

Still too far away, let them come up closer.  

Legolas assented to Geldoron’s expressive glance. The Cam let escape a brief hiss as the whole band reached the hilltop, the taller forms of the men in the rearguard, one towering over the others. Legolas scowled and waited in the heavy silence that blanketed the burnt forest. They had been chasing orc patrols in the southern side of the Dark Mountains for two moons, and they had still to capture any of the men helping those repulsive creatures.

Fifty paces, he pondered. Half the orc patrol was now surrounded by his fifteen elven archers, who were posted in a wide perimeter around the trail. Thirty Forest Men armed with heavy battle-axes were crouched in a ring before them, closer to the path, ready to enter the fray as soon as the archers had done their job. Legolas peered from a creak in the log. He wanted the orcs well within the circle formed by his company before letting loose the first volley. They needed good shots.

Just thirty more paces and they would be nicely caught in the midst of their net.

“Bema!” The Orcs turned in instant alert at the hoarse human battle-call, and one of the stocky figures fell with a distinct gurgling noise, a knife stuck on his throat. A Forest Man had called the attack before time, and Legolas barely heard Geldoron’s colourful dwarven curse as mayhem ensued.

“Release!” he shouted frantically, rising and shooting at the Orcs in the vanguard. Alerted by the sudden assault, the creatures had turned against the closest attackers, those at their flank, and momentarily cutting Legolas and half of his patrol off the fight. The archers had trouble finding clear targets, since the Forest Men were already fighting the orcs and thus making the elven bows close to useless.

“Leave the bows!” Legolas shouted to make himself heard over the clash of iron and the hoarse cries, unsheathing his long knives and running forward to join in the heated fighting, closely followed by Geldoron. He stabbed and sliced with precise movements, stepping upon fallen enemies and keeping an alert eye on the rest of the battlefield.

“Legolas!” One of Geldoron’s daggers blew past his face and embedded itself in the eye of an orc that was wielding an axe over Legolas’ head. He pushed a knife through the creature’s chest and then cast a quick glance beyond the crumpling body. Last time he had checked the Orc had been engaged with one of the Forest Men, who now lay in a bloodied heap two paces away.

“Over there!” His guard was pointing at a small group of orcs that was managing a slow but steady retreat to the path that led downhill. There was a tall Man among them, keeping his attackers at bay with remarkable swordfight. Legolas leaned forth and grabbed the dead Forest Man’s axe, then ran to the retreating fighters, trusting his back to Geldoron.

“Cut off their escape route!” Recovered from their momentary disconcert, his warriors were regaining their ground when Legolas approached the fleeing group shouting commands. He buried his axe in the back of a massive Orc that was about to kill a Forest Man and then had to duck to avoid a vicious sweep of the tall man’s sword. He straightened up to face this new enemy, his long knives ready, but his human opponent looked briefly behind Legolas and then turned and ran away.

“Do not shoot him!” Legolas cried over his shoulder amidst the confusing clamour as he started after the fugitive. As he cleared his path away from the battlefield, the man slashed at the side of an elf who was fighting two orcs. Legolas lunged forward in time to divert a finishing blow from one of the orcs, as the wounded Elf staggered and fell to his knees. He lost sight of the man then, as he stood defiantly over his fallen comrade, moving his long knives in a protective circle around them.

“Go after him!” Geldoron reached him then, wielding another battle-axe with a sure hand. The two orcs decided to attack at the same time, and after a brief clash one lay dead and the other jumped back with a blood-curling growl, his left arm almost sliced off by one of Legolas’ knives. Leaving the wounded orc to Geldoron, Legolas searched for the tall man, who was now at some distance from him.

He stopped briefly to assess his surroundings with a quick glance. A number of partially burnt, dead trees stood scattered upon the field. Without thinking twice, he jumped up the closest one and held tightly to its dead trunk. The tree swung treacherously but resisted his weight. Emboldened by his luck, Legolas began a dangerous race across unsteady trees, shortening the gap between himself and the fleeing man.

“Elbereth!” With a deep, sorrowful creak, a tall pine tree began to fall down slowly, definitely uprooted by Legolas’ brusque landing. Casting nervous looks around, he braced himself against the trunk, awaiting the right moment to jump off the ruined tree as it fell.

It was sheer luck that the man’s path was leading him to the vicinity of the tumbling tree, for in his urgency to steer himself off the course of its fall he did not spot the Elf perched among its naked branches. In a daring move, Legolas managed to jump on the man and push him to the ground just before the trunk hit with a thunderous crash not far from them. They rolled away in a cloud of dust and flying splinters and branches and Legolas stood on his feet quickly, ready to fight his opponent into submission. Fortunately, he was stunned by the fall so Legolas kicked his long sword out of reach and bent over to disarm him, placing one of his long knives against the half-conscious man’s throat. Once disarmed, he grabbed the bewildered man by the front of his tunic and pulled him up.

“I am not going to kill you,” Legolas said in the Common Speech. “I just want to have a long conversation,” he added, pushing the man’s arms to his back roughly and turning him around.

Legolas perceived the soft sound of a bowstring played by deft fingers right before he heard the dull thuds that made his prisoner start twice and then slump heavily against him with a guttural groan.

“What on…” The man was suddenly a dead weight, and as he let go of him Legolas saw a couple of arrows protruding from his still chest.

“Drop that! Now down, on your knees!”

He looked around wildly, his bow instantly nocked as he faced the place whence the shots had parted. Geldoron was already there, fifty paces to Legolas’ right, the axe-blade reflecting the now brigth moonlight as it rested against one of their human allies’ throat. With a quick glance at the battlefield Legolas noticed that the fight was over, so he shouldered his bow and walked to them. He met Geldoron's gaze and caught the brief message that his guard sketched in their hand-language. The one who gave the wrong signal. Legolas nodded almost imperceptibly. He thought he had recognized him, even at that distance.  The man cast nervous looks from Geldoron to the axe to Legolas’ impassive face.

“Release me! You cannot kill me,” he demanded arrogantly. “I am an ally, and my men are all around!” he added frantically, unnerved by the silent, expressionless elves.

“Why do you think we would do such a thing?” Legolas asked with polite curiosity, coming to stand calmly before the kneeling man.

“Well…he has his axe against my throat...” The man sounded uncertain now, confronted with elven logic while in a less than inspiring position.

“You shot twice in my direction.” 

“That man was going…”

“Geldoron is in charge of my safety, and he doesn’t like that kind of thing,” Legolas continued in a soft voice. “That man was disarmed and he was my prisoner…”

“I did not know! I could not see clearly!” the man claimed anxiously.

“So you shot him through his heart twice without really seeing your target…” Legolas shook his head. “I am not sure whether to praise your aim or my fortune,” he added thoughtfully. “You could have shot me instead…” The man opened his mouth again, but the cold glitter in Legolas’ eyes made him reconsider his options. He bowed his head and waited.

“Belthôn!” Legolas’ second was inspecting the orc’s corpses not far from them.

“Captain.” He did not even glance at the kneeling man, and Legolas understood that he too had identified the responsible for the untimely battle call. “Four dead, Forest Men; six wounded, most minor,” he reported soberly. Legolas nodded.

“Disarm this one and set him to help dispose of the corpses. Keep him under custody,” he said, stepping back to allow the man to stand while his second relieved him of his quiver.

“You have no right!”

“You are a risk to my patrol.” At Legolas’ signal, Geldoron lifted the axe. The man was torn between exasperation and anger, but he had the good sense of surrendering his weapons to Belthôn. With a stern gesture, the elven officer urged him back to where the rest of the warriors were taking care of the wounded and the dead.

“Come, have a look at this,” Legolas waved to Geldoron, walking back to the fallen man. Geldoron squatted beside the corpse and searched it briefly. He looked up worriedly and Legolas nodded.

“I thought there was something familiar in him,” he sighed, unclasping the Lórien brooch and handing his cloak to his guard. “We are carrying him with us,” he said resignedly. Geldoron nodded, unfastening his own cloak and beginning to wrap up the dead body with sure, practiced movements.

Legolas watched as his guard found a pair of spare bowstrings in the dead man’s belt pouch and proceeded to fix the cloaks with them. As he knelt down to help Geldoron, he noticed that his own tunic was bloodstained and shredded in those places unprotected by his leather jerkin. He searched himself incredulously, only to find that he was covered in scratches and cuts.

“Did you fall from the tree?”

“The tree fell…and I was up,” Legolas corrected, glaring at his guard and noting the various different places where he hurt.

“Uh…I see…That is an interesting tale.” Geldoron was fighting to hold back his mirth. “Thranduil is going to love that. Give me a hand, will you? This fellow is quite heavy,” he groaned, lifting the men’s feet.

The day had come and was almost gone by the time Legolas and his patrol approached their camp. They had taken care of the corpses while their wounded rested and gathered their strength for the trek back. A thick column of smoke was still visible behind them as they trudged in dull silence across the irregular, dismal terrain in the southern skirts of the Dark Mountains.

“Let us hope that the rest have been more fortunate,” Geldoron grunted, bringing out his waterskin and giving a long draught.

“I would be very surprised to find out that they were not,” Legolas retorted dryly.

It was getting dark by the time they reached the already busy camp. Three of the patrols had arrived before them, and another one was yet to return. A group of rested warriors immediately took care of the wounded elves and their tired companions and, at Geldoron’s indication, of the wounded Men as well.

”I must see Mallereg,” Legolas told Gelirben, his nephew’s aide, as soon as he caught sight of him.  

“What happened to you, Legolas?” the officer asked teasingly. “You look as if you had fallen from a tree…You did!” he laughed at the dark look that Legolas shot his way. “Mallereg is in the Forest Men’s camp, but if it is so important…” he added, suddenly sobered by the sight of one of their human allies being led in custody. “Come.” He beckoned them to follow him.

They ran into Thalaûr right at the edge of the Forest Men’s camp. Mallereg’s keeper was leaning on a tree-trunk, looking distinctly displeased.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Geldoron inquired, raising his brows at the scene before them. Gelirben chuckled ironically.

“Where would be the fun, if it weren’t?” he observed. “I’ll go tell him that you are arrived,” he added quickly, catching the filthy look that Thalaûr shot his way.

They watched as Gelirben walked towards a torch lit circle in their allies’ camp where two warriors were exchanging powerful blows with their axes, encouraged by a noisy crowd. The dull sound of iron against the wooden shields could be heard over the cheers. One of the fighters -a tall and burly man- wielded a long battle axe with amazing easiness, dealing a series of heavy blows against his opponent, a slender shape Legolas soon recognized as his nephew’s.

“Not bad,” Geldoron observed approvingly as Mallereg withstood the assault as best as he could. “With some more practice he could be an entertaining sparring partner, what do you say, Thalaûr?” he joked, patting the obviously annoyed guard.

Gelirben waited among the throng until it was safe to interrupt the fight. Mallereg did not even look in their direction. He exchanged vigorous arm grips with his opponent and walked briskly to where they waited, clasping Legolas and Geldoron’s arms with apparent relief.

“Good to have you back,” he whispered as they all walked back to their own camp. “Is Megorlas returned?” he asked Gelirben.

“Not yet, but they are not expected until morning…”

Mallereg looked worried. “What news, Legolas?” he urged his uncle.

Legolas began to recount the eventful ambush as Geldoron led the way to the place were they had left the corpse. Mallereg listened intently but he did not make any questions until they reached a rough shelter made out of piled logs that was usually used to store supplies.

“What about the men fighting alongside the orcs?”

“There were ten,” Legolas said while Geldoron went down to remove the cloaks from the corpse. “Nine were the usual kind; short, sturdy men most probably from Rhûn, but the tenth…”

A chorus of amazed gasps cut his words as Geldoron stood back, allowing them to see the dead man’s face.

“He wore this,” Legolas added. Mallereg studied carefully the belt with the iron buckle, silver-inlaid with the emblem of the spiny circle; a symbol wore by the chieftain of one of their allied human hosts. The same that showed too on the dead man’s horn-hilted daggers and on the leather pouch containing his whetting stone. He frowned.

“Where is the man now?”

“Under custody. Demech and Maerlag are keeping him,” Gelirben informed, giving to Thalaûr the dead man’s possessions, which Mallereg had just passed onto him.

“Have him brought here, Gelirben.” Mallereg turned his attention to his uncle. “How many injured, Legolas?” he asked in a softer voice, trying to keep his anger under control.

“Four Forest Men dead. Three more injured, as well as three of our warriors,” he reported with a wince. It was a dreadful toll.

“I only hope that Megorlas’ patrol is safe,” his nephew confessed in a low voice. “They sent us out into another merry chase,” the younger prince continued in exasperation. “No orcs, not even traces of them...” Gelirben was back in that moment, followed by the two Camath and the prisoner, who walked between them. At a brief signal, they pushed the man into the circle formed by the elven officers.

“What is your name?” Mallereg wore the expressionless mask that so unnerved Men in their exchanges with Elves; and his voice was toneless.

“Ivor,” the man answered sullenly.

“You are one of Birger’s men.” Legolas studied the man’s face at the changing light of the nearby fires. He had been afraid, but now he looked slightly defiant.

“You already know that…”

“And you know that I am the commander of this army, and a prince of the Woodland Realm, so you could actually do with better manners, Ivor,” Mallereg said calmly, but in a voice that was colder than the sudden wind that was spreading snowflakes over the camp.

“I am one of Birger’s men, my lord,” the man answered reluctantly, after a quick glance around, crossing his arms over his chest insolently.

After such auspicious beginnings, the rest of the questioning went as it could be expected. The man refused to offer any information or to explain the presence of his own chieftain’s emblem on the dead man’s possessions.

“He was truly obliging,” Geldoron observed tartly, as the man was carried away by the other two Camath. But Mallereg was not in the mood for joking.

“Take an armed escort and go to the Men’s camps, Gelirben. Bring their leaders with you,” he said sternly. “Tell them that I demand to see them presently.” He lifted a hand to stem Legolas’ protests and continued to issue orders to his aide, who bowed and left amidst an uncomfortable silence.

“I would advise you to tread carefully, Mallereg,” Legolas said tightly as his nephew looked at him quizzically. “The Forest Men are our allies, and they are a proud people.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Uncle,” the younger prince answered seriously. “What happened to you?” he asked then with genuine curiosity, pointing at the cuts and scratches in Legolas’ tunic and face. “Did you fall from a tree?” Legolas rolled his eyes and Geldoron laughed out loud.

When the call signalling Gelirben’s return sounded, they were comfortably seated around a warm fire laughing at Legolas’ misadventures. After a quick glance, Legolas understood that Mallereg did not intend to stand up to greet the men. He plans to insult them thoroughly; he groaned inwardly, fighting back his indignation as Gelirben stood in attention before them.

“My lord, the chieftains of the Forest Men, as you ordered.”

Legolas winced. Behind Gelirben -and surrounded by four armed elven warriors- stood their allies, brought to their presence like prisoners.

“Master Esrren, Master Espen son of Esrren and Master Birger.” Mallereg’s voice was terribly cold as he studied them carefully.

The oldest of the three, Esrren, was a tall man not yet bent by age, although his long mane was snow-white. He carried himself with a dignity and an air of command that reminded Legolas of Théoden King. His son was the broad-shouldered warrior who had been exchanging axe blows with Mallereg earlier. His face was dark as he cast menacing looks at the armed guards at their sides. The third one, the one called Birger, was a bit shorter. He had a long black braid, small, intelligent eyes and a cruel smirk on his face.

He had been introduced by Esrren as a friend and ally, although the Elves could soon tell that there was no friendship lost between the two hosts of Men or their leaders. Birger’s men were as their chieftain; dark, silent, quarrelsome fellows with unfriendly faces and sullen moods. The boastful, easy-going men led by Esrren and Espen were tense and watchful in their presence. Fights were common between the two hosts, who also kept separate camps. The Elves had respected Esrren’s word and had made no inquiries about the situation, but had taken their own precautions around their human allies instead.

“I lost none of my warriors while we cleansed our side of the Mountains for a whole moon. Yet six elven warriors have fallen since we joined you in your territory.” Mallereg began in a restrained voice, addressing the chieftains of the Forest Men. “Your losses are more numerous, Master Esrren; twenty men, not counting the four you lost today.” The old man remained impassive, but his son could not hold back a start. “Master Birger’s troops have not been spared either, although his account is shorter. Eleven, I deem it to be his toll. We have not yet managed to make any prisoners, despite my precise commands, and many men fighting alongside the orcs have been spared and allowed to flee; or have been killed to avoid their being questioned, always by one or several of your warriors.” Mallereg’s voice had taken a sharp, insulting edge as he openly accused his allies. “Prince Legolas’ patrol was betrayed today by a warrior in its ranks, one Ivor, who not only ruined the ambush, causing the death of four of your warriors, Master Esrren, but also shot and killed a disarmed prisoner, risking Lord Legolas’ life at the same time. I demand an explanation,” he added brusquely. There was an uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Birger.

“What did you do with Ivor? I require that he is freed at once,” he claimed boldly.

“What do we have to do with this? This Ivor is one of his warriors!” Espen son of Esrren shouted angrily, despite his father’s calming hand upon his strong arm. “You have been a welcome guest in my father’s camp; is this how you elves honour the gift of hospitality?” the bear-like man snapped at Mallereg, twisting his powerful hands as if he planned to strangle someone. “Deal with this snake as he deserves, but do not insult my father or my warriors…”

“You spoke for this Man when we met two moons ago,” Mallereg silenced him with a reproving glare.  “You did not call him a snake then,” he added in a cold voice. “Your warrior is my prisoner,” he addressed then Birger, who stood there calmly with a cold, ironic smirk on his intelligent face. “And will be until I decide what punishment is appropriate for his offence. You can help me discern the extent of his wrongdoings though,” he continued almost casually, signalling to Thalaûr to bring forth the corpse. “Could you tell me who this man is and why would Ivor kill him?” he asked, casting a sharp look at the three surprised men as they bent forward to have a good look at the dead man’s face.

Legolas shifted uneasily upon his log, troubled by his nephew’s harsh words. He was studying intently the three human countenances, trying to discern the emotions behind them. Birger was clearly hiding something and Espen was angered by the insults, but the older man’s expression escaped Legolas’ examination. 

“He is Varkon son of Esvard,” Birger acknowledged finally, casting a last look at the corpse. “My brother.” Mallereg lifted his brows and Legolas exchanged a brief look with Geldoron. The man continued in a calm voice. “He and some of our people joined in the Dark Lord’s army, as did the Men of Rhûn. I had not seen him since the summons arrived, many moons ago.” He crossed his arms and looked defiantly at Mallereg. “Ivor killed a traitor, as our laws demand.”  Legolas caught the uncertain, nervous looks that Espen exchanged with his father.

“And pray, tell us, Master Birger, how many more traitors are out there?” Mallereg inquired, intentionally including the three men in a lazy wave of his hand.

“I will not take your insults!” the haughty man shot back fiercely, but Thalaûr’s warning glance reduced him to a grumbling silence. Mallereg studied them with a dark look upon his fair face.

“There will be no more Men in our patrols until this matter is satisfactorily resolved,” he said after a tense pause. “You are untrustworthy and disloyal. You will be escorted back,” he said harshly, pointing to Gelirben and the armed guards. “My warriors are keeping watch around your camps,” he warned the seething men.” You know their sight and their skill. Do not test them.”

“You cannot keep us prisoners!” Espen got rid of his father’s restraining hand and raised a fist in threat towards Mallereg. “I should have chopped your head off your shoulders when I had the chance!” the big man growled.

“Not that you did not try with commendable dedication,” Mallereg observed in a faint display of his dry humour. “This is for your own protection as well as for ours, Espen. You hid information from us and endangered my warriors. I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed this situation to go on unchecked. I would be honoured if you consented to spend the night in our camp, Master Esrren,” he added. Though worded as an invitation, it was clear that it was a command. The old man exchanged some quick words with his enraged son in a language that Legolas had soon related to the rolling tongue of the Rohirrim.

“As your hostage, Lord Mallereg?” the old man inquired ironically in his hoarse, heavily accented voice.

“As my guest, as are your wounded. I hope that you’ll have more information to share in the morning, Master Birger,” Mallereg said coldly to the dark-haired Man. “For your men’s sake as much as for your own.”

“You cannot threaten us, Elf,” the man spat viciously as Gelirben signalled to the elven escort. “See where it leads you, to ally yourselves with these creatures! They even despoil our dead! Where are my brother’s possessions? What shall I bring back to our old mother?” he shouted to an enraged Espen over the shoulder of an elven guard as they were gently but firmly forced to walk away.

“We shall return the body with all his belongings as soon as this matter is settled,” Mallereg promised softly, meeting Esrren’s gaze steadily. The man shrugged.

“Their mother died many winters ago,” he said with a dismissive wave.

“The gift of Men was never timelier, then. She was saved the shame,” Mallereg sentenced sharply, after pondering the information. “Escort Master Esrren to my hut, Cûthent,” he instructed in a low voice to a warrior who stood patiently by his side. “We shall join you shortly, Master Esrren,” he looked up to his guest and spoke in a respectful voice. “I must check on the wounded and Lord Legolas should better have those cuts and scratches cleaned,” he added with a brief flicker of his mischievous smile. The old man nodded stiffly and followed the guard without a word.

“Now I’ll hear what you have to say, Uncle,” Mallereg turned then to face him with a wan smile as soon as the Man was out of earshot. Legolas shook his head and shrugged.

“I offered my advice, as it is expected of me,” he said sagely. “And I shall follow your wise counsel and see to my scratches by your leave.”

“Have some dinner brought to you and to Master Esrren after that,” Mallereg said wearily. At Legolas’ quizzical look he gestured vaguely with his hand. “I do not think he will delight in my presence tonight. You, on the other side, are a better diplomat; I hope that he will open up to you if I am not present,” he admitted easily. “We need to know what is exactly going on between the two hosts, and I bet they are now willing to tell us what this all is about.” Legolas nodded.

“Take some rest, nephew, you look as if you could do with it,” he advised before walking away in search of his pack. He made short work of his superficial wounds, found a clean tunic and a spare cloak and went to one of the fires to pick a couple of bowls of whatever was swimming in tonight’s dismal stew.

“You are lucky, Legolas,” one of the warriors on cook duty smiled at him. “Fresh bread, recently baked!” he laughed, offering him a couple of plain loaves that were still warm form the cooking stone. He nodded to the guard posted before the makeshift cabin where Mallereg usually conferred with his captains until very late in the night, and entered it with a warning call.

Esrren was sitting at the rough plank that served as table and nodded courteously as Legolas placed the bowls and the bread upon the table.

“Am I to starve, then?” the old man said amusedly as Legolas studied his surroundings. Mallereg’s pack lay in a corner, beside the pile of twigs that served as mattress.

“Lord Mallereg apologizes. He will not be able to keep us company tonight, Master Esrren,” Legolas said evenly as he searched his nephew’s pack and found what he was looking for. He brought out a couple of plain wooden goblets and a waterskin. He smelt its contents and then smiled. “But he invites us to share his wine,” he added with a grin, taking seat at the other side of the table.

“If there’s no ale…” the man said resignedly. Legolas scowled minutely at this lack of appreciation. It was a well-known secret in Thranduil’s army that Lord Mallereg always managed to enjoy a generous supply of the king’s prized Dorwinion, no matter where he was posted. It was a mystery, though, how the resourceful Elf managed to talk Galion, the king’s butler, into it.

Two goblets later, Esrren was talking openly to Legolas about their conflict with Birger’s men.

“…they are descended from the Balchoth, whom we fought many generations ago. We are Sons of Eorl, the ones who remained behind, and these are the lands of our forefathers of old!” The old man gulped down the wine and Legolas refilled the goblet silently. “Some of them are good men; they keep to their side of the forest and do not meddle. But when the war began, Birger rose among them and made an alliance with the men of Rhûn and the Orc chieftains. He sent his brother, and many of his men, to guide them during the war and afterwards. He persuaded his own people with false promises and threats. They’ve been helping the orcs devastate our settlements, and so they have gained more power over us…We are a scattered, nomadic people, after all...”

“You did not talk to my father about that, when you met last spring…” Legolas stated softly.

“We thought it was over. The war was over. We thought we could deal with our own problems…but it was not so. They sheltered the surviving orcs, and sent them to raid our homes. Birger rallied more followers to his side, even among my people, claiming that you elves have confined us to a small stretch of our forest, what have right do you have, he says, and many agree, you dwindling people, to govern our forest…“

“We were here long before you arrived,” Legolas argued evenly. “But tell me, Esrren, how many of Birger’s men are out there with the orcs?”

“I do not know,” the man said thoughtfully. “They forced us to bring them to you as our allies. They are cheating you and the orcs, and they destroy our hamlets and camps if we do not play along. They allow their own men in the orc patrols escape your attacks, and when that's not possible, they shoot them to keep their machinations secret! But Birger hopes that you will sweep away the orcs, ridding him of them and leaving him free to govern us all. He has been trying to get me and my son killed, in the hopes that, leaderless, our people would then submit to them…. And some of them would, I fear…”

“What do you suggest that we should do?” Legolas asked, keeping an impassive front.

“We know where the main orc host is hiding,” the man admitted with a proud grin. “We have been leading you to the lesser bands, but their main den is still hidden. I will show you and, in exchange, you shall rid us of Birger and their people. You will be safer too…” he offered with a strange glitter in his blue, tired eyes.

Legolas sat back and studied the old man for a while, keeping his own face expressionless. “You mean kill them all?” he asked after a long silence. “How many orcs do you estimate are hiding in that den?”

“I see,” the man said with an approving nod. “We could use them to get rid of the orcs. Some of them are ashamed of their behaviour and might agree to fight with us… But not Birger and his closest friends. You should get rid of them presently,” he added with a wild grin.

“I cannot give you an answer right now,” Legolas said. “I must talk to Lord Mallereg first…” The man groaned and drank down.

“That commander of yours is rather young, isn’t he?” he asked. Legolas raised his brows slightly.

“Many times your years, I’d say,” he answered amusedly.

“Young for an Elf; I know that you people are older than what you look like…”

“Why do you say that?”

“He is so arrogant. If he had but asked. We were in trouble, we were forced to fight alongside those vermin, we expected that you powerful and wise elves would free us…We would have come to this arrangement from the very beginning…He needed not insult us. He needed not anger my son like that! Bah!” He spat to his side and wiped his mouth. “Youngsters. They think they know everything, they can judge everyone!”

Legolas sighed tiredly. He could have told the man that they had lied, and betrayed the elves’ trust. He could have told him that had Thranduil or Bôrgalas been in Mallereg’s place, they would have withdrawn their troops and cursed the unreliable men at the first sign. That the elves did not meddle in the affairs of men. He shrugged. The man was tired, and a bit drunk.

“At least Lord Mallereg offered his hut to you…” He said as he helped the man to the cot.

“As if he ever needed it,” the man said disdainfully. “It is said that you elves feel not the cold… I am old, Master Elf, and I shall accept it willingly when my road reaches its end. I am glad that I have lived to speak to you, but you are unnatural things… and you will not last long in the world of Men…” He slurred as Legolas helped him down. “You must accept your doom. You are not human, you do not belong here…” he sentenced, wrapping himself in his tattered cloak. A moment after he was snoring peacefully. Legolas shook his head. It took more than some shared goblets of wine to start down the path to understanding. It took the will and the need; and the Men had neither. And yet Middle-earth belonged to those hurried, short-lived, short-sighted creatures that struggled fiercely for a handful of sun-rounds only to see everything slip through their clenched fingers when their time arrived.

He walked out the hut. The camp was quiet, although he could see many silhouettes sitting around the fires. The dismal surroundings, the dead trees and the mourning rocks affected the Elves deeply. But strangely, that made the sea-longing calm down within him. He shook his head, discarding Esrren’s last words, and went to meet the officer in charge of the camp.

“Mallereg is checking the watch upon the men’s camps, Legolas. He’s quite edgy,” the Elf informed him, lowering his voice. Legolas took the hint and went in search of his pack. He extended his bedroll close to a bonfire and tried to find some needed rest.

He woke up in the grey hour before dawn and saw Geldoron crouching beside him.

“Come, one of Megorlas’ scouts is arrived,” his guard whispered hurriedly. Legolas jumped on his feet and followed him to a small knoll that stood in the northern limit of the camp. Mallereg was there, as well as Gelirben and Thalaûr. Demech and Maerlag were also arriving. Mallereg beckoned to them all to listen to the scout, who was pointing at the maps spread upon a rock.

“…and we found them hiding in a small dale within these ridges, as we suspected. We counted two hundred and thirty, between orcs and men; not all of them are in good shape. The Men bring them supplies from their settlements through this gorge here,” the scout was saying.  “We managed to cut this route with rocks and trunks, and Megorlas left a force lying in wait there.”

“We got them,” Thalaûr exclaimed with grim satisfaction. Mallereg nodded with a faint smile. Megorlas’ patrol had departed some days before the rest with the appointed mission of learning the exact layout of the orcs’ main den, whose location they had inferred studying the movements of the scattered bands and the places where their human scouts stubbornly refused to lead them.

“Are you sure that there is only one other way inside this dale, Olchaldir?” Geldoron asked the scout.

“I am, my lord. To the north, as well as the south, there are these tall cliffs dividing the ridges. No one could get up or down there…unless they got wings. We searched the area thoroughly. We caught three men who were heading for the orc camp. Megorlas brings them to you. They are from Birger’s people,” the scout added in a lower voice.

“They will not feel lonely here,” Gelirben commented dryly. Mallereg studied the map with a pensive look upon his tired face.

“Go and take some rest, Olchaldir, good job,” he sighed gratefully, nodding to the scout, who took his leave respectfully. As soon as the scout was out of earshot he turned to his uncle.

“Did Esrren tell you anything of interest, Legolas?” With a sigh, he offered them a succinct report of their conversation. Soon they were all laughing helplessly.

“Did they actually believe that we were that clueless?” Demech asked doubtfully. They shook their heads in disbelief. It had been plain to them from the beginning that at least one of the Men’s hosts was not reliable and that the main orc host was being hidden from them for some reason. After all, four of the Camath-en-Aran had combed the area for several moons and had managed to come up with an accurate estimation of the roaming forces.  Keeping the Men close to them had been a way of keeping track of their movements as well.

“So now he is willing to lead us to the orc’s den, and in return for the courtesy we should kill Birger and his men and rid him of the disturbance, forgetting that they betrayed us for two moons,” Mallereg summed up. “They actually expected that we would take care of their human enemies and settle their disputes?” he wondered in bemusement, still shaking his head. He shrugged and turned to his captains.

“Two hundred and thirty, my friends,” he said softly. “I shall gladly listen to what you have to suggest.”

***

Killing was a mechanical exercise, Legolas thought wearily as he walked the battlefield checking on wounded and dead with Geldoron at his back. He shook his head to dispel the sickening smell of blood. It had been a hard- fought battle, and a noisy one. The din would have chased away all birds, if there had been any left in that devastated forest, he thought sadly.

“A pity Birger was not here,” Geldoron said dryly, recognizing the face of another of the treacherous man’s warriors.

“I shall not forget Esrren’s face when Mallereg talked to him,” he answered, remembering with amusement the exchange that had taken place two days ago in their camp. Geldoron chuckled in assent.

Mallereg had sat before the leader of the Forest Men at dawn, after consulting with his captains.

“In two days we shall attack the orcs’ main camp, Master Esrren. You may either return to your settlements or fight with us,” he had informed the bewildered man calmly. Watching Man and Elf conferring, Legolas had wondered if both races had always been so different; if ever the Secondborn had actually been close to the Elves. The distance was painfully clear now, he had thought as the slender, composed, almost ethereal Elf discarded with a dismissive wave the shrewd, earth-bound, wrinkled man’s tricks, and cleverly and smoothly weaved the Forest Men’s future before Esrren’s incredulous stare.

Following the advice of his captains, Mallereg had decided to support Esrren while forcing him to take care of his own problems and making him responsible for the loyalty of all the human troops. He had escorted him to his camp and had set a guard of elven warriors to watch while Esrren’s people reduced and disarmed all of Birger’s men, from which Esrren had chosen those who would march to war with them. The rest, Birger included, had been left at camp -tied and blindfolded- under the custody of some Forest Men.

“You have forced me to do what I was fighting to avoid, Lord Mallereg,” the old man had said grudgingly.

“Times are changing for all of us; the oak may break while the reed still stands,” Mallereg had answered gravely, in a perfect imitation of Thranduil’s pompous steward. He had forced Esrren to make a move against his enemies, and that had turned the old man into a leader of his enemies’ people, too, and responsible for all of them; no longer an independent chieftain of a nomadic people.

“Your father would have packed them to their forest at the first sign,” Geldoron observed merrily, catching up with Legolas. “And I am not sure of what Oropher would have done….but this was a masterful blow, anyway.”

“Legolas!” They looked up to see Gelirben waving at them from the closer edge of the bloodied battlefield. Leaving their fellow warriors to continue that grim duty, Legolas and Geldoron walked to him.

“Come,” he urged them, a worried look on his face. “It is Mallereg.” They followed him hastily to one of the tents which had been occupied by men. Legolas put away the flap and entered hurriedly.

“What happened!” he demanded hoarsely. Mallereg was resting on the ground with a bloodied bandage across his right shoulder, eyes closed in an extremely pale face.

“They shot him down a tree,” Thalaûr groaned wildly. “He knocked himself out and has not regained consciousness since then, silly Elf...”

“He will be fine,” the healer said, checking the unconscious elf’s heartbeat once again. “Calm down, Thalaûr...he will awake shortly,” he added, nodding to them and walking out.

“I shall kill him, when he awakes,” the guard ranted, pacing the tent restlessly. Legolas knelt down beside his nephew while Geldoron tried his best to keep himself off Thalaûr’s enraged course.

“He has a thick head,” Legolas commented after a while, trying to break the tense silence.

“I know that, Legolas, I have known your family for some time,” the guard snapped.

“Well, yes, but I was remembering an occasion when Borgil was a young child and he pushed Mallereg from top of the Old Beech,” he explained with a fond smile. “We all feared that he had broken his neck, but he stood up fresh as a new leaf…” The tale made Thalaûr stop on his tracks and smile too.

“Really? Why would Borgil do such a thing?” he wondered aloud.

“Surely his elder brother managed to make him lose his patience?” Geldoron suggested with a teasing smile. A moan from the wounded elf caught their attention.

“Easy, easy, Mallereg, you are safe,” Legolas stilled him with a comforting arm on his uninjured shoulder. The wounded elf cast a tired but alert look around and nodded painfully, taking in his surroundings and the anxious faces over him.

“…Fly…” he groaned finally.

“What are you talking about? Mallereg, you foolish Elf, look at me!” Thalaûr sounded frantic. “You know where you are?”

“Borgil…He…wanted me to teach him to fly...” the wounded elf whispered exasperatedly. “He thought I could fly and he pushed me…” he breathed heavily, crying out in pain as he tried to change position. “He believed I could do anything,” he continued in a hoarse voice. “He… he trusted me wholly, Legolas,” he sighed, looking up to his uncle. “And I… I failed him,” he confessed in a broken voice, as tears began rolling along his temples. With a hopeless look around, Legolas pressed his nephew’s shoulder reassuringly as the tired elf finally let go of long-bottled guilt and pain. There was little that could be said, and they all remained there in silence, offering what comfort their presence could give to the anguished prince.

“You will not tell this to my adar, will you?” he asked hoarsely when he calmed down enough. Legolas smiled wickedly, offering some water to him and holding his head as he drank laboriously.

“What? That you fell from a tree or that you cried your eyes out all over me?” He smiled at the outraged look the wounded elf managed to throw at him. “He will have a fit of laughter at the first, and will feel greatly relieved by the second, and he is in sore need of both things,” he said softly, as he lay him down again. “So I think I shall leave the tale to you,” Legolas added teasingly, ignoring his nephew’s glare.

“Esrren and Espen are outside,” a worried Gelirben opened the flap at that moment.

“You go, Uncle, please,” Mallereg sighed. “I find that they do not like me much…”

“Make him shut up, Thalaûr,” Legolas grunted as he went out to meet the two Forest Men, who stood before the tent with an uncertain expression in their stern faces.

“Lord Mallereg is wounded, but he will recover,” he informed them. They exchanged a shy look and then Espen spoke.

“I know, he saved my life,” he said almost grudgingly. Legolas felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The silly Elf, indeed, he expected him to tell Bôrgalas that his son had died saving the life of a disloyal man? He shook his head and then blinked. The burly man was pushing his axe towards him.

“Give it to him. He is a brave warrior. I will not forget.” He turned around brusquely and walked away.

“We are leaving behind a group of our men to deal with the dead and the wounded, but we are departing now. There is much that needs to be taken care of… Are we in peace, Lord Legolas?” Esrren said in his hoarse voice.

“I think so,” he nodded. “You kept your word. That was all we asked for.”

“Then I’ll take my leave. It is said it is not good for us mortals to have deals with elves, and I now understand why. Times are changing, anyway, and only time will tell if it is for good or for bad, for your people or mine, although I surely will not see it.  Travel your path safely, Lord Legolas.” He bowed deeply and hurried after his son.

Legolas sighed and looked up. The night was drawing closer and Eärendil was sailing the late winter sky. The smells and noises, the grime and the gore of the battle, and the harsh campaign, all disappeared from his mind as he looked up to the stars.  

Suddenly, he found himself picturing Ithilien’s fragrant meadows as the upcoming spring began to pulse in the lands, brought under the wings of the sea winds. A feeling of immense joy and peace invaded him.

Times are changing indeed, he thought with a smile, looking south with renewed yearning.

TBC

Chapter 9. What’s left behind.

“The trees are speaking…”  

“And what are they saying?”   

Thranduil’s reply came out in a quiet, sad voice. That was the ritual refrain for demanding a story in the family. It had been in Thranduil’s childhood, and it had passed onto his children -and his children’s children- as a treasured family custom. It sounded strangely appropriate now, as father and youngest son stood together in the darkened glade, listening to the chattering of the new sprouts on the awakening trees.  

“I could not tell, Adar. I can hardly hear their voices these days.”

There was such calm, resigned despair in Legolas’ voice that Thranduil felt his decision falter and his arguments fade away in a moment. Only compassion remained; and the unbearable pain of seeing a loved one, a child of his, suffering so hopelessly.  

He had a speech ready; advice, conditions, requirements…There would be time later for all that. He closed his eyes and searched for the pulsing beat of the woods. With an easiness born out of the long intimacy with the trees, Thranduil attuned himself to the breathing forest and blended with its living mind. As he became part of the song, he reached for the bright presence of his son’s faer and enveloped it in the strong, melodious heartbeat that pulsed differently with every Wood elf’s life-song. He opened his eyes to meet his son’s now more serene gaze.  

“Can you hear them now?”  

“Much better,” his son said at last in a hoarse, slow voice that expressed deep relief. “But, Adar,” Legolas continued hesitantly, “you cannot do this forever…” 

“I could, if I deemed it necessary,” the king said sternly. “But that is not the matter of discussion tonight.”   

He did not say that he wished to sustain his son’s faer for as long as it was needed, that he would gladly spend all his strength in fighting the sea-longing with Legolas. With a determination that was legendary, Thranduil hardened his will against his own heart’s wishes.

“I have not forgotten our conversation, or the promise that I extracted from you. You have kept your word and it is time that I let you know my judgement,” he continued solemnly.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as the king stood for a moment in silence, drowning in the memories of a time that seemed but a whisper ago in his reckoning, when his son had first opened his eyes to a green world that had just been renewed, and had fixed Thranduil in a knowing, pensive gaze. That child had been a true blessing, an unexpected joy amidst the sorrow and grief that had followed the War of the Last Alliance, and Thranduil had to summon all his courage to ruthlessly silence the voice inside his head.  

“You may go south, if that is still your wish, my son,” he said hoarsely before he repented. The relieved expression that shone in Legolas’ face offered bittersweet comfort to the grieved father. Yet, the burden seemed lighter now that the he had taken the first step. “I have decided to release you from any formal obligation,” he continued in a voice that was not so tight. “You will keep all your privileges, as my son and a prince of Lasgalen, but you are no longer bounded to my service in this court, so you can decide where you will be of more use to the realm,” he added with a regal wave of his hand. He allowed himself to bask in the pleased, grateful smile that brightened up his son’s features. He would deal with the pain later, he decided, as his son clasped his arms first and then embraced him tightly.  

“I… I know not what to say, Adar…”  

“Then say nothing, child,” Thranduil smiled faintly. “I grant you my leave. You must decide what to do with it.”  

“I… I just wished…”  

“Do not.” Thranduil searched his son’s troubled face. “There is no point. All we can do is hope that everything happens for some reason, and face whatever comes bravely; as it becomes a son of the House of Oropher,” he added warningly. Legolas managed a small smile.  

“I will not disappoint you, my lord,” he whispered in a choked voice.  

“I know you will not, my son,” Thranduil said. He inhaled deeply and passed an arm across his son’s shoulders. “I have summoned a council tomorrow, to make it official. I wished that you took your time to talk to your wife tonight, but to no one else outside the family…”  

“As you command, my lord…”  

“I shall inform your brother.” Thranduil let escape a brief laugh at Legolas’ wince. “Go, my son,” he added, patting his back and pushing him towards the sward, where their people had gathered to celebrate the safe return of both armies. After a brief look up to the trees, he followed Legolas at a slower pace.  

The celebration had been a moving occasion for remembrance and hope. Now, with their hearts warmed by shared food and wine, many elves were dancing around the fires. Thranduil stood for a moment at the edge of the illuminated area, watching as his people rejoiced in the carefree merrymaking that was distinctive of their kin.  

“You must be proud of him,” he said softly, taking seat at the main table by his eldest son and following his gaze. Mallereg was dancing with his naneth by one of bonfires. It was too long since any of them had last been seen looking so free of worries.  

“I am,” Bôrgalas acknowledged with a half-smile. “Although I have not yet told him so,” he admitted. “Not that there was much time…”  

“Oh, but my grandson is very wise, despite his apparent recklessness. He must have read through his adar’s bright eyes and his tight embrace…” Thranduil joked softly.

The South Host had arrived early that morning, preceded by news of their success. The king and the chief commander had listened to their reports and had not bothered to conceal the pride and satisfaction they took in the younger princes’ achievements. Mallereg had briefed them on the military details and had deferred then to Legolas for an in-depth account of the political measures regarding the Forest Men.  

“I owe him an explanation and an apology, though.”  

“I thought you had already found out that there are times when apologies are not needed, Bôrgalas. Not between father and son,” Thranduil added with a meaningful grin, amused to see that he was still able to make his heir flush like an elfling caught in mischief.  

“I am extremely sorry for what I told you that day, Adar,” the prince said hurriedly. “I am truly ashamed that I let go of myself like that...and that it took me so long to apologize…” 

“I forgave you that very same day, son,” Thranduil said softly. “But you must forgive yourself. Elbereth knows how long it took me to recover from… Dagorlad. You know it too, for you were here to support me,” he added with a thankful smile. “Actually it took...”  

“Don’t say it.” Bôrgalas shook his adar’s hand from his shoulder. “I do not want another child, Adar,” he said in a voice that shook, avoiding his father’s knowing glance.  

Thranduil sighed heavily. 

“Legolas was the last piece, Bôrgalas,” he began after a tense pause. “What I was going to say is that it took me too long to understand how selfish I was being when I refused to heal, when I refused my wife’s comfort, your loyal help, my friends’ support and my naneth’s wise words,” he added sternly. He studied his son’s clouded face and then continued in a softer voice. “Legolas came only when I was ready to admit that there is light beyond the darkness and that there has always been a spring following every winter, no matter how long and hard winter was,” he said pointedly. “No one will ever stand in Borgil’s place, Bôrgalas, and we shall all carry that wound until….the time of reunion is come. But you just have to allow yourself to heal, my son. For your wife, for your son, for all of us.” Thranduil heard his son’s ragged breathing and waited in silence. He knew that his heir hated to show any weakness and that he would most probably keep his father’s words in his mind for long and deep pondering. It ran in the family, after all, he had to admit ruefully.  

“Did you talk to Legolas?” Bôrgalas’ abrupt change of topic surprised Thranduil more than his son’s hoarse voice. He looked up to see Legolas leading Laerîniel away from the fires and most probably to a secluded place where they could talk calmly. He felt a fresh sting of pain and felt absurdly irritated that his eldest son would try to escape his own misery by dwelling on that painful subject. His anger burnt away quickly and left behind a trail of melancholy.  

“I granted him the freedom to choose his path.” The dull sound of his own voice caught him by surprise. Bôrgalas looked at him worriedly.  

“I am sorry, Adar,” he whispered, pressing his father’s arm comfortingly. “But I am sure that Legolas will not desert us,” he added, trying to sound reassuring. Thranduil scowled bitterly at his heir, unable to keep his emotions under control any longer.  

“Surely not,” he said tightly. “But he will leave us, nonetheless,” he almost spat scathingly. “Go to your family, Bôrgalas, and make your peace with them,” Thranduil added in a broken voice. He then stood up abruptly and strode back into the forest, mentally calling to the one who held his heart, the only one who could help him find the strength to overcome that last blow. He soon felt her soothing presence behind him and stopped to allow her reach him and enfold him in her sweet, comforting embrace, as the trees bent their branches to offer their pity and their support to the grieving parents.  

***  

“...And what would your duty be, if I may ask, now that there are no more orcs to carnage?”  

“You forget the spiders. And you make it sound as if killing orcs was something dishonourable…”  

“Far from it, my lord. I would be insulting my adar, if I thought so. Yet I wonder what you intend to do with yourself, who have for all your life been so firmly bent on war and slaughtering…”  

“So you would not insult your adar and still find my devotion to duty close to unbearable…”  

“I just worry that you will ever manage to adjust to a life of peace…”  

“Of course, I remember that you expressed such comforting trust in my abilities in your last letter… What do you want of me, Lendiell?  

“What do you want of me, my lord?”  

“I never asked anything of you, for I knew I had nothing to offer in return... I have been a warrior for all my years, Lendiell, not out of pleasure but because it is my duty to protect the forest and our people. I have not known another life, and yet my efforts were not enough to prevent our dreadful losses… That is what I am, and I do not even know if I am able to learn to live otherwise, but I know that I must try…and I thought that you were willing to help me in that…Now, if you find my presence so agonizing I will not impose upon you any longer. By your leave, my lady…”  

“Mallereg…”  

“What!”  

“You offered to escort me back to my cottage…”  

“He’s wholly, beautifully ensnared…and totally oblivious of it, isn’t he?” Laerîniel shivered as Legolas’ soft whisper caressed her ear. They had been sitting by the river, protected from sight by the underbrush, when the voices of the approaching younger couple had interrupted their own heated conversation. They listened in amused silence as Mallereg groaned exasperatedly and turned back on his steps to see Thalaûr’s youngest daughter home. “Do you think we should warn him? She will not let him go, now that she’s got him to confess…” Legolas added fondly as Lendiell and Mallereg’s voices faded away.  

Too young to join Sûlgalen and Borgil -and her own elder sister- in their games, Thalaûr’s youngest daughter had spent her early childhood sitting upon Mallereg’s shoulders while the eldest prince kept an eye on the bunch of children. Childhood worshipping and youthful infatuation had been overcome in time, and sweet, serene and thoughtful Lendiell had slowly become the steadying presence and the hope and light in Mallereg’s duty-focused life, to his family’s deep relief. But, much as she loved her eldest nephew, Laerîniel suddenly could not help wondering if that caring and patient creature did not actually deserve to be loved by someone else, someone not tainted by guilt and war; someone who had not tasted so deeply the marring of Arda and the despair that it brought along.  

“Should not we rather warn her, that loving one of the House of Oropher can be the cause of deep grief?”  She could not refrain from asking in turn, and as she heard Legolas’ sharp intake she knew he had hurt him more than she had intended to.  

“Are you suggesting that she should stay away from Mallereg just because he has duties to fulfil and he is willing to do so?” he asked brusquely after a tense pause. “That did not dissuade you…”  

“I mean that Lendiell should be told that you of the House of Oropher have an inclination to attend to the needs of those you consider you are bound to serve, even if that means putting them before your own family, Calenben, and that is the cause of deep grief…” she interrupted him in exasperation. “She should be aware that one day or the other Mallereg could ride away saying that it is his duty to protect the Forest Men… or some other unknown neighbour in a distant land.”  

“So you claim that I disregard my family because I have duties as a prince of the realm?”  

“Do not dare lecture me about duty, Legolas, for I have willingly lived under its tight rule since before I married you! Duty kept us apart for long periods, as you patrolled and fought in the marches and I tended to the forest, but this… this is folly! What do you think you owe that Secondborn?”  

“He fought the Dark Lord and freed Middle-earth, Laerîniel; he fought for all of us…”  

“He fought the Dark Lord to earn the right to wed the bride of his heart! And were it not for those who died in the Cail, he might not have had a bride to marry, so do not tell me that we owe him!”   

Again she bit her lip, wishing she had not let those words spill so carelessly, but she was out of herself with grief and dread. He had led her away from the fires in joyful secrecy only to tell her that they had been granted leave to depart to Ithilien. She had felt betrayed that he had not bothered to ask her, although deep in her heart she knew that was a signal of his troubled state of mind. Yet the fear that she might lose him to the sea-longing overcame her reasoning, and so the conversation had degenerated in reproaches, each too immersed in their own feelings to acknowledge the other’s. The respite offered by the tenderly resolved disagreement between Mallereg and Lendiell had not served to cool down their moods, and now they were even more apart that they had been at the beginning.  

“Whatever you think I may -or may not- owe him, I gave him my word to bring elven help south to restore his realm to its beauty, and I intend to fulfil my word,” Legolas said hoarsely, moving slightly so she could not longer feel him leaning against her.  

“You promised me that you would never leave me again…”  

“I told you that you would always be my side, my Sûlaer,” he whispered in a pained voice. “I was sure you would help me down there…” 

“How could you, Legolas! You have been to the Mountains; you have seen the damages in our forest, you have listened to its grieving song! It is going to take a long time to heal those wounds and most of the lands we are not sure that will ever recover! How can you think that I would be willing to forsake these trees that have given us life and shelter," she pleaded in a broken voice, her anger almost spent in incredulity. "These trees that have seen our children grow and have provided our livelihood for ages, abandon them for other woods whose voices I have never heard! Our forest should be first, and you of all people, as the King’s son, should know that!”    

A heavy silence settled between them, blanketing even the rustling of the leaves.  

“I am wounded, my Sûlaer...” His uncertain voice finally made it through the numbness that had taken over them. He stretched his hand tentatively and she held it tightly, possessively, feeling as she did so that he was drifting too far away, where she could not, dared not, follow.  

“Is this about the sea-longing or about your word, Legolas? We could go north, where the trees are untainted! Their song is so strong that the sea- longing will not reach you there…” But as she spoke, she suddenly realized that she could not hear the tree-song echoing in their bond as it used to; that his faer clung desperately to hers and held strongly to the music that resonated within her, and she finally understood his plight. She had become used to that monochord drumming in his prolonged absences, a dull beat that was just a mere breeze when compared to the enhanced perception of the forest song that ran both ways through a couple’s bond, and so she had not really understood until now that he was definitely unable to hear the voices of the trees. Overwhelmed by his loss, she did not stop to consider what it also meant to her, now doomed to hold on to memories of a music she would most probably never hear again in its full glory. “Maybe we could…” she stammered, and his forlorn smile pierced her heart.  

“This is about us…” he whispered, his voice almost inaudible, and she pressed her face against his chest and let her desperate tears mingle with his in a song very different from what she had expected to hear that night. 

***

Ithilien, last days of February, 120 Fourth Age.  

“The trees are healing fast…I feared it would take them far longer to regain their strength, but even around the ruins or Minas Ithil their recovery is very promising, for such a short lapse…”  

The morning mist was lifting slowly, unthreading its silver wisps from the long, grey-needled branches of a tall cedar that crowned a hill overseeing the heart of the elven settlement in Ithilien. Two elves were sitting on its lower branches, their black and golden heads glistening with the morning dew, their cloaks stained and travel worn. The first rays of the sun climbed over the Ephel Dúath, the once dreaded Mountains of Shadow that loomed in west, unveiling a land of pleasant valleys granted to the Elves of Lasgalen by the King Elessar.  

“The land will need longer to forget, though,” the dark-haired elf added. “I suppose it is the same around Amon Lanc.” 

Legolas listened in silence. He was still trying to decide whether it had been a short span or an elven life-time, since he had arrived there with the first group of settlers. Less than an ennin had passed, a whisper in elven reckoning, yet in that time he had seen several generations of Men come to age -and then age to waste- in what at times still seemed the blink of an eye to him.  

But Eomer had died.  

And then Eowyn.  

And the Periannath, too.  

Even Faramir, for all his Numenorean blood.  

Things had changed dramatically around there, so time had passed indeed, Legolas reasoned. Why, he was a grandfather now, although he had not yet met the beautiful elleth who had so much resembled his own daughter at birth, he had been told.  

And still, his adar’s calm, businesslike voice still rang clearly in his head as he had heard it in council, the morning after he and Mallereg returned from the cleansing of the southern marches, not an ennin ago, informing war captains and foresters, and settlement leaders and court counsellors of a new development.  

“We will keep a settlement in Ithilien under the rule of Prince Legolas, to provide the requested help and counsel to the new King of Gondor, our friend and ally. They will help restore that land, and in return, their presence there will ease off some pressure from our ailing forest, bringing back new seeds and much needed fare, while our trees recover their strength.”  

With the shrewdness that had seen him through countless trials in his long life, Thranduil had turned loss into gain, sorrow into promise, desertion into duty and despair into hope. That had been almost one hundred and twenty sun rounds ago, Legolas told himself. The trees in Lasgalen had recovered too, to the point that they could now provide the livelihood for the wildlife and the elves without risk. Seeds and sprouts from trees that grew in Ithilien had been sent to Lasgalen, and the Greenwood’s song had been enriched with southern melodies. Birds and animals from Lasgalen now roamed happily in Ithilien, resettled there to save them from hunger or over hunting.  

How could it be then, Legolas wondered in awe, that so much had changed, so much had been achieved and yet the pain was still fresh in his mind as if it all had happened yesterday? That was the risk of meddling in the affairs of mortals, he knew. Change was so fast that it disturbed elven perception, until the firstborn could no longer discern the pace of passing time.  

He shrugged to his companion, for lack of better answer, and pointed the steep way down. They were approaching Legolas’ forest home after a short visit to North Ithilien, and the trees sang in warm welcome to their lord.  

“It never ceases to amaze me, though,” Legolas’ companion commented as they made their way swiftly across still naked branches, “how fiercely Men fought against the Shadow…to defend their right to despoil their own lands after their own fashion…”  

It was a gibe intended to shake him from his melancholy mood, Legolas knew, yet with one look west he was well reminded of what had provoked it. Gondor had indeed blossomed under Elessar’s wise ruling. Homesteads, farmlands, warehouses, workshops, shipyards and docks crowded the Western shore of the Anduin, and were showing up in the eastern one as well; mostly around Emyn Arnen, the Steward’s residence. The princedom of Ithilien was now a thriving land, as it was Lossarnach, and a new port had been built south of Harlond, to cope with the increasing traffic of goods. The ever growing human settlements were slowly but steadily encroaching the elves, forcing them East, to the now protective, pine covered skirts of the Ephel Dúath.  Of course no one had yet dared contend the privileges and rights of the elves to that stretch of unspoilt land, but the proximity of men’s activities was beginning to disturb the forest and its residents.  

“My adar must have been so happy to see you coming to Ithilien, Prestolon!” Legolas jabbed back good-naturedly. “Yet I cannot help wondering why you decided to grace me with your presence.”  

“Insects are to be found around a blooming tree, Legolas.”  

“That sounds like something a very ill-tempered tree would say.”  

“Actually it is something your grandfather proclaimed with malicious glee…”  

“He must have met some ill-tempered trees in his time…”  

“Most certainly,” the Silvan leader admitted, keeping a straight face as they came to a secluded glade where a young doe grazed peacefully.  

“Why did you come down here, Prestolon?” Legolas asked more seriously as they waited in silence while the rest of the family joined the adventurous doe and then disappeared deeper in the forest.  

“We Silvan elves never tire of meeting new trees and learning new voices…” he explained as he absentmindedly studied the branches that would be exploding with new life in a few more days, as spring finally settled down. With a brief nod he resumed their march through the trees with Legolas trailing after him, lost in thought.  

The short-tempered Silvan leader had become the link between Lasgalen and the colony in Ithilien. He had faithfully supported Legolas in the first years, working hand in hand with those who had followed him there; mostly wives and children of the members of the Home Guard who had fallen at the battle of the ford, but also settlers who could not stand returning to their devastated homes. The Warden had sent a small group of foresters, and they had all worked very hard to heal the land and to turn that side of the Great River into a welcoming elven dwelling.  

Now that things were well on their way, and that Ithilien was a well-tended land where the elves roamed free of care, Prestolon still returned to spend a sun-round or two every twelve years or so, bringing news from Lasgalen and carrying Legolas’ messages back home.  

“And it is also a good thing, to have this route to the sea open again,” he ended softly. Legolas cast him a brief, surprised glance.  

“Do you ever think of it, Prestolon?” he asked after some time, as they reached a tall elm. “The sea?”  

The Silvan shrugged briefly.  

“From time to time,” he admitted. “You were too young when Nimrodel strayed, but at that time many elves from Greenwood fled to the sea, too. My wife was one of them.” Legolas nodded quietly. Laerîniel’s naneth had also been among those unable to overcome the new wave of dread that had threatened the elven realms at that time. Gaerthûl, Laerîniel’s adar, had retired then to the northern marches and had become a solitary and grumpy forester.  

“It is said that the sea-longing lies asleep within all of us,” Prestolon continued thoughtfully. “Cannot say. Never heard it myself. And, no matter how much I miss Côfiel, I find it hard to see myself ever forsaking Middle-earth…”  

“So?” Legolas’ voice sounded strangled. As the sun-rounds wore on, he felt it more difficult to discern the voices of the trees from those of the waters, which now tugged at him insistently, mingling with the breeze and with the memory of Laerîniel’s voice, or even with the songs of the birds. He held on to the faint hope that, when he finally chose to answer that call, Laerîniel would be with him.  

“So?” There was sympathy on the stern elf’s face. “I just hope, Legolas. I just hope that one day I will wake up and feel that mysterious calling, as I have seen happen to friends and relatives, who were then unable to explain how, or why or when. Or that I will know deep inside me that my time here has come to an end. Don’t look so surprised!” he added with a smirk. “It took me long to come to admit that,” he confessed with a rueful smile.  

“Tell me how it feels not to hear the forest’s true voice,” Legolas demanded brusquely. He met Prestolon’s curious glance defiantly and then lowered his. “I know how it is,” he admitted softly. Of course he knew, the deafening silence around him the day he finally took his leave from his adar’s power and Laerîniel’s nurturing presence.  “But I wondered…”  

“You wonder how it is for Laerîniel.” Prestolon’s voice sounded unexpectedly compassionate. “We elves live on the memories of things which once were, as you well know, Legolas. I refused those memories at first, and so I lived like the Secondborn: Blind, deaf, dumb, deprived of being. I was estranged from the forest. I took to myself, to the darkest depths of the woods, wishing I’d meet my end there. Had Mandos claimed me then, most assuredly I would have refused him and become one of the houseless instead, so black was my anger and so deep my despair…” He smiled bitterly, meeting Legolas’ concerned gaze, and signalled him to stop for a moment. “Yet, as your grandfather liked to repeat, there has always been a spring following a winter, and an autumn after the plenty of summer; and such is the way of things. And so one day a spring full of promise finally came to me, and I allowed the memory of the forest song, as it used to ring through our bond, fill me anew and bring me back to life…”

“But you still miss her…”

“With every breath,” the elder elf answered sincerely.  “But I have learnt to live with the memory of her song, of our song, and that sustains me for now. It is like a dull pain, a feeling of emptiness that it is just waiting to be filled. I fear that I would feel guilty, if I sailed after her and abandoned the forest. I fear I would die there of longing... And still I hold on to the hope that one day that emptiness shall lead me to the sea. Not an easy choice for those remaining, you see,” he added with a brief chuckle, jumping brusquely to the ground and taking a faint trail that veered west, rather than following the trees to Fergobel, Legolas’ dwelling in the heart of the thick forest.

“Do you think that Laerîniel…?” After a short hesitation, Legolas hurried after him, picking the message from the trees. An awaited, and most welcome visitor was already waiting in the clearing, the furthest guests were allowed to venture without an elven escort.

“She is wise, Legolas,” Prestolon reassured him. “But it takes time to separate one's wounded pride from the love of the land and the call of the bond. And then, it takes much courage to willingly forsake the lands you are tied to, and sail into the unknown... But she is fighting bravely.”  

Legolas knew that she had been leading the foresters’ endless efforts in the most damaged areas. Her letters were brief, but he could still perceive her teary, weary voice seeping through her composed words. 

And he missed her dearly.  

Yet it was good, hearing from home, Legolas thought as he followed Prestolon. He could picture familiar faces, and voices and sounds in his mind and be satisfied with that…Until he was alone in his beech house and the sea-longing contended with another, older yearning that was not appeased but inflamed by memories. The trees around his home had learnt his moods and were able to sooth him whenever longing hit worst. The newness of their voices still managed to distract him from his thoughts, but at times he could not help wondering how it would feel for his Sûlaer, alone in the Greenwood, sitting by the Old Beech and knowing that the ancient tree’s song would never again sound in her ears as it used to whenever they met under her welcoming branches. He felt wretchedly guilty then, and he could not discard the fear that coiled within him.  

“How will she know, Prestolon?” he asked in a soft, quivering voice. The Silvan understood the unspoken question too. When will she know?  

“We are attuned to the forest, aren’t we?” he answered. “So one day she will feel that she no longer belongs there, that she is a stranger to the forest, that the trees grow silent and their voices duller. It takes time; different amounts to each of us, but we elves know. I have seen it happen,” he reassured Legolas as they walked the last stretch towards the clearing, which in winter resembled more a naked room vaulted in branches than a living gathering place. “Much as we know when a mighty oak has reached its last spring, and not just because of the look of its trunk, or its leaves or its branches, but for the beauty of its song,” he added in a respectful voice. And then, bowing deeply, he greeted their visitor. “Mae govannen, King Elessar, the trees rejoice in your presence.”  

“Mae govannen, Master Prestolon. I was not aware that you still honoured Ithilien with yours,” the visitor answered in a low, faintly amused voice, rising courteously -but with some difficulty- from the wooden bench under the old olive tree that stood in the midst of the clearing.  

“I intend to remain at least until spring is settled, Your Majesty. Is there anything that you would require of me in the meantime?” 

“Rather at your departure, my friend.” Elessar met the Silvan’s grave gaze steadily. “I would ask you to carry a message to King Thranduil, when you return to Lasgalen.”  

“It will be my pleasure to serve you, King Elessar.”  

“My thanks, Master Prestolon. I shall see to it that it is delivered to you in due time.”  

“Fare you well, Elessar, with the blessings of the Elves,” Prestolon said softly, bowing again before the King of Men. “By your leave my lord,” he nodded briefly to Legolas, who watched the exchange as if frozen, and disappeared silently towards the heart of the forest.  

“So? Are things that bad in North Ithilien that the Lord of the Elven settlement needs to plant himself like a tree?” Aragorn joked softly at his friend. “You will excuse this old man, though; I think I’ll rather take a seat...”  

“Things are better than expected in North Ithilien.” Legolas stated, forcing a tight smile as he walked into the clearing and sat by his friend, still shaken by Prestolon’s solemn behaviour.  

“I am glad to hear that. Gimli sends his greetings and says that he will join you in a couple of days. When I last saw him he was very busy inspecting the foundations for an enlargement in the stables…”  

As his friend began a detailed account of the latest architectural developements in his city, Legolas allowed himself to take in the signs he had been refusing to see. Aragorn resembled indeed an old oak which had drained his vigour for long years in the service of the forest and was now barely able to pump the green flow of life up to its tallest branches, its living skin almost completely turned into heartwood.  

His grey cloak flowed freely in the late winter breeze over a thinned, sinewy frame which retained hardly else than a memory of former strength.  Legolas also noticed the wrinkled hands with gnarled fingers and swollen joints, hands that wielded the rod of office with the same resolution with which they had wielded Andúril against darkness. The mane that had once glistened blue-black was now full grey and quite lusterless, but it still framed a face of power and dignity, the face of the man who had led the Army of the West before the Morannon and had ruled justly and wisely over a great kingdom.  

And still a man, Legolas thought in dismay, a frail mortal of short life! He bit back the bitter taste of mortality, the wave of compassion and despair that swelled inside. As one who had seen many a tree reach its ruinous age, Legolas knew that the mightiest ones yielded their lives with the greatest grace; and he knew that to be true of Men, too.  

A flash of gold in one wrinkled hand raised to put aside a silvery strand of hair reminded Legolas that this, though, was no common man. A Man he is, but one who has the blood of Lúthien in his veins, he told himself, seeing the Ring of Barahir on that knotty finger. And the thought comforted him as he sat there, enjoying the beautiful song of his friend’s voice as it rang in the clearing. What he talked about, Legolas did not care, for this was his farewell, he knew; an ordinary morning spent in ordinary conversation. It was time; the most precious gift that a mortal could offer to an immortal.  

I wonder if he knows when, he thought; and suddenly, as if reading his mind, a fiery gaze met his, and it was the blazing, knowing look of the King, but also of Aragorn the Dúnadan, the wisest of living Men.  

Of course he knows, Legolas berated himself, as Aragorn turned his attention to his well-worn boots, a companionable silence now settled between them. Soon. He has been saying his farewells for some time now…  

The three of them had enjoyed a memorable dinner some nights ago, right after Gimli arrived in Minas Tirith, no doubt summoned by Aragorn himself. Or perhaps by Arwen. The grumpy son of Durin, true to his nature and with his own lode of mithril streaking his dark braid and beard, had attributed the tiring journey to a whimsical inclination of his.  

Wine and memories –and pipe weed- had flowed freely that night, and they had greeted dawn upon the ramparts, looking over the wide lands of the Pelennor and drinking to those who were there no more. That had been another present, a memory that Legolas would treasure for all his living years, he knew.  

“Legolas, there is something…”  

He was ready to talk now, Legolas thought, bracing for what was yet to come.  

“I was raised among elves, as you know,” Aragorn began in a voice that was strong and firm and pleasant as it had been when Legolas had first heard it. “And strange as it seemed to me at first, I eventually learned what memories mean to your race.” He met the elf’s perplexed gaze and winced. “What I mean is that I know that… you will bring your memories with you to the Blessed Realm, and they will not hurt you there, but offer you comfort, so I do not worry that you might be burdened and haunted by memories…I wanted you to know that….”  

“Thank you, Aragorn, I can see that you actually learned your lessons,” Legolas answered, lifting his brows in growing puzzlement.  

“Let me speak!” He cast his friend a mildly reproving glare. “I am telling you because I have heard how it is for you elves, but I want to make sure that you understand how it is to us, humans…”  

“I hear you.”  

“My thanks. I have accomplished more than any other living man, and much of it I owe to you, my friend. We have fought together, and have struggled together in peaceful times, and you have honoured me and my people with your friendship and your support. I know not of words in the tongues of Men or Elves to tell you how richer our lives have been made by your presence here, Legolas, and only the One knows how indebted I am with your wife, and your King and your forest.”  

Legolas nodded briefly, acknowledging his friend’s gratitude with all simplicity, wondering where all that was leading.  

“Yet I would like that you knew, with the same certainty which tells me that your memories shall be your treasure in the years to come,  that I shall now embrace my gift without sorrow or regret, as it was the privilege of my ancestors. I have had a life of plenty and I have seen a new age dawning beyond hope. I leave behind a land in peace in a world that has been healed. There is nothing else that I miss, anything that I would have at this time, Legolas, and were I offered the life of the elder race at this point, I would refuse it.” He stopped for a moment to regain his breathing and cast a quick look at his friend, who listened in attentive silence. “I do not long for a fate that is not mine,” he continued slowly, fully aware of the weight of his words. “Nor begrudge a gift not meant for mortals. I am a Man of the West, and were the Evenstar to finally take ship, still I would not despair, for I know that we who once called each other friend, brother, father, son, husband or wife... We shall all meet again beyond the circles of the world, and that is the Gift of Men, which I would not give up for anything.”  

Legolas sat unmoving, silent, and the birds sang undisturbed among the early sprouts and the needled branches of the cedars for a while before the Elf finally spoke in an awed voice which sounded clearer than the singing waters of a mountain stream.  

“It is painful for us to watch you mortals die,” he managed finally. “But your hope is my comfort and your strength rekindles mine. Memories indeed shall be a joyful company the Blessed Realm, but for these words I am most grateful, Aragorn, for they put my heart at ease and remind me, yet again, of the endless courage of your race. It shall not be forgotten, my lord.”  

“Let us not call bravery what is unavoidable fate,” Aragorn chuckled to hide his emotion. “But I am comforted that my words helped you. There is nothing to grieve about in this parting, and we who have fought worst enemies, shall no doubt prevail over the tides of time..”  

“So be it, my friend.”

They sat there in companionable silence, stretching time in a way Legolas would have never thought possible. The sun was very high in the horizon when Aragorn finally let escape a deep sigh and brought hismself up on his feet with the measured composure of old age. He scowled briefly at Legolas' swift, graceful movement and then smiled softly, almost to himself.

“I have been more than blessed with your friendship, Legolas. May Elbereth guide you to a safe haven, and may all your treasures meet you there and give you comfort for all your living days,” Aragorn said in a voice that was no more than a broken whisper.  

“May the line of Elessar live long and prosperous years. Your memory and that of the Evenstar shall live forever in the songs of the Elves, my friend, and those will be of joy and praise.“  

They clasped arms in the manner of warriors and then pulled each other into a tight embrace, heart beating against heart for a moment that became forever. Finally, Aragorn let go and gave Legolas’ arms a final shake.  

“Fare you well, Legolas,” he said in a firm voice; and because there were no more words left unsaid between the two of them, he turned his back on his elven friend and walked away to where his horse waited patiently, without ever looking back.

Legolas stood there, watching his friend until he disappeared from sight, knowing that he would not see him again among the living.  

**

Not a moon had went by after the passing of King Elessar when a messenger in the black and silver livery of the citadel walked into the clearing that marked the border of the elven settlement, carrying a voluminous bundle. He spoke a few hushed words with two elven guards who met him there and departed again with a deep bow.  

“…and he said the Queen Evenstar left the city last eve, with no word of her intended purpose and with a small escort,” on of the guards informed Legolas on his flet upon a mighty beech, as the prince studied the contents of the parcel.  

“Are you ready to depart in the morning, Prestolon?” Legolas asked in a soft, tight voice. Arwen’s gift lay on the table glistening under the unsteady light that filtered through the canopy. It was a white sail of exquisitely woven linen, delicately embroidered here and there with mithril leaves intertwined with stars.  

“As you command, my lord,” the Silvan leader nodded in acquiescence. Legolas picked up the bundle of letters that accompanied the sail and walked to a small niche on the tree trunk where he kept a carved coffer. He placed Arwen’s messages in the chest and took out two folded and sealed parchments which he handed quietly to Prestolon. There was a respectful, pained silence in the flet.  

“Come, Gimli,” Legolas said then with the faintest trace of a smile. “I know where your axe and your skills can be put to good use,” he told his friend with a conniving wink. Reassured, despite Aragorn’s subtly expressed concern, that Arwen had indeed accepted her fate and would soon embrace her gift, Legolas felt there was nothing else left for him to do but answering the call that raged inside him and hoping that his Sûlaer would be ready to join him when the moment came.

In the meantime, they had a ship to build.  

Before the sun rose next morning, a chestnut mare sped across the Pelennor and past the White City. Prestolon rode away carrying the last words of King Elessar to his friend King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen.

But he carried other messages as well.  

***

Two years after the passing of King Elessar, a solitary rider reached the new harbour south of Harlond, asking for passage to the eastern side of the Anduin. This enough would have served to identify him as an elf -since none but the people of Prince Legolas used that crossing- had not his glittering eyes and the unmatchable grace of his step already revealed him as such to the crew. With a courteous nod he disembarked, mounted and rode silently into the forest.  

A few days after that, the King’s Harbourmaster walked the docks before dawn, overseeing the unloading of a valuable shipment that had arrived during the night. Most of the goods came from distant Harad, and they were immediately hauled into carts and transported to Minas Tirith. The night had been busy and now he listened distractedly to one of his clerks who was complaining about some unfulfilled procedure. To hide his annoyance, the harbourmaster let his gaze glide over the familiar, relaxing landscape of the eastern shore.  

“My lord?”  

The harbourmaster glanced guiltily at his assistant, and managed to understand something about a fine and a mountain of paper load. About to give his consent, he looked again at the other shore and blinked in surprise. He shook his head incredulously and then called a passing mariner.  

“Look over there and tell me what you see!” he demanded imperiously. The mariner looked from puzzled clerk to expectant captain and then did as he was ordered.  

“There is nothing strange, Captain,” he began. “I can see the shore, their trees, their quay…” and then gasped and fell silent. The captain nodded silently.  

“Find me a messenger. A messenger to the King and another to the Steward,” he commanded the perplexed assistant, who was grateful to have a reason to scurry away from the harbourmaster’s almost demented gaze.  

“I looked away for a moment and when I looked back it wasn’t there,” he told the mariner, who nodded gloomily. They had all become used to the sight of the white, graceful boat with the glistening sail which had been built under their approving, knowledgeable eyes, and then moored in the elven dock for the greatest part of a sun-round, awaiting no one knew what sign.  

“They are gone,” the captain murmured in dismay. He was a true seaman, born and raised in Dol Amroth. To him Elves were like a treasured family relic. “Gone to the Straight Road…Our lands and shores will be a lot duller now,” he sighed, dragging himself reluctantly from the docks to compose the messages, as the sad news spread around the harbour like wildfire.  

No one knew how it had happened, or how many had actually sailed away, but the tale of the white ship that had vanished in the thin air grew in the telling, and if there were any Elves left in Ithilien, no one ever saw them again, so the knowledge of their existence passed into oblivion, only to become another legend from the soon mythical rule of King Elessar, for such is the short-lived memory of mortal men.

TBC

Chapter 10. What future brings.

In Eressëa.

The waves died with a tired sigh on the pale sands of the immortal shores. To one of the elves who walked barefoot along the beach it seemed that they whispered the same word to one another as they dissolved at his feet. “Sûlaer,” they chanted endlessly in his ear.

“I used to dream of this,” he said aloud, partly to escape that relentless refrain. “I walked this same beach, and the waves were whispering her name…”

His companion shook her head thoughtfully. She walked silently by his side,   challenging crests of foam with a white foot. The wind played with her golden tresses as she lifted her head and looked east, whence they both had come long time ago, though in different ships.

“I, who endured years uncounted of sea-longing, say that there is no pain like that of spouse-longing, Legolas Thranduilion,” she sighed forlornly, bringing them to a halt. As she spoke, she playfully raised her foot and splashed him with cold water. Her clear voice rang over the crashing waves, lifting the passing cloud over her companion’s face.

“I defer to your experience in these matters, Lady Galadriel,” he said, jumping backwards and laughing briefly.

“You are wise, Thranduilion. And we shall endure, for such is our way,“ she added with a resigned, beautiful smile. “Let us return,” she suggested then. “Surely my daughter and her husband must have finished roasting our catches by now!”

Legolas nodded in agreement, turning his back on the east without regret. He waited, much as she did, as Elrond and Celebrían did, and as did many of the residents in Eressëa. But none despaired; for such was the grace and healing of those lands.

***

Lasgalen, somewhere near  the Mountains. Late summer, year 402 of the Fourth Age.

“Do not think you can threaten us, woman…”

“Father, no! She is a true Elf!”

“Caelin, come here!”

“Let go of the boy, now!”

“Offa, stop it, please! She saved me!”

“Woman or wraith, you better drop your knife and your bow, you are outnumbered here!”

The men seemed nervous, frightened, and that made them very dangerous. The boy must have thought the same, Laerîniel noticed briefly, because he stood between her and the nocked arrows, his arm stretched to protect her while he pleaded uselessly with his father. As Laerîniel began unfastening her knife sheath from her belt with the greatest reluctance, a familiar, calm voice filled her with deep relief.

“And you are surrounded, Men, so you drop your bows, quivers and knives…”

Laerîniel smiled at the startled faces of the Men as Mallereg silently dropped from a tree to her left, his bow drawn and a slate-pointed arrow trained on the man closest to her. At the same time she distinguished Brûnech and Thalaûr at the men’s backs. Surrounded indeed, Laerîniel snorted mentally while the four men, encouraged by the not so friendly elven faces, slowly got rid of their weapons, not sparing outraged grumbling and murderous glances.

“And now, we will welcome you axes as well,“ Mallereg continued in his softly mocking, congenial voice as Thalaûr stepped up and relieved them from their tools.

“You have no right!” the one who had threatened Laerîniel and seemed to be in charge glared defiantly at Mallereg.

“These woods are under King Thranduil’s protection and no mortal is allowed to wander in here,” he informed them in a cold, menacing voice, his face blank as he kept his bow steadily aimed at the intruders.

“We know not of this king,” the Man spat angrily, despite his fellows’  warning glances. “We are settlers from the Forest Land. If you have a complain you should come before the Master of the Forest, who granted us permission to hunt and cut trees in his lands…”

“The Woodland Realm begins North of the Mountains,“ Mallereg stated calmly. “So you are well out of limits here. Tell your Master that no hunting,  foraging, logging, tapping or roaming is allowed here to your kin by the will of King Thranduil, who has been king of this forest for longer than you Men have walked these lands. And advise him to change his title. The forest allows no domination. Now get on your way, and be warned that we will not be so kind if we run into any of your people trespassing again on our boundaries.”

“You cannot abandon us unarmed in the wild!”

"One of my patrols is waiting down the hill to see you safely off our limits and make sure that you do not return,” the prince shrugged, signalling briefly to Brûnech. “Do you intend to become a forester in our ranks, sapling?” he addressed then the puzzled youth, who stood motionless and gaping before Laerîniel. “You can keep your weapons,” Mallereg added with unrestrained mirth as the boy blushed in embarrassment and raised a trembling hand to his bow.

“I…” the boy stuttered, turning to look at Laerîniel. “Are they Elves too?” He asked in wonder. She smiled and patted his head.

“They are. Go now, and do not forget what you’ve seen and learnt,” she said softly, pushing him encouragingly towards his father, who embraced him tightly and gave her a brief, grateful nod. Pressed by a stern-looking Brûnech, the four men and the boy started off south and soon disappeared from sight.

“Three people cannot make a circle, Mallereg,” Laerîniel pointed out amusedly while her nephew and his father-in-law examined the men’s  bows and axes.

“I am glad to see you too, Aunt; you need not thank me for saving your hide, surrounded or not,” the prince smiled. “Can you explain to us what are you doing this south and on your own?” he added pleasantly. “This is a good one,” he told Thalaûr, showing him one of the axes.

“Do not be so smug, Mallereg, I needed not your help to get out of this...”

“But you would not have your bow and knife with you but for our timely support, not to mention that they would be still roaming the woods. Where is your patrol?”

“A day north,” she admitted easily, sitting on the ground and producing a piece of lembas from her pack. “We ran into the boy while we checked an outbreak of birch canker. We were aware of their passage some days ago, so I sent Cûrion east to warn Maegolf’s patrol...We were to meet around here.”

“But you met the men first,” Thalaûr ended up, offering her his waterskin. She accepted it with a shrug.

“What are you doing this south?”

“Protecting the forest and helping the foresters, as it is our duty,” Mallereg said with a scowl, sitting by her side and accepting a bit of lembas.

“We ran into Maegolf’s party and sent them to check on a group of poachers in the eastern border, while we took charge of this menace,” Thalaûr added, taking a long swig and passing the waterskin on to Mallereg.

Laerîniel sighed.  Things had changed greatly since the War, and orcs and spiders were but a memory for the elves. They had regained control of lands long kept by the enemy or rotten by his evil, and thanks to their patient care -and the trees’ stubborn resilience- great expanses of forest had been totally recovered.

But Men had thriven as well, all around them. Keeping them from trespassing on the borders of the once remote and dreaded Mirkwood had become a growing problem in a world were elves were no more than a memory, or, in the case of many of the new arrivals and their masters, had never been known.Poaching and logging were only too common in many places along the once well-protected borders of Lasgalen, despite Mallereg’s and the now mostly nomadic settlers’ brave efforts.

“Anyway, it is good that we found you,” the prince said, exchanging a  curious glance with Thalaûr, “so we can travel back together. Did Maerlag meet you on his way back? No?” At Laerîniel’s questioning glance he continued. “You and I have been summoned to the King’s presence, my dear Aunt,” he informed in his noncommittal manner. “That’s why I sent Maegolf east and came myself to your rescue...Don’t know what for,” he added defensively at her sharp stare. “I just obey.”

“It is a pleasure seeing this young one so compliant and dutiful for a change, isn’t it, Thalaûr?”

“I think I will forget ever hearing this conversation,” the guard announced judiciously, packing his waterskin and beginning to gather the confiscated weapons, tying the axes by their handles with a length of pine-root cord for easier carrying. “We’d better start off, since the King awaits us,” he added pointedly, shaking his head at Mallereg’s smug face.

They took a trail north and walked for several days under cover of a leafed tunnel that shook gracefully in an early autumn wind. Yet from time to time they also found rotten branches and decaying trees which had not already reached their old age.

“Why would the King summon us?” Laerîniel wondered aloud one night, licking the last crumbles of the sweet hemlock-bark cake from her fingers. They had pitched camp on a carpet of fallen leaves, despite the early season. “It is the first time, since Lord Celeborn announced his departure almost an ennin ago,” she added thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he wants a detailed report?” Mallereg suggested as he put more dead wood in their fire to last them part of the night. “Nobody knows what’s going on throughout the forest better than you, Laerîniel,” he said with a fond smile. “Except for the King, of course. I shall keep the first watch, Thalaûr,” he offered with a tired sigh

Laerîniel lay upon a pile of leaves and wrapped herself in her blanket. Through a gap in a canopy that was still healthily dense there she could glimpse the twinkling stars above their heads, a sight that had comforted her since she was a young child, more than an age ago.  She heard an owl hooting in disappointment, and the soft murmur of the leaves on the trees commenting the failed catch. Lasgalen was alive, and she could still feel its voices better than anyone else, she told herself reassuringly, banishing thoughts of young trees felled down, pines bleeding their resin to death, fires that assaulted their borders recurrently, the invading plagues of diverse cankers, leaf scorching, shoot blight and decay that afflicted different parts of the forest.  As she drifted off she wondered briefly how it would be to walk endlessly under the leaves of the healthy woods beyond the Sea.

Even half-asleep, the thought hurt her deeply.

*******

In Eressëa

“Were he to learn that mellyrn actually grew around here, the Lord Celeborn would be seen striding down Círdan’s quays in no time, I assure you, my friend.”

Legolas and his mare snorted in chorus.

“Do you think you would have forsaken Middle-earth earlier had you known, Haldir?”

“Surely not,” the former march warden agreed easily. “But I must admit that it was an important concern of mine,” he added with a wide smile. “The sight of their tall limbs and golden leafs reassured me far more than that of the White Tree, when I first set foot upon the Isle.”

They had reached the top of a knoll, crowned by tall mellyrn, that oversaw the sea and the main haven in the most blessed shore of Tol Eressëa. A soft breeze sang merrily among the silvery, wooden, carved sea-foam and crystal wrought smoking-pipes the Elves loved to hang from the lowest branches of a strong mallorn tree, in memory of the three Ring bearers and their smoking fellows.

“Well, Master Samwise was equally delighted,” Haldir added in a soft voice as they dismounted and let their horses graze freely for a while.

“I can very well believe that,” Legolas said, stretching his limbs and looking around with a wistful smile. None of the three old hobbits had lived to see him reach the Lonely Isle, but the memory of their happy, generous natures still lingered in that favoured place of theirs. They, as well as Gimli when his time came, had asked to be buried there, among the mellyrn, in that splendid lookout from which, on clear days, the shores of Valinor could be descried.

“It is so peaceful, here…” Legolas was standing by the rim of the hill, watching as the Sun came slowly to her daily rest beyond the calm waters. “If those who still linger there could know how blessed this land is they would not be reluctant to take ship, would they?” he wondered aloud.

“I know not, Legolas. Actually we always knew, although we never truly believed. I would have never thought it possible myself, until the Lady Galadriel departed, and then the lord left us, and suddenly I began considering what lay beyond the Sea…Now, I cannot help wondering that she managed to remain there for so long…She was an exile,” he added as explanation. “She knew what she had left behind, she must have longed deeply for Elvenhome…”

“She surely had her own motives...”

“Of course she had. But that did not make it easier, I suspect… Would you ever forsake willingly these forests for those of Middle-earth, now that you have known this beatitude? ”

“No, I think not,” Legolas answered honestly. “Yet I was happy in Lasgalen, Haldir, and it pains me that those who still remain there are bound to suffer the uncertainty of sea-longing or deep despair, until they finally fade away in grief or accept to take ship. I wished there was an easier way for them…”

“I know what worries you, my friend,” Haldir patted his shoulder comfortingly. “But maybe your departure served to clear the way for others to accept that the time of the elves has finally come to an end. My lord Celeborn is not less stubborn than your father or your wife, Thranduilion,” he added with a lopsided smile. “Love is stronger than the Belegaer, you will see…”

“I shall trust your word, then,” Legolas answered with a resigned smile. “I think we should go on,“ he added, as the impatient seabird that had summoned him earlier that day in his forest house clacked her beak exasperatedly. Mounting their steeds, the two elves followed the unsettled bird down the steep trail.

“I wonder what’s the urgency,”  Haldir sighed after the bird flew again daringly close to his horse’s head, hurrying them. Time passed pleasantly in Tol Eressëa, and rush, together with grief or fear were  emotions the Elves remembered but rarely experienced there. A leisurely ride to the havens had seemed to Haldir a good occasion to pay a visit to the Lady Galadriel, who still dwelled by the Sea patiently awaiting the arrival of her lord, and so he had joined Legolas gladly when he met him on his way that morning. Most of the Galadhrim -as well as former inhabitants of Greenwood- dwelled deep in the dense forests of Tavrobel, and Legolas had soon resumed an easy friendship with many of them.

“She is leading us to the port,” Legolas confirmed, fighting the uncertainty that suddenly assailed him. To their right, the white tower of Ingil shone brightly in the evening sun above the tall, ashen limbed elms that surrounded the city of Alamminorë on its green hill, while the bird kept flying down towards the sea.

Once in the small city, they hurried their steeds along the bright path of flaming beacons that led from the quayside to Círdan’s house, barely noticing the strange vessel moored by the graceful swan-ships that pitched calmly by the docks. A helpful mariner walked out of Cirdan’s house to take care of their horses, followed by a tall, golden-haired lady who beckoned to them gracefully.

“Legolas! And Haldir too, well-done my friend!” the lady smiled to the seabird, who had landed quite recklessly upon her shoulder and nibbled affectionately at her ear. The sound of singing and merrymaking reached them from the inner yard.

“Lady Meril,  what is this all about?” Legolas asked, exchanging a baffled glance with his friend. Travellers from Middle-earth were seldom greeted with such ceremony at the Shipwright’s house. The tall lady who was King Ingwë’s great-granddaughter offered an arm to each puzzled elf. “Come and see for yourselves, my friends! I am sure there will be great feasting in Tavrobel soon!” she told them with a mysterious smile, leading them inside.

The stone paved yard inside Círdan’s house was crowded, and Haldir soon disappeared amidst the multitude, no doubt wishing to greet a long-missed friend. The new arrivals were easily spotted, Legolas thought amusedly; they wore amazement like a cloak. Celebrían’s smile was radiant as a summer morning, and she kept a possessive clutch on her sons’ arms. Legolas had trouble making his way through the delighted crowd that surrounded them, for not only Elrond’s household seemed complete now, but there were many elves from Olwë’s court as well, surely come to greet Ëarwen’s great-grandchildren, Legolas reasoned after some family-tree pondering.

“Legolas!” The twin sons of Elrond showed the puzzled expression of all new arrivals, but their smiles were a bit too forced. “Is there a back door anywhere here?” one of them whispered hurriedly into his ear, as they exchanged warrior arm clasps in welcome.

“You surely want to cause a good impression on your kin,” Legolas began admonishingly. “And, I regret to inform you, almost everyone around is bound to be somehow related to you,” he continued, and they all laughed at the twins’ dismayed groans. “It is good to have you here at last, my friends,” he added with deep sentiment, patting again the twins’ shoulders, not daring to raise the questions he died to ask.

“We did not cross the Misty Mountains again after Eldarion’s passing,” Elladan told him quickly, aware of his restlessness, “but Celeborn brings messages from your wife and your family…“

“Come, Legolas, and greet my adar. Watch your sons, Elrond, they are already plotting how to slip away unnoticed,“ Celebrían commanded gently, pushing Legolas along. “He asked to see you as soon as he…was allowed to speak,” she told him with a mischievous grin as they made their way through the same dense throng to the other side of the yard.

Legolas could not hold a delighted smile as the crowd parted to reveal them in their midst, tall and shiny like Telperion and Laurelin must have been, the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel finally reunited beyond  the Sea.

“I am glad to see that you finally found it impossible to resist whatever the call, Lord Celeborn,” he said loudly, bowing respectfully to hide his mischievous grin.

“I am sure you are, Thranduilion,” retorted the lord, pulling him into a tight embrace while Galadriel smiled indulgently at them.

“And one would be tempted to think that he really took his time,” a voice objected with undisguised reproach.

“We already talked about that, Grandfather,” Galadriel said soothingly.

“Well-met, King Olwë,” Legolas bowed respectfully while Celeborn sighed in mild exasperation.

“Well-met, young Thranduilion. See? This young one did come when his task was complete, much as Elrond. I cannot understand…”

“Take this, Legolas,” Celeborn whispered hurriedly, pushing a bundle of soft leather into his hands. “We shall talk later…if I survive,” he added with a groan.

“But they are all here at last, Olwë,“ the lady Meril interrupted cheerfully. “And you must admit that they did a great job with their ship…”

“Better than anything my son-in-law ever achieved, I’ll grant you that, my dear lady,” the Teleri king acknowledged with a mischievous smile and a nod to Finarfin, who had just joined the group and rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the barb.

“You are too kind, Lady Meril…what.. what is that? It cannot possibly be the same bird?” Legolas followed the astonished look in Celeborn’s face to the white seabird perched on her shoulder. Deciding that he was far more interested in the contents of the leather bag than in a well-known old tale of past ages and smitten gulls, he nodded guiltily to Celebrían and began to slip away.

“…her descendant. She wouldn’t be parted from my grandfather…” the clear voice of the Vanyarin lady followed him as he entered a wooden door he knew led to one of Círdan’s storerooms, and, through a path of tools, discarded planks of wood and fishing nets, out to the beach. Once under the stars, he sat cross-legged by a torch, opened the leather bag and  immersed himself in the loving words that came from a land beyond the sea, and from a life that had once been his. 

“…Legolas?”

He blinked, suddenly brought out of his contemplation. The stars twinkled high in the sky, and the sounds of merrymaking were now dimmer. The night was well in, he knew.  He looked up to see Celeborn and Galadriel shinning down on him with the same all-knowing, stately smiles he remembered from the first time he had seen them, welcoming tired travellers on their talan in Lórien. But they looked closer now, less awe-inspiring and whole, he noticed. Very different from when he had last seen them together, he thought, worn-out and haunted reflections supporting an equally exhausted Elrond after he completed the most painful part of his duty in Middle-earth.

“You were saying, my lord?” He realized that he had been staring and blushed violently, turning his gaze to the wristband of threaded beech bark in his hands, and the beech leaf that had enveloped that present from his wife. Who knew which descendant of the Old Beech it came from, he wondered idly as Celeborn and Galadriel sat by his side.

“It was love in the end, Legolas,” Celeborn said quietly. Legolas’ head shot up and he looked at the lord in amazement.

“Not the sea-longing? Tell me how it felt!” he urged him.

“It was…” The tall lord groped for words and then shrugged. “We just wished there was a way back, so we could tell the rest,” he finally said, almost apologetically. “As soon as we took the Straight Road… I mean, it was as if -all of a sudden- all grief, sorrow, longing and weariness had been lifted from our spirits…It was all there: the pain, the struggle, the losses, the love and happiness… and it suddenly…just made sense, everything,” he ended with an awed whisper.

Legolas smiled. He knew the feeling, as did every Elf who reached the True West. Memories were there, clear as a spring morning and treasured like a precious thing, yet the weight of grief and sorrow was replaced by an overwhelming understanding and immense relief. It had been a deep joy to him, as the urgency of the sea-longing finally died in his ears and turned into a gentle, soothing whisper, but he had been curious to learn how it felt to one who had sailed without being forced by the call.

“You will grow used to it, my lord, for that is the way here,” the lady told him reassuringly. “We find fulfilment in simply being, and time’s grasp is not painful but enlightening. It is almost as it used to be, when the Trees still shone and the Morgoth had not been unchained,” she added with longing.

“It is as it used to be back then under the stars, before the Sun and the Moon,” the lord retorted in mild defiance, “when the Moriquendi roamed the lands of Middle-earth freely and contented with just being…” They both locked gazes and Legolas could not suppress an amused smile. He could not tell, since he had not known anything like that in Middle-earth.

“But since that is now beyond the Elves’ reach there,” he acknowledged easily, speaking slowly, as if wondering in his own words, “it is natural that we finally find our place beyond the Sea, while never forgetting the lands of our youth…instead of dwindling there, wallowing in regret…It seems so easy and simple now…”

“And yet not to be burdened by memories and longing, but comforted and refreshed,” the lady pointed out evenly. “Four you are not exiles; the gift of healing is extended to all those who dare take ship, and I am most glad for it,” she ended with a soft smile. “But I believe that Legolas wanted to know what prompted you to sail, my lord,” she added with a mischievous smile.

“Oh that! I…I am not sure how it happened,” the lord admitted with a bemused smile. “Yet one day I awoke to the certainty that it was a question of time before the Men finally swarmed the valley and settled down before Imladris’ very threshold…and suddenly I knew that I did not want to be there when it happened. So I summoned Elladan and Elrohir and told them to begin gathering all knowledge available in Elrond’s remaining library concerning shipbuilding…while I paid a due visit to King Thranduil.”

“So it was not love in the end…”

Let me go on with my tale, Lady,” he reproached her softly. Legolas’ indulgent smile at their affectionate bickering had a touch of longing.

“It was love,” Celeborn insisted. “As I rode from the valley I felt like I always did when returning to Lórien after spending a season visiting there. I felt that I was going home, and suddenly I knew that it did not matter to me if there were or were not mellyrn beyond the Sea, for there my lady dwelled, and I just wanted to dwell by her,” he added tenderly, heedless of the pained wince in Legolas’ face.

"My father must have been amused by your reasoning,” he said, trying to sound jovial.

“Quite,” Celeborn admitted dryly. “And I am sure that he felt relieved, too, that he would beat me there...” Legolas chuckled helplessly at that, the agony in his chest forgotten for a moment. “I spent the winter and the following spring there and we talked at length about the lands. Your father may be stubborn enough for Oropher’s measure, but he is wise as well, and he knows his forest…and his own heart,” Celeborn explained kindly.

“It will not be easy for him though…” Legolas wondered what on Middle-earth could move his adar to give up on his beloved forest –and the people who trusted him- and take ship to the West. “He is not one to concede defeat…”

“He has had almost three ennin, since you departed to Ithilien,  to get used to the idea. Besides, it is not as if it was a new one,” Celeborn sighed, his gaze lost for a moment on the waves. “We have all long known that the time of the Elves was running short…”

“And… Laerîniel?” Legolas’ voice came as a strangled whisper.

“She…she is as stubborn as her adar.”

“So says her naneth...” Legolas could not avoid a faint smile at Celeborn’s mild exasperation.

“Glîrbain knows better than anyone. Yet she will welcome the messages that I bring from them,” the lord said softly. “Laerîniel is still wounded, Legolas, and she refuses to admit that she is fighting a lost battle. We rode together for some time, inspecting damages on the forest; the trees love her deeply, yet she grieves because they will not heal as she would them…”

Seeing Legolas’ pained expression, he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She holds on to the forest because that is all that is left of you,” he said softly. “She will come for love, as I did,” he added then with such conviction that Legolas found himself holding blindly to that hope, as Lord Celeborn began telling them of the changes in the lands to the East; of new roads and trade routes, new cities and thriving ports and lands cleared for tilth…

TBC

A/N: According to the Book of Lost Tales 1, Meril-i-Terinqui was a descendant of Ingil son Ingwë, who dwelled in Eressëa for some time after returning from the War of Wrath. The seabird just…followed.

Chapter 11. …Where the heart is.

Thranduil's stronghold. Late summer, year 402 of the Fourth Age.

“…And lands cleared for tilth or pasture. The swamps are desiccated by now, and a whole new city has been built at the end of the Old Forest Road. We have been unable to stop them from felling ennin-old oaks there for their mighty buildings and bridges, and they have occupied great stretches of land. Poaching is a growing problem throughout the forest, and trade is more difficult than ever. We are lucky that we do not need a steady supply of iron for our forges, for its price is already out of our reach…”  

“So, all things considered, I am not wrong...”  

“You never are, as you well know. It is only that insufferable pride of yours, that loves to be petted from time to time…”  

“Well, sometimes I am…Wrong, I mean. See? I was sure you would not be convinced to climb this high…”  

Thranduil and Brethil were perched on the tallest branch of a powerful yew tree on the hill that protected the back of the stronghold. They had climbed there at the king’s urging and had spent all morning in serious conversation, as their keen eyes took in the changes and damages in their forest and Brethil summed up the situation.  

“I only agreed because it would have been unbecoming for the King to be heard holding a secret council with his secretary while shouting from top of a yew tree.”  

“Indeed…”  

“Yet I would suggest that we ended this conversation upon the forest floor, Your Majesty,” Brethil added with a sudden glint of mischief that Thranduil missed, his eyes still trained on the lands around them. The grazing lands and homesteads of the Men of Dale were each day closer to the forest rim. “Last to touch ground shares his wine!” the secretary shouted as he began climbing down at full speed. Thranduil let escape an aggravated growl and started after him, yet despite his own reckless descent the few moments that Brethil had managed to snatch proved enough in the end for his secretary to beat him thoroughly. 

“You traitorous orc spit…”  

“That is quite an honourable form of address in these times, my lord, yet not one that will save you from sharing your wineskin,” Brethil warned as they both walked to the place where they had left their light packs and took seat by the trees.  

“An honourable form of address?” Thranduil raised a puzzled brow as they unpacked a light refreshment.  

“Well, at least one the new generation does not fully comprehend, if there is actually something like a `new generation´ Brethil explained, lifting his friend’s wineskin to his mouth with a victorious grin. “Dorwinion?” he asked in surprise after the first swig.  

“From the King’s private cellars,” Thranduil confirmed seriously. “Galion and I agreed that curbing Mallereg’s access was a priority, if we wanted our supplies to last long enough…”  

“The old lord of Dorwinion died past spring, I heard,” Brethil nodded with a knowing smile.  

“You heard rightly. I am awaiting the right occasion to bring forth the issue again with his heir…I expect it was clear to them that their wine is not worth unrestricted access to our woods and wildlife,” Thranduil said dryly, savouring his cherished wine with a sigh. They sat in silence, sharing the tasty salmon cakes and enjoying the peace around them despite their worries.  

“Men are strange creatures,” Brethil said after a long pause. “They have dislodged the Beornings from the Carrock. The once wild Forest Men now bow to a foreign master who is turning them into farmers, and are burning down the woods that once sheltered and fed them…Orcs would not make a better job.”  

“Men tend to become restless in peace and prosperity, my friend,” Thranduil reminded him with mild scorn.  

“The forest is besieged on all sides, and the trees are retreating slowly but definitely, even if our numbers are not growing…”  

“I did not get to see those things from up there,” Thranduil observed wryly between mouthfuls. “Your sight is keen, my friend.”  

“It must be, since I am forced to make sense out of your grandson’s scribbles…”  

“So…What do you think?” Thranduil spied his long-time friend’s face, trying to mask his own anticipation. Brethil took a deep breath and cast him a long, considering stare.  

“It was about time, Thranduil; you know it was,“ he finally said with an apologetic smile. “You have known since Legolas came home, since Celeborn left Lórien, since the Galadhrim sailed… It is the Age of Men, and soon there will be no place left for us here…”  

“It has not been easy to accept, though…”  

“Of course not,” Brethil agreed, and Thranduil knew that he understood his struggle. “Am I right in assuming that Lord Celeborn’s defeat helped, though?” They both let escape amused laughs.  

“It helped,” Thranduil admitted, still chuckling. “And the forest has been giving warning signs too. And still…what will our people think?” he wondered in a quiet whisper.  

“They will think that our time has come indeed, since our King is forced to make this painful decision. Many will not follow, but none shall dare contest your wisdom. And many who would not sail on their own would most probably follow you. The forest speaks to you, even the Silvan have admitted that. And it has been talking to all of us,” he added with a sad sigh. “What does Gaildineth say?”  

“That it was about time,” Thranduil conceded ruefully, and both laughed again, the king’s confidence apparently restored by his friend’s support. “She wants me to make an announcement tonight, you know she has arranged dinner in the sward for the whole household and those who would join us, but I am not certain that I want to let it be known just right know, with Laerîniel and Mallereg still abroad…”  

“You did not read the reports from the Home Guard, did you?” Brethil inquired as he extended a hand and hauled his friend up on his feet. 

“That is Bôrgalas’ responsibility,” Thranduil shrugged as they picked up the remains of their meal. “Is there anything I should have been aware of?” he demanded as they took the path back.  

“I do not think so,” Brethil answered, biting his lips to hold back a chortle. “But you should have learnt to follow Gaildineth’s suggestions as commands after all these ennin, Thranduil.”  

“Well, at least I have learnt to expect anything when it comes to the two of you conspiring,” he retorted grumpily, as they entered the stronghold.  

“Innocent!” Brethil claimed later in the afternoon, when one of the queen’s maids summoned them to the Great Doors to welcome the new arrivals. Mallereg, Laerîniel and Thalaûr stood there, exchanging greetings with the family.  

“Your arrival is doubly welcome, my children!” Thranduil said with a wide smile, disentangling Laerîniel from her granddaughter, one of the few children that had been born in that age,  and embracing his daughter-in-law. “Unexpected but most timely,” he added casually, casting a curious glance at Mallereg.  

“I had promised to be home today, my lord, and I am told there is some kind of celebration tonight…” the prince tried fruitlessly to slip away with his wife. 

“You told me the King had summoned us!” Laerîniel advanced menacingly upon her nephew. 

“I owed you one, Aunt,” the irrepressible prince laughed, hiding behind his wife as a precaution.  

“And you allowed it!” Laerîniel turned then her anger to the impassive guard.  

“A nephew’s privilege, Laerîniel,” Thalaûr reminded her with a vindictive smile. “By your leave, my lord, I shall go home now,” he smiled, kissing his daughter and bowing to the king and the assembled company as he retraced his steps back to his cottage.

Later in the evening they met informally in the sward; the family, the whole household, the guards and the few residents that still spent the summer around the stronghold now that most of the inhabitants of Lasgalen had returned to their nomadic habits and the patrols had been drastically reduced.  

They all sat together at long tables and shared their meals; salmon and trout cakes, summer mushrooms with fresh leaves and onions, acorn bread and baked wild bulbs, and handfuls of berries; all washed down with a light, amber-coloured ale.  

“This will come not as a great surprise, my friends.” Thranduil began as the last honey-cakes disappeared in idle conversation and merry chatter. A sudden stillness received his words. He looked briefly at the expectant faces and continued after a deep intake.  

“We Elves are wanderers. Since our forefathers first awoke in Cuiviénen we have roamed these wide lands from East to West and back again, delighting in their wonders, joining our voices with those of the woods, healing and caring, and giving and taking, and in doing so fulfilling the role that we were appointed, as mere stewards of these lands before the Dominion of Men,” he said with mixed bitterness and resignation.  

He looked from his family to his friends and counsellors, the settlers and guards, the kitchen aids and stable hands, people he had known for many an ennin and who looked at him now in sympathy and understanding, in anticipation and deep trust. He felt Gaildineth’s hand slip into his and press comfortingly, and that gave him the final strength to pronounce the words he had been dreading to say.  

“We never stepped back in the face of danger or difficulty. We will not now. It is time to move ahead, as we have always done. We all hear the voices of the trees. They are weary, their numbers dwindling. There is little else than we can do for them; some of us departed to Ithilien, thus easing the pressure on the woods. Our numbers have not increased in the past ennin, we are careful in what we take, and we dwell not long in the same places, or in great settlements. And yet the forest will not thrive as we hoped, for the greed of Men is endless, and they disregard our concerns and counsel, taking more from the forest that it would be safe for it to yield…”  

Even the trees in the clearing seemed to be listening intently, and the nightingales had stopped their evening song. It wasn’t uncommon that they talked about such things, but this time would be different, and would be the last. The king’s serene expression did not reflect how painful this was for him. He cleared his throat and continued his speech, summoning all his strength and radiating self-assurance and enthusiasm that were contagious.  

“It is time for bold decisions, my friends. As once my father started East with those who would follow him –and later north- in search of a safer dwelling place, so I will travel now West, beyond the Seas, to the wide forests that have been awaiting us since before Time. It will not be immediate,” he added, raising a hand in placating gesture at the dismayed looks in many faces around him. “It will take some time, and much counsel must be taken among us, to ensure the safety of those departing and the well-being of those remaining,” he said with a brief smile. “But let it be known that King Thranduil will lay down his ties with the Forest and will return his powers to the trees that granted them before this ennin is ended,” he pronounced louder, in a voice that did not tremble. The assembled Elves held their breath while the trees around them shook, as if moved by a sudden wind, conveying the news across the forest.  

A laden silence followed.  

“Let there be music!” The Queen’s clear voice broke the gloomy silence, and uncertain notes lifted from a flute here and a fiddle there, and then someone began to hum a well-known tune and others followed, soon filling the sward with their voices.  

“Do you want me to go to her?”  

Thranduil lifted weary, uncomprehending eyes to his wife and then let his gaze wander along the table, meeting concerned glances and spotting the vacant place were Laerîniel had been sitting.  

“No. I will,” he said with renewed decision. The trees guided him to the queen’s garden, where she sat by an olive tree whose seed had come from Ithilien.  

“Laerîniel…”  She stood up slowly, her breathing ragged, her face a mixture of pain, betrayal and incredulity. 

With a deep sigh he walked to her until they were face to face and looked down on her troubled countenance. He did not intend to set foot in the Blessed Realm without his son’s wife. 

“The time has come and decisions must be made. You will sail with us, will you?” It was neither a question nor a command, but yet challenging enough to force an answer from her. As she lifted rebellious eyes, he simply bared his faer to her. All his love of the forest, his anguish at its slow decay, his deep longing and weariness, the weight of long ennin of duty and the pain of abandoning it were there for her to search; and share, if she dared.  

It served his purpose, it seemed, for suddenly she broke into tears and held on to him, overwhelmed by the burden of her own grief. 

“I will my lord, I will,“ she finally admitted softly, and she laughed amidst her tears because, as it seemed to her, she had at last found out the way to healing.  

Early autumn, year 431 of the Fourth Age.  

“It is done,” Thranduil said softly, and to those around him it seemed unbelievable that with a few murmured words and a graceful gesture of his right hand the king had relinquished his bond with the forest and surrendered back all the power which had sustained trees, rocks  and elves together for ennin. Only the knowledge that the echo of his faer would remain for long in the forest-song offered them some comfort to those who had chosen to linger there.  

“It will be liveable for a long time,” the king pointed to the stronghold, “although water and root will soon begin to reclaim what once belonged to them,” he added with a twisted smile. Prestolon nodded silently.  

Almost half of the population of Lasgalen had been leaving at regular intervals in the past weeks, in small groups commanded by Bôrgalas, Mallereg and some of their officers. Now the last of the companies awaited in the Sward. The King’s company was made up of his wife and her retinue, his counsellors and the few descendents of Oropher’s; the last remnants of the most ancient Sindarin families that still walked Middle-earth.  

“When you feel that your time has finally come, you need only push the Great Doors closed. The rocks will fit perfectly and will not open again…or so the dwarves who wrought them claimed,” Thranduil said with a sceptic scowl. He cast a long look around, taking in all details. A few elves who still lived around the stronghold were gathered there to see them goodbye. He checked his company, ready and waiting. They travelled lightly; few and chosen possessions were carried away, as they expected that memories would sustain them.  

“Do not linger long, Prestolon,” the king said finally, clasping arms with the stubborn, short-tempered Silvan leader that had been the ban of his rule, and of his father’s. “Men’s advance is as unstoppable as the tides…The trees  know how to protect themselves, but soon there will be no place for the elves to live as we used to. And I will have to tell your wife that you will be coming soon,” he added in a warning voice.  

“I will. But there is still joy in these woods for us, and we can strengthen and protect the trees for some time before facing our choice. When that moment arrives, I will sail down the Anduin to gather those lingering in Ithilien, and into the West, my King. May the stars shine on your path.”  

“And upon yours. We will be awaiting you all,” Thranduil replied simply. He put his hand to his heart and bowed to those who remained. He then mounted his mare, nodded to the assembled company and nudged his steed onwards amidst an impressive silence.  

Soon, though, the merry voices of the Wood-elves rose in song, mingled with those of the trees, who bent their branches and shook their leaves, brightly dressed with their finest autumn gold, to honour the former King of Lasgalen on his last ride through his forest.   

It moved them to hear those voices for the last time, even if they knew that their own would still echo for many ennin in the forest and they would carry the memory of the trees’ voices with them; but the excitement of the road was also on them.  

They spent a whole day and night in song and recollection once they reached the Forest Gate, saying their final farewells, but by the time they forded the Anduin and began to climb the first slopes of the Misty Mountains, their minds were mostly set on what lay ahead on the Road. It had been the King’s wish that they set sail from Mithlond, so they could retrace the road they had once taken two ages ago. To this company, in which rode most of the last survivors of that long journey, that route held a special meaning.  

“Your adar would be proud of you.”  

Thranduil sighed and pulled his wife under his cloak, to protect her from the chilled autumn winds. The company had stopped for the night on a small plateau, half-way up in the long ascent towards the High Pass. It commanded a good view over the now distant sea of green; perhaps their last.  

“He would have done the same, I believe. Yet it wasn’t easy, to give up, and concede defeat…”  

“You did what was best. See how many have followed? And the rest will have another reason to consider sailing instead of dwindling and fading,  knowing that their king awaits them there…” Gaildineth pressed against him, sensing his discouragement and his pain. She knew how much it had cost him, to freely let go of his bond with the forest. “No one blames you, Thranduil, even Gaerthûl agrees!”   

He snorted softly at that. Laerîniel’s adar might agree, but was still his old gruff and disapproving self. With a great effort he shrugged and smiled faintly.  

“It doesn’t matter. It had to be done, the forest could not sustain us for much longer and we would have ended up battling the Men only to find ourselves confined in a remote corner of our own woods forced to fade in grief…” He sighed again and rested his chin on her shoulder, drawing comfort from her  closeness. “How about you, my lady? Will you miss your forest home?”  

“I have had a number of homes since I first met you in the forests of Ossiriand, my lord, and I have loved them all because you were in them. That suffices me,“ she answered reassuringly.  

“Elbereth be praised that we met, my lady,” he whispered fervently, “for Eru knows that I could not have hoped for a more blessed life since then!” She laughed joyfully as she met his lips.  

They arrived in abandoned Imladris with the first snows, to the ordered camp that an always efficient Bôrgalas had already set up there.  

“Men still consider this a ghostly place, so they seldom come here; and not without reason now,“ Bôrgalas informed his adar with an ironic chortle, as he showed him around the different buildings that had been patched up to shelter Thranduil’s people. “I sent Mallereg and half of our companies ahead to the Havens, to start planning for our arrival. He would not like to be cooped up here for the season,” he added almost apologetically.   

They wintered comfortably in the abandoned halls, and the stones seemed to rejoice in the presence of the Elves, who brought a last lapse of light to the mournful valley after almost an ennin of solitude and deep slumber.  

Spring came early and bright, and soon the elven companies resumed their march west, leaving Imladris to its definite decay. They avoided the wide East-West road that was now very busy with carts and riders and heavy traffic of goods, and after a peaceful march across the once wild lands of Eriador they were relieved to reach the wide forests around Bree, now a bustling city and trading place.  

They saw no traces of Bombadil as they crossed the Old Forest, but still they made camp for some days in a clearing by the Withywindle, to rest their mounts and enjoy the beauty of the season and the profound voices of those ancient trees, the last remnants of the greatest forests of past ages.  

Midyear was nearing as the elven host crossed the Baranduin and entered the sweet rolling lands of The Shire, which still looked homely and peaceful enough, despite their thriving neighbours and the busy roads.  

“They have fared pretty well, it seems, since they left the green valleys by the Anduin,” Bôrgalas observed with a fond smile. He and Thranduil stood on the Green Hills, looking south to the last stretch of their road, where the thin pinnacles of the White Towers gleamed in the early morning.  Thranduil cast a considering glance at his son, remembering his delight, as a young child, in all the creatures that dwelled in the forest and by the banks of the Anduin. More than an age had passed, but suddenly it seemed to Thranduil that the lively, curious child was still there before him.  

“Do you regret leaving, Bôrgalas?” he asked curiously. He was so used to his silent, steady and efficient support that he had not wondered how it felt to him. His son gave him a thoughtful glance.  

“I do not think much about it,” he admitted with a shrug. “Luinil is contented, for she would no longer find joy in the forest, and I am happy to see her pleased. It is enough for me,” he added softly, with an encouraging smile to his adar.

An unexpected welcome was ready for them in Undertowers, the residence of the Fairbarns, descendents of Samwise’s eldest daughter and appointed guardians of the Elven Towers. An old hobbit awaited them before the highest tower, managing to look venerable as he stood straight beside Mallereg, who greeted them with his usual festive disposition.  

“My lord, meet Falman Fairbarns, Master Guardian of the Tower. Master Guardian, this is King Thranduil of Lasgalen, father of Prince Legolas of the Nine Walkers.”

“Welcome to Undertowers, King Thranduil,” the hobbit pronounced solemnly. He bowed in two most respectfully and then spoiled the effect casting a curious look from Mallereg to Thranduil, who was returning the greeting with his right hand to his heart.  

“I wasn’t *that* wrong, after all, Mallereg,” the hobbit observed reproachfully.  

“As I told you, Falman, he is my grandfather,  and while I am honoured that you still find a resemblance between us,  it is to him that the message is addressed,” the prince said seriously. “We have arranged a wide camp for you all, Adar, if you would follow me?“ he spoke then to Bôrgalas, indicating to Thranduil that the old hobbit wanted to talk to him privately.  

“My father was yet a very young lad when he was here, my lord,” the hobbit led Thranduil to a wooden bench by the carved door to the tower. He groped under it and produced a clay jug wrapped around with wicker. The strong, honest taste of a young red wine made the king smile in appreciation. He returned the jug to the old guardian with a thankful nod.  

“Yet we Fairbarns have never forgotten our duty, and so I hoped that one day I would see you.”  

“Who was he?” Thranduil asked to indulge the old hobbit, though he had a good idea.  

“An Elf, sir, if I ever saw one; as my old father used to say! Begging your pardon, for now I think I have seen a whole forest of them…” he added with a happy chuckle. “An Elf tall like a tree with a head of silver, as my father said. He spent a whole winter here, studying the old documents and all, and then he told my grandfather: One day he will come from the East, tall and golden like the mallorn in the Party Field, he said, dressed in green and brown and followed by a great host, that’s what he said.”  

Thranduil chuckled quietly, seeing how the hobbit would mistake Mallereg for him. The hobbit lifted the jug and gave a long draught before continuing with his speech. He was clearly enjoying the moment. “And you will provide him with all that he and his host might need, and also give this to him, he said as well, although that he needed say not, sir, for it is our duty as Guardians until the last ship departs, sir.” The hobbit groped again under the bench and this time he brought out a well-preserved roll of parchment sealed with a silver leaf, Celeborn’s signet, which he handed to the King. “My grandfather passed it onto my father’s care, and he unto mine,” the hobbit said most seriously. “We keep it inside,“ he added at the puzzled look in the Elf’s face. “Only I put it here when Prince Mallereg said that you were coming…”  

Thranduil smiled gently. “And I thank you and your family for this service, and for your warm welcome, Master Falman. Now if you would allow me…”  

Thranduil’s laughter resounded in the Undertowers as he unfolded the roll and found out that Celeborn had carefully put down for him a detailed account, with drawings, of the noble art of shipbuilding. It was undoubtedly  copied from Eru knows what old parchments that were still kept in the Towers.  

They spent a joyful sun-round in Mithlond, busy with their shipbuilding and also roaming the forests that still grew there almost untouched.  

“Do you remember?” Thranduil asked his wife with a wide smile that was quickly returned. They were standing on a small hill overseeing what had once been a bedraggled camp.  

Gaildineth, Brethil and himself had been very young at the beginning of the Second Age, when they had lived there for some time with the rest of survivors from drowned Beleriand, teaching the Edain care for the forest as they built the fleet that would take them to their appointed island.  Short after, Oropher had led a great host East, first to Nenuial and then further east, beyond the mountains. Despite the ages, it seemed to Thranduil that the trees still held a memory of their joyful youth, so he suggested that they settled camp close to the woods while the shipbuilding lasted. The mournful melancholy of the stones in Mithlond weighed deeply on those forest creatures and unsettled them.  

Several nights during that exceptionally mild winter Thranduil awoke with a start, sure that he had heard his adar’s voice encouraging their people to move East, or patiently teaching him how to deal a particularly tricky sword-thrust, only to discover that Gaildineth had shared the same dreams.  

“We made a impression here,” was Brethil’s only comment, and the three spent an entertaining time sharing tales of their adventures at the mixed, busy camp that was Lindon at the beginning of the Second Age, much to their families’ amusement.  

By Midsummer day everything was ready. The camp slept peacefully at dawn, while the last bonfires, only remains of the celebrations, died away.  

“Are you ready?”  

Thranduil walked aimlessly under the trees, not wanting to miss that last morning in the lands of Hither. His daughter-in-law had had the same idea, it seemed.  

“I…it is strange, Adar,” she confessed, joining him in his walk. “I feel worried, and guilty. I know I am going to miss all this but at the same time I cannot help wondering why I did not sail with him as I should have done...” she barely caught back a strangled sob and cast her father-in-law an apologetic, uncertain smile.  

“Stop worrying, my child,” he said, hugging her briefly. “You did what you felt right then, and he would not blame you for that. Everything will turn out for the best, I promise,” he added softly, moved by the confident nod she gave him. They trusted him, he knew, and whatever awaited them beyond the Sea, the weight of duty towards his people would forever be his to carry proudly.  

They set sail at sundown, a forest of white glistening sails. The Fairbarns watched them leave from the stone quays of Mithlond with a sense of loss only partly alleviated by the set of gems mounted in mithril that the king had presented to them as parting gift. Another heritance, and a beautiful reminiscence of times long gone for the Guardians of the Towers, to look upon with pride when the meaning of their guardianship was lost in the mists of memory.  

****  

“I knew you would be arriving. But it will take them some time still, so you can as well give me a hand while you wait…”  

Círdan greeted his visitor calmly, without lifting his head from the fishing net he was mending. Legolas sighed and sat by him on the sun-warmed stone bench. He toyed distractedly with the Shipwright’s tools, scattered on the seat.  

“I felt her coming through our bond,“ he finally let escape, his curiosity winning over his anticipation. “But how on Arda did you know? Is it true that Ulmo speaks to you?” He carefully placed the needles back on the bench at the threatening look in the Mariner’s face. He stood up nervously and paced along.  

“I hear things,” Círdan said eventually, the faintest hint of amusement on his voice.  

For three days Legolas worked in the Shipwright’s workshop, the rhythmic sound of the drawknife over a wooden surface the only noise that would come out. The stars were high on the third night when Círdan finally pitied him.  

“They will arrive with the first light,” he said with a fond smile, joining him upon the pier where Legolas stood guard, his gaze fixed eastwards. Before dawn, a great crowd was assembled along the quays, waiting in joyful expectation.  

****

Arien’s first rays shredded the dense mists that had surrounded the fleet for the past days. The same anticipation throbbed aboard all ships as a rugged coast with tall cliffs surged before their eyes. An awed silence replaced the joyful singing and hopeful conversations, and the starboard deck was soon crowded with anxious heads eager to get a glimpse of their new home –and of those awaiting them there.  

“Will Grandfather be there? How will he know?”  

”He is already there, and he just *knows* my child.” Laerîniel’s voice trembled so slightly as she stood by her daughter and her granddaughter. She had felt his presence as soon as they entered those dense mists some days ago and since then the wait seemed more unbearable to Laerîniel than the three ennin she had just endured.  

A current of excitement drifted across the fleet, as the tall island got closer and they could discern the abrupt shoreline, the secluded beaches and steep trails that led upwards, to grasslands that hopefully would dissolve into endless forests and, finally, the much awaited jetty and smaller quays and the welcoming entrance to the haven, packed with long-missed relatives and friends. Bands of seabirds danced among the tall sails, shrilling their greetings while they led the white fleet home.  

Laerîniel bent daringly over the gunwale, not paying attention to the happy  and relieved voices around her, searching desperately for the golden head she knew so well.  

His presence was now almost overwhelming, as his faer threaded itself steadily among the loose strands of hers, and the joyful feeling of completion demanded that her attention turned inwards, while she fought to keep her eyes focused on the approaching coast, her eyes blurred by tears she had not noticed she was shedding. 

“I am here, my Sûlaer.”  

She stumbled backwards, stricken by a feeling she had missed so badly  for three ennin. She had lost her advantageous position at the gunwale to a couple of excited guards, but suddenly it did not matter to her, as she closed her eyes and submerged in the bright, steady presence that now shone within her.  

“I am coming,” she whispered and then shook like a tree welcoming the breeze at sunset as she heard his clear laughter, free of cares and worries, echoing within. When she opened her eyes again, the King’s ship was approaching the wooden quay and he was there, almost at arm’s reach, smiling tenderly at her.  

She found that she could not speak, her throat tightened by a cry of joy that threatened to escape her, as she elbowed her way through the dense wall of people eagerly awaiting to disembark. The moment the gangplank was fixed, and even before the King had managed to set foot on it, she hastened down and into the open arms of her husband, who waited at the end of the passage to greet the King properly.  

“Calenben!”  

She did not hear the laughs and cheers and exclamations of joy.  

She did not notice that the King had dispensed with a formal greeting and had given leave for all to disembark in ordered chaos, as the rest of the ships followd into the haven.  

She failed to perceive the crowds swarming around them, all lost in relieved laughs and tears.

She only knew that she was holding on to him and feeling him all around her, wrapping her in his strong comforting embrace, again whole and steadfast as she remembered him.  

“I…” He silenced her with a deep kiss, and she laughed and cried and kissed back in a frenzy.  

“I am...” Tears rolled down her beautiful face as she traced his features and felt his caring, tender, needy touch. There was so much she needed to tell him first, so much she had to explain, so much she had to apologize for…  

“I am...” He fixed her in a deep glance, the last threads of their bond so firmly tied that she could feel them vibrating together in a wild song of unknown harmonics and she finally surrendered herself to the bliss she had thought forever lost.

“I am home,” she finally acknowledged in a soft, awed whisper before drowning again in his lips, knowing that, at last, there would be no more partings.  

TBC in an Epilogue.

A/N  A couple of quotes that supported this chapter.

“But after the passing of Galadriel in a few years Celeborn grew weary of his realm and went to Imladris to dwell with the sons of Elrond. In the Greenwood the Silvan Elves remained untroubled, but in Lórien there lingered sadly only a few of its former people, and there was no longer light or song in Caras Galadhon. (LOTR, Appendix B)

“…So that the people of Gondor in times of peace, justice and prosperity, would become discontented and restless.” (Letters, nº 256 )

Epilogue: The Memory of the Trees.

“We seldom did this, back then,” Legolas observed conversationally.

“Why would we? This is a great waste of time and effort...Something neither you nor I could easily afford back then. A well-aimed spear thrust or a wicker trap are the proper, the effective ways for catching fish,” Thranduil said dismissively, retrieving the line and rearranging the bait on the hook.

“You took some effort, though,” Legolas retorted merrily, studying the skilfully finished fishing-poles, carefully softened to avoid scrapes and with their knots on the right places to enhance a strong hand grip when hauling the fish. “As if this was not such a contemptible and boring activity for you, after all,” he pointed out, fighting to keep a straight face.

Thranduil had shown up at Legolas and Laerinîel's talan early that morning, carrying two fishing-poles with rawhide fish lines, bone hooks and even differently coloured sinking stones, and had tempted him into a fishing day. Now they stood almost knee-high on the water in a pool formed by a bent of the river, under the dappled shade of tall oaks.

“If we are going to catch fish, I can see no reason why we should also offend them by using inappropriate or carelessly crafted tools,” Thranduil explained, trying -and failing- to mask the well-known delight he always found in that peaceful, unhurried entertainment. “I think they are hiding behind those boulders,” he added in a whisper, wading soundlessly deeper into the water and casting again his line.

Legolas shook his head in amusement, watching his progress with a fond smile. Since his arrival, Thranduil looked more relaxed than he had ever seen him. He smiled and laughed frequently, and he had lost the brooding, weary look on his eyes that Legolas had come to consider a part of him. He no longer looked hurried, or tense, or worried, and Legolas was deeply grateful to the powers that had granted such well-deserved respite to the once burdened king. But he was curious.

“Do you miss Lasgalen?” he ventured after some time in which no fish showed in the vicinity of their tempting baits.

“Miss?” An amused chortle startled a couple of finches that had apparently mistaken them for extraorinarily tall reeds. “Does the beech miss her leaves after narbeleth, Legolas? She may dream of them during her winter sleep, but she will have forgotten her loss by spring...”

“Because she will be busy growing new ones then?”

“Exactly. And there are enough trees around us here, that we can drown in their voices to our hearts’ content… Why would I miss Lasgalen?”

“But we are not beeches, Adar, that we can so easily forget well-known trees and exchange them thoughtlessly for others... we sang them into growth, and nurtured them with our voices…”

“And praised them in their old age and at their passing,” his adar added. “Do you miss all the trees that you saw come to their death? That must be a heavy burden, my son.”

“No, of course I do not, but still…surely they must miss us?” Legolas looked now totally confused by his adar’s apparent casualness. The age gap between father and son was more apparent now that it had ever felt to Thranduil. He shuffled his feet to dig a firmer position in the pebbled river bed and cast a considering look at his mystified-looking son.

“Have you ever listened to the memories of a tree, Legolas?” he asked.

“Why yes, I have, most certainly...”

“Its thoughts, not its voices,” Thranduil insisted. That gave Legolas pause.

“You mean like the meandering speech of the Onodrim?” he finally asked tentatively. Thranduil smiled, remembering his own first encounter with one of such creatures, deep in the woods of Ossiriand.

“Something like that,” he agreed. “The memory of the trees is long like that of the Quendi, son, though it is threaded deep in their core, so it is slow to come out.” He paused to shift his grip on the pole; then continued speaking. “I met trees around Mithlond that still remembered our presence there two ages ago…I would wake up in the night convinced that I had heard my adar’s voice…Until I understood that it was the memories of the trees that sheltered our rest what I had been hearing,” he said with a soft, wistful smile. “Of course, those weren’t the same tees,” he explained with a brief chuckle at Legolas’ puzzled expression, “but the memory was still there.”

“But that…How did they do it? I mean, how would they know which memories to share with you?” At this point Legolas was gaping openly. Those were things he had never thought about before.

“They *did* nothing.” Thranduil seemed amused. “Those memories are there, buried in wood and root and passed on from grown tree into sapling. And I heard them because they had meaning to me. What else do you think it is the Forest-song? We usually just pick up what we need to know from their endless music, which tends to be closer to the surface of their daily tune. But if you listened intently and for long, and mostly in winter when they are deep in slumber, you could learn to share their memories of times long past. Even the echo of the first tree that Yavanna dreamt of when the Music was first made, our Silvan kin claim,” he added with an incredulous grin.

“I… I never knew that,” Legolas admitted thoughtfully. “I knew that the trees had long memories, but had never thought that they passed them on down to the next generation...Yet I think I felt something like that when we crossed Fangorn Forest!”

“Well, the tree-herders are actually as ancient as their most ancient memories, my son," Thranduil nodded in agreement. "But the rest of the trees feed on the music of the living things, and treasure it as nourishment for the long winter spell. They work ours voices and teachings into wood, fruit and seed that will be shared come Spring, so the memories live on. The trees in Lasgalen will still dream of our voices and will awake refreshed and renewed every spring long after the last Elf has sailed away -or faded," he added soberly. "And we shall always keep their song around," he continued with a reassuring smile, "because these trees will learn it from us and thread it within theirs, so it will never fade nor be forgotten.” The mighty oaks shook their branches above them in acquiescence at the king's kind but yet commanding voice.

“So the memory of the forest is immortal like the Elves, and the trees will not miss us because they will still hear our voices within them?”

“In a sense,” Thranduil nodded, "much as we carry their song within us," he added in a lowered voice, raising a hand to silence him. “I think I have spotted a big one," he whispered, pointing at a quick flash on the water to their left.  Legolas sighed and bit back another question.

“Is that what you told Laerîniel?” he asked when it was clear that the fish would not indulge the former King of Lasgalen.  “She told me that you convinced her to sail,” he elaborated, at his adar’s questioning glance. “And for that I am most grateful to you, my lord,” he added with an uncertain smile.

“She just...learned what she needed to know,” Thranduil said simply after a long pause. “She convinced herself. And I would not have been convinced to sail  myself but for you, Legolas, so it is I who is deeply indebted with you,” he smiled back a bit ruefully.

“How can that be?” Legolas sounded curious now. “Why would you choose not to sail if you knew you would not miss the forest?”

“It was pride,” Thranduil admitted finally. “I was terribly angered at the Powers when you came home wounded by the sea-longing… I thought we had won over our fate, and I firmly believed that we would finally be granted to live forever free and happy in Middle-earth as we once were, according to the accounts of our past. To see that you were rewarded for all your toils with the loss of all that you held dear...I found that most unfair."

“I knew there was a price, and even if I did not welcome it, I knew it had to be paid...” 

“I am proud of you for it, my son, and too high a price it was, of that I am well aware. And I was not so willing to pay it. Yet at some point I began to admit that it could be even worse, were you doomed to lose your family and friends because of my obstinacy…”

“I…I feared you would cling to the forest…” Legolas admitted in a voice that quivered so slightly.

“It was not easy,” Thranduil acknowledged finally with a brief scowl. “To accept that the age and the land belonged to Men, after our long ages of struggle and loss...Yet knowing that you had departed before us somehow made it easier to accept… And thus many who would have otherwise remained were in the end less reluctant to sail as well...” Only the voice of the singing waters broke the dense silence that followed Thranduil’s admission.

“I know it does not help you much now, to know that in choosing to accept such harsh fate for yourself you were also serving your people,” he continued after clearing his throat. “But that may have been the point of what back then seemed a cruel reward for such a great service…At least, it worked that way to me. Look, there it is!”

A sudden, strong tug on the line distracted them from other deep pondering. The pole was bending and Thranduil tightened his hold on it. A dark scaled shadow tried unsuccessfully to go down and then suddenly leapt out of the water and twisted in mid air, its white belly glistening in the morning sun as it struggled wildly to free itself. It splashed loudly and then tried to swam away.

“Did it get free?” Legolas searched frantically around, as the fish was nowhere to be seen. “Did you see it, it is huge!”

Thranduil lowered the pole to give the fish more line. “No, I still have it.. I am going to lead it ashore,“ he warned Legolas, taking a couple of steps forward.

“Slowly, slowly now, Adar!” The fish had reached the end of the line and now Thranduil was bringing it in bit by bit, while at the same time turning it in a wide circle and forcing it to swim towards the river bank. The fish surfaced again and for a brief moment it seemed it would get loose, but Thranduil lifted the pole and took a step back to the shore, then another, placing hand over hand along the pole until he reached the tip.

“You got it, there it is…” Legolas had walked onto land and waited eagerly to finish off the catch. The fish was definitely weakened, close to the surface, still tugging at irregular intervals

“You fought well,” Thranduil commended it in a soft voice. The fish trashed madly one more time, but it was almost spent. “The river be praised for such a catch,” he added, taking hold of the line and pulling it up with a forceful tug.

“Amazing!” Legolas exclaimed, admiring the almost arm-long glistening creature that wobbled weakly on the grass. He finished it off with a quick turn of his knife.  “Naneth would not be happy if we got back home empty-handed,” he grinned.

“Ah, but that is *my* catch, young Legolas,” Thranduil informed him with a mischievous smile. “Now that I have taught you the secret art of pole fishing, you will have to do it yourself, to keep *your* wife contented,“ he added in an admonishing voice. “See? a patient wait is always rewarded, and everything comes at its appointed time. I will be watching from here, in case you need some advice,” he joked good-naturedly. He sounded so proud of himself that Legolas could not hold back an exasperated growl, as he picked up his pole and walked cautiously back into the river.

“I think we must find you something in which to occupy yourself; too  much spare time does not suit you;” Legolas grunted quite loudly. “What do you plan on doing for the next ages, Adar?” he asked not too kindly, casting a brief glance over his shoulder.

“Me?” Thranduil had finished wrapping up the great fish in big oak leaves and had placed it in a bag of threaded bark. Now he sat comfortably under the shade of the oldest oak tree in the clearing, looking completely at ease. “I am the former King of a besieged realm who no longer carries the burdens of rule and defence…” he informed his son seriously. “And I plan to keep myself like that for the rest of my immortal life,” he announced with a pleased smile and an amused laugh.

Legolas lifted his pole and cast his line on the sun-dappled waters, watching as it danced lazily in the smooth current. Let the river flow away, never to return; for the trees know not of the water’s doom. That was the advice that Thranduil had received from the first Ent he had ever met, when he was a young sapling in the forests of Ossiriand. Let those who are gone be gone: The sea is full, yet not a drop is lost to the One, the tree-herder had also said. Legolas shook his head thoughtfully. He had not thought of that well-known family tale for a long time, but after his adar's admission, his toil and grief suddenly gained a new  meaning.

I never hoped any good could come from my sea-longing, he realized, and yet what had seemed an unbearable loss to him at the time had turned out to be, in hindsight, one of the the last knots in a fate greater than his own; another stitch in a tapestry whose pattern he could not have descried except from a great height and distance. A wide smile spread across his face, as it all suddenly made sense to him, and he let escape a satisfied sigh. The trees still shivered in pleasure at the deep joy that had resonated in Thranduil’s clear voice when suddenly the line tensed in Legolas’ hands and the pole bent with a strong tug.

“Adar! I think I have a big one!”

The End

A/N. At last. Thank you all for following through this insanely long tale. Thranduil's encounter with the Ent is told in "Advice from a tree" in Droplets.