Sweet Woodbine

He was lonely.  So lonely, he thought, that he was almost tempted to venture eastwards in the small boat that had brought him here and chance his luck against the wind and waves.  Except, he sighed, that Gimli had been only too aware that he might challenge fate, like a moth hurling itself at a light, and made him promise…  And he could not, anyway.  Recklessness would be a form of cowardice.  He must endure.  He must find a way to endure.

It seemed ridiculous to feel so gloomy amid such beauty.  There had been a time when wandering unarmed among the wooded foothills of snow-capped mountains would have seemed an act of insanity – but here … He cast a jaded glance around him.  A glade of rabbit-nibbled turf, studded with tiny flowers of vivid blue that gazed up admiringly at small shivering bells of purest white.  Trees unfurling leaves of clear green and twined round with woodbine and eglantine.  Not a shadow to be seen.  No orc had ever fouled these woods, no memory encroached of Ungoliant’s brood, no elves had sacrificed their lives to buy more time for those who remained. 

He had come here at Lady Galadriel’s command – his adar’s son, determined to represent his kin well in this haven of Noldor princes.  Come to smile, and bow and demand without words the honour due to his family – due to those who had escorted the Ringbearer on his journey towards Orodruin – due to those who had fought and died on the battlefields of Ennor. 

He hated it.

Petty people with trivial obsessions presenting themselves in endless procession over their paltry concerns.

He wanted to go home.  If only he had a home to which to go.

This was folly.  If he could not let Lady Galadriel know how he felt, surely he could speak to Lord Elrond.  Or Mithrandir.  Or were there not enough elves of Greenwood who had sailed over past centuries to settle here to provide him with some illusion of familiarity?  Elves who were only too anxious to look to him as his adar’s son and hoped silently that he would lead them until at last Thranduil took ship.

Legolas flung himself back on the soft bank beneath him and stared at the sky.  He could be determined to look on this as a prison, some small part of his mind mocked, or he could make himself accept this new life.  He was alone because he wanted to be.  He was an alien note in this song because he refused to accommodate to its harmonies.  He was being self-indulgent in a way that his adar would never have tolerated.

He shut his eyes.  He did not care.  These were not his people.  This was not his home.  That pernicious sea-longing had dragged him here – only to abandon him like a bad joke as soon as he arrived, leaving nothing but the ringing space it had occupied in his mind.  If it had not been for Gimli…

He pushed the thought away resolutely.  They had shared longer here than either of them had expected.  Gimli had been ancient in dwarven terms before the time came for him to occupy that tomb he had prepared for himself.   But no dwarf could live for ever.  Not even here.  Legolas felt his eyes burn again and blinked away the sting.  His friend had commanded him to bring the Lady the legacy he had left for her – but not until Galadriel’s letter had arrived had the elf allowed himself to be drawn away from Tol Eressëa to the lands beyond the reach of mortals.

A chaffinch trilled its song on a bough above his head.  Life would go on round him whether he wished to participate or not.

Legolas opened his eyes and looked at the bird accusingly.  If he was reduced to complaining about unfairness, then he truly had reverted to a second childhood.

‘Have you fallen?’  A sweet voice, like honey stirred in jasmine tea, asked in amusement.  ‘From your horse perhaps?  Or maybe from a tree?’

For a moment he did not move.  He had no desire to be found feeling sorry for himself by anyone likely to pass on word of his foolishness.  He raised his head and looked towards the voice.

‘No, indeed, my lady,’ he said politely.  ‘I am observing the markings of this small bird.’

‘Are there no chaffinches east of the sea?’

‘There are many – but this one has aroused my interest.’  He sat up, brushing at his tunic to remove the grass, before tilting his head at the new arrival.   Soft hair of the palest coppery shade framed her face and was braided down her back, and laughing eyes met his.

‘It must indeed be a remarkable bird, my lord – to succeed where so many have failed!’

He raised a haughty eyebrow.  ‘Have we met?’

The elleth ignored his show of dignity.  ‘Several times, my lord,’ she assured him.  ‘But do not worry – I have no expectation that you will recall any of them.  You looked as if you had received far too many introductions to remember anyone.’

‘This seems an odd place to encounter you again.’  The chaffinch rose effortlessly into the air as Legolas stood. 

‘Not so odd when you realise that my family live just beyond this grove,’ the elleth remarked.  ‘But I would not wish to come between you and your communing with the birds and beasts.’  She smiled at him teasingly.  ‘I will perhaps warn you that my sister-in-law and brother are likely to arrive shortly – and they would feel honour bound to invite you to come back and take wine with us.  You would be better making your escape swiftly.’

Legolas frowned at the elleth.  There was something about her that was disconcerting.  ‘I thank you for your courtesy,’ he said.  ‘I am in no mood to spend the day socialising.’

She turned her head as if listening.  ‘You may be too late,’ she said.

He moved with cat-like confidence to leap into the tree behind him.  ‘Not so, my lady,’ he said softly.

Anor turned her hair to sunset gold as she glanced up and smiled, before turning to greet another elleth and lead her away.

Legolas leaned his head back on the trunk of the tree and allowed its song to soothe him.  That had been a very … odd … encounter.  He had been chased by ellyth before and knew well enough that many of the young women of Gondor had found him – for some reason – desirable, but… Had the elleth been trying to gain his interest?  He blinked.  If she had, she had succeeded, he thought, although she had gone about it in a most unusual way.  But he would know her if he met her again. 

He had wound his way back through the woods to the outskirts of the city before he realised that he had not thought of his woes since the unexpected encounter.

***

They did not like the sea.  He had realised that long since when he had visited the places settled by those of his kin here in the west.  He had, in fact, often wondered how many of them had forced themselves to take ship – and concluded that they must have spent the whole voyage with their heads under their blankets.  But, regardless of how they got here, here they were – and they moved steadily and slowly westwards, away from the shores of the wide ocean.

And, unfortunately, that had brought them here, to the gentle woodlands to the south of the Noldor’s fields and forges.

‘You are the best person to speak of these matters, my lord.’  Litheredh eyed the king’s son warily.  ‘The Noldor lords listen to you – and you have friends among them who have influence with the High King.’

Legolas sighed.  ‘Have you any authority to dwell here?  Or was it simply a matter of one family following another?’

‘We are not fools, my lord.’  Litheredh’s eyes flashed.  ‘Lord Orodreth consented to our taking up residence in these woods – and we pay him by caring for the forest.  But these young Noldor cannot see why they cannot hunt anywhere they choose.  They are stripping the wood of game – and they refuse to pay any heed to our words.  And anyone who stands up against them finds himself falling foul of a fist or two.’

‘This should be taken to Lord Orodreth to deal with.’

‘There is never any evidence, my lord – and he shrugs off our words.  Then, when he has gone, they come back – and take out their spite on those they find alone.’

Legolas’s jaw tightened.  ‘It will be stopped.’

‘Easier said than done, my lord.  Our complaints sound petty – and we are here on sufferance.  We cannot fight back.’  Litheredh smiled bitterly.  ‘Parents who dismiss our protests about their sons’ behaviour are only too quick to react if there is any accusation against one of us.’

He had been idle, Legolas thought.  Too absorbed in his own concerns to look beyond them to the needs of his people.  His adar would be ashamed of him.

‘I do not know Lord Orodreth very well,’ he said thoughtfully.  ‘He seems an intelligent elf – surely he realises that you would not approach him if you were not…’  He was going to say ‘desperate’, but at the last moment decided on a substitution, ‘concerned.’

‘He would prefer us to move elsewhere.’ Litheredh shrugged.  ‘Not enough to push us out – but I do not think he objects to pressure being put on us to leave these woods.’

‘Yet he is Lady Galadriel’s brother,’ Legolas mused. ‘And the High King’s son.  He would not wish to embarrass them.’           

Litheredh remained silent. 

‘There is boar here?’ Legolas asked.  ‘And deer?’

‘Less than there was, my lord.  But still enough.’

‘And is there any pattern to the arrival of these … youths?’

‘They arrive, more often than not, on the nights when the moon is new.’

Legolas nodded thoughtfully.  He would speak to Lady Galadriel, he mused.  A hunting party – one that required stealth – could ensure that the right people were in place to observe.  They would then have no excuse not to intervene.  Orodreth, clearly, but also one, at least, in whose eyes he must be seen to act.  Perhaps, if it could be arranged, close kin to the perpetrators – who could not, in such illustrious company, deny what had happened.  He could not rush headlong at this, bow in hand: these were matters that called for other skills, honed in his dealings with the Lords of Gondor.

‘Just how predictable are they?’ he asked.  ‘We might need a stalking horse and I would not want to put anyone at risk.’

Steady grey eyes met his.  ‘Very predictable, my lord,’ Litheredh told him.  ‘They have come to think of themselves as untouchable.’

‘Then we will bait a trap and leave them to entangle themselves.’

Legolas could feel the elf’s relief – and squared his shoulders slightly to receive the burden.  His life, it would appear, had not ended; not left him washed up on an alien shore with nothing to do; not descended into a meaningless round of social events: he had a duty to those of his people who dwelt in these lands.  There were still battles to fight, even if they did not require him to bleed for those in his care.

He smiled.  ‘Be patient,’ he recommended.  ‘We will do this right and cut the ground from under them all.’

***

He found himself narrowing his eyes as he inspected the throng.  Who among them was complicit in this petty persecution?  Who would be horrified to learn what their giddy young were doing under the influence of too much wine and too little responsibility?  Who retained enough … innocence … naivety … to believe that all the elves gathered here in the Blessed Realm could deal with each other in perfect harmony?  He grinned at the last thought.  None of those who frequented Finarfin’s court with any regularity, he could feel sure.  The High King negotiated the shoals with aplomb born of millennia of experience, but shoals there doubtless were that grounded those with less political acuteness.  It was a long time since he had been made to feel gauche, but Finarfin achieved it with the twitch of an eyebrow.

‘You should be dancing.’  Lady Galadriel glided to a halt at his shoulder.

‘Would you oblige me, my lady?’  He smiled as she refused him with a glance.  ‘The ellyth of your adar’s court should be accustomed to my gloomy presence by now, Lady Galadriel.’

She laughed.  ‘Your refusal to flirt has made you a challenge, Prince of the Greenwood.  You will be felled yet by an unexpected dart, be sure of it.  Wisdom would suggest that you spread your smiles generously – and that you dance with many.’  Her eyes sparkled.  ‘You might be surprised at what you learn – if you keep your ears open.’

‘Diplomacy by dancing?’

‘A tried and trusted technique.  And,’ she raised a finger admonishingly, ‘pleasurable.  Even if the measures of the Noldor are rather more staid than the dances of the Silvan.’  She inspected him – it was almost enough, he thought, to make him want to straighten his tunic and polish the toes of his boots on the back of his leggings.  ‘Come,’ she commanded, ‘I will introduce you to an elleth or three.’

‘All at once?’ He fought back with a quizzical look.

‘There is safety in numbers.’  She smiled.  ‘Let them compete over drawing you onto the dance floor.’

She stood out in the clutter of maidens who – he supposed – attended Galadriel.  Stood out like a flame in shadow among the dark-haired Noldor, and yet, as the fair faces turned to greet him, like flowers to sunlight, she turned her head away.

‘I will leave you with them,’ Galadriel murmured, soft enough for only him to hear.  ‘A sacrifice to the ellyth of Tirion.’

‘Thank you,’ he sighed wryly.  ‘I will attempt to find some equally generous way to express my gratitude.’

He endured their chatter resolutely, but came to the conclusion that did not like maidens who giggled.  It was, he decided, offensive to the ears and indicative of brains that contained little but thistledown.  And those who took possession of his arms were making him wish to retreat in haste – as far as it was possible to retreat once you were trapped here in the Blessed Realm.  And she, the one whose hair reminded him of the glow of dawn sunlight in the crown of a winter beech, refused even to look at him.

The prattle ceased as if someone had asked a question to which all were awaiting an answer.  His blue-grey eyes settled on an ebony-haired elleth who was clearly eager to hear his response – and he had failed to note a word she had spoken.

‘It seems unlikely, Calissë,’ a familiar hauntingly sweet voice said with obvious amusement.  ‘Lord Legolas is known to have little time for the activities in which we take so much pleasure.  Why would he accept an invitation to a picnic, when he can be spending his time so much more usefully – studying wildlife, for example.’

There was a hint of green, he thought, in her eyes.  He snapped his attention back to the eager elleth.  ‘I regret,’ he said smoothly, ‘that my hours are taken up fairly fully while I am here.  Another time, perhaps.’

The elleth pouted.  Pouted.  Anyone past their first century should know better!  ‘But there will be wildlife in plenty where we are going.  And it is the season when the butterflies journey north,’ she said.  ‘A Wood Elf should find that interesting!’

A sudden vision of trees hung with delicate-winged butterflies of the palest green made him long for the woods of home.  ‘I doubt I am ready for such an abundance of beauty, my lady,’ he said politely.  ‘If you will excuse me.’  He bowed and stepped back determinedly. He was certainly not ready to spend his days in pointless activity.  He still wanted more important things to do – to make a difference to the world.

‘I am sorry.’  He turned to find himself nose to nose with a tall Noldo.

‘It is far too crowded here.’  The other smiled wryly.  ‘It is a wonder to me that more elves are not trampled.  I can think of so many better places to be on a starlit night, but my wife insists on putting in an appearance at every event.’

‘We have been introduced,’ Legolas hazarded a guess.  ‘But I am afraid your name escapes me.’

‘After all, we all look the same, do we not?’ the elf said with mock sympathy.  ‘I am Camentur.  Would it make you feel better if I asked your name?’

‘Is it necessary?’  Legolas grinned.  It had been a long time since he had met someone to whom he appeared to be an amusement rather than an object of speculation. 

A well-manicured hand waved.  ‘Please!’  The elf sounded pained.  ‘There is nothing wrong with my hearing – and you have been the subject of far too many conversations for me to remain ignorant of your identity.  In fact,’ he added, ‘we are already the focus of far too much attention.  Would you care to escape the hordes?’

‘There is little I would like better.’

‘You are easy to please.’  Camentur shook his head.  ‘I can put you in my debt purely by showing you one of the many discreetly placed doors.’   

There were fewer elves strolling on the wide terraces – closeness to the ears of the powerful was too important an opportunity to waste – but various pairings of elves sought shady corners where they could enjoy the illusion of privacy, while others seized this chance to converse in quiet voices with none to overhear them.  A crack of laughter from the gardens below was rapidly hushed in the deafening way that only seemed subtle to those who had taken rather too much wine.

Camentur rolled his eyes.  ‘Do not assume that we are all morons,’ he requested.  ‘Even if there are some determined to give that impression.’

Moving rather closer to the balustrade, Legolas ignored him and tuned his hearing to the conversations below.  It was impossible to catch every word – it seemed that some of those present realised the need for discretion – but he heard enough to feel certain that he was observing some of those who found entertainment in disturbing the lives of those without the power to oppose them. 

At his elbow, Camentur frowned.  ‘They should have more sense than to joke about such things,’ he said, as a slurred voice spoke of his latest idea for driving away the Silvan elves cluttering the woods.

‘It is no joke.’  Legolas’s eyes fixed on the Noldo’s face.  ‘It has become, I am told, a sport among certain circles.’

‘Not even my atar – who is not fond of the elves from across the sea – would dream of tolerating such behaviour.  I hope you do not think…’ Camentur looked genuinely horrified.

‘There are those who ignore what is happening.’  Legolas’s voice was quietly grim.  ‘And who must be made to see what these … these foolish youths are doing.’

Camentur did not hesitate.  ‘If there is anything I can do to help…’

‘We have Lady Galadriel on our side.’  Legolas smiled.  ‘And the assistance of one who would not be suspected of aiding us would be very useful.’   After all, the elf was here now – and they had heard the same thing.  Better to keep an eye on him than lose sight of him among the abundance of elves of whom Legolas knew nothing.  And it might be convenient to have an impartial witness to events.

‘You can count on me,’ Camentur said.

***

It had not proved difficult to guide the small party to lay in wait for deer in the right spot to observe the behaviour of half a dozen arrogant ellyn – and it had proved even less difficult to entice the young fools to flaunt their irresponsibility in front of two of the High King’s sons and a select band of rather stiff-necked lords.

Not, he thought, that he would have noted their arrival yet, had the trees not contained former warriors signalling their progress.  He dropped to one knee and inspected minute traces in the leaf litter.

‘That way,’ Orodreth said impatiently.  ‘Did you have this much trouble seeking game in your forest east of the Hithaeglir?’

‘From what I hear, my lord, there was more challenging game to hunt.’  Camentur sounded slightly envious.

‘Your atar will tell you that such times are not to be envied – we are fortunate to dwell in safety,’ murmured Finrod, cocking his head slightly as a birdcall whistled.  ‘I think perhaps this way, my brother,’ he recommended.

Legolas glanced at the tall elf whose golden hair most resembled his sister’s.  Receptive, he was – and as quick of mind as he was of foot. 

‘If you wish.’ Orodreth sounded irritated.  ‘It is a while since I have hunted in these woods – and I am not impressed at their health.  I would have thought that green elves would have taken greater care to look after the welfare of the creatures in their charge.’  He looked accusingly at the Wood Elf.  ‘There have been those who have been persistent in their advice that those who dwell here should be moved on. I have ignored them so far – live and let live, I say – but I am not impressed with what I see.’

‘There is usually more beneath the surface than is seen at first glance.’  One of Finrod’s closest friends glanced around him.  ‘Perhaps we should reserve judgment.’

‘The hunting is unlikely to be good with that racket going on.’  The elf was named – what was it? – Nolmondil.  He had seemed a bit on the reserved side, but Camentur had assured him that he was as honest an elf as could be found at court and one whose word was trusted implicitly.

Orodreth turned his head like a deer scenting fire, but instead of bounding in the opposite direction, he moved purposefully towards the clanging and shouting, followed by the rest of the party, their hands on the hilts of the long knives at their belts.  Legolas took up the rear, hoping that the situation these Noldor lords would find was clear enough for them to come to only one conclusion and that their precipitate arrival would not scare off the predators he had been careful to attract.

He need not have worried.   Had a patrol of Wood Elves made as much noise, they would have expected to attract the attentions of orcs and spiders from leagues around, but these five certainly would not be aware of the approach of outraged elves.  Not, at least, unless they started yelling and waving their arms around – together, perhaps, with throwing stones at the perpetrators to divert them from activities that were proving far too absorbing.

Two dark-haired elves held Litheredh, arms twisted behind his back.  He was doing his best to throw them off – or so it appeared – but was in no position to put any real strength into his resistance.  Especially, Legolas noted, forcing his grip on his bow to remain loose, once a third elf punched him in the stomach.  Litheredh twisted and kicked out at his attacker, catching him just below the knee.

One of those behind him pulled on the Wood Elf’s arm, and Legolas heard clearly the snap of the bone.  Litheredh cried out.

‘You are not wanted here!  What does it take to get an idea into your thick Moriquendi skulls?’  There was a vicious edge to the voice of the one who had broken the bone as his fist impacted on the Silvan elf’s temple with an audible thwack.  ‘You are even less use than the creatures that wandered these woods.  They, at least, have had the sense to move on.’

A drunken giggle escaped one of the elves holding back and watching.  ‘It is more fun hunting Moriquendi.  They and the boar are the only creatures to fight back.’

Watching Orodreth lead his party of outraged elves into the glade must have been like seeing the Host of the Valar on the plains before Angband, Legolas noted with some amusement.  They gleamed with fury – so much so that the young Noldor cringed away from them.  Finrod had hurriedly slipped round behind them so they had no chance to cut and run – and Nolmondil took charge of the horses to make escape even less of an option. 

He headed straight for Litheredh, now released to collapse to his knees on the grass.  ‘Let me see,’ he said gently, as he settled the Silvan elf on the soft turf.  ‘Your arm will need to be splinted until we can get you to a healer.’

Behind him, the glade had become so silent that the shallow breathing of those caught out in their cruel games rasped like a saw on wood.

‘Can we name them all?’ Orodreth enquired with deceptive calm.  ‘I would not want to have to rely on the word of any so … lacking in the concept of honour.’

‘Not that it matters.’  Calumbar contributed.  ‘We will be taking them back to Tirion under escort – and delivering them, I would think, into the High King’s care.’

A flash of amusement stabbed through Legolas’s concern.  It would appear that it was not only Thranduil who had mastered the art of subduing the recalcitrant through apparent and alarming mildness.  His adar would be appalled – probably – to realise he had this, at least, in common with these lords of the Noldor.  But, between the Noldor lords’ cold storm-grey eyes and their forbidding manner, there was no question left in the mind of the ellyn who was in command.  Their aggression and brash rudeness had flown the moment they realised who had observed their attack and they appeared desperate to make themselves seem as harmless and humbly apologetic as possible.  Not, Legolas decided with satisfaction as he observed Orodreth’s grim expression, that their behaviour now they were caught out would make any difference to those who had discovered their offences.

Finrod moved close to Legolas as he rode behind the injured elf.  ‘You knew that was likely to happen, did you not?’ he asked, his slate-grey eyes inspecting the young elves bunched together in the midst of their very judicial-looking elders.

Glancing swiftly at Litheredh’s drooping head and half-closed eyes, Legolas replied, ‘To a degree,’ he said.  ‘I did not expect physical injury – not at this level.’

The High King’s oldest son contemplated the Silvan elf.  ‘I believe he would think it worthwhile,’ he said.  ‘As long as it ensures that no other elf will have to face the same situation.’

‘Probably,’ Legolas agreed.

‘Take him to Elrond,’ Finrod recommended.  ‘His house is close – and there is little point dragging out his suffering by making him come into Tirion.’

Litheredh blinked and licked his lips.  ‘Better for everyone to see,’ he said hoarsely.  ‘Then no-one can deny it happened.’

Finrod raised his eyebrows.  ‘True,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘It is hard to deny the evidence of your own eyes.’

‘Not impossible,’ Legolas said dryly, ‘but hard.’

‘This will stop,’ Finrod assured them both.  ‘We have seen what comes of elf set against elf – and I will not have it happen here.’ 

***

The hobbits had had a saying about putting cats among pigeons, he recalled – and, seeing the reaction of the Noldor to their tight-lipped arrival at Finarfin’s court, he could see exactly what they had meant.  The sober robes were fluttering like wings as stately elves dashed from one meeting to another and more elves were gathering with every passing minute.  Clearly the inhabitants of Tirion were unaccustomed to such excitement.

And, for every scowl that found itself aimed his way as he waited patiently for Finarfin’s sons to inform the High King of what had happened and give them time to discuss the implications, he found twice or three times as many looks of apology and sympathy.  Perhaps, he thought, keeping his face sober, the Noldor did not all require several ages in the company of the Sindar to help them understand how to deal with other people.  Although his adar might still resist admitting it.

‘Are you all right?’ Camentur paused briefly beside him.

‘Litheredh is with the healers – his arm is badly broken.  The twist, you know.  And he is concussed.’  Legolas glanced at the Noldo.  ‘He will not be able to appear before the High King for a while – they have given him something to make him sleep.’

‘There is no need,’ Camentur looked faintly harassed.  ‘The healers will say what they found.  And if the High King wants to see him, he will wait the hearing until – what was his name? – is ready.’  He grinned ruefully.  ‘My atar is not pleased that I shall be asked to appear.  Two of those ellyn come from powerful families.’

‘The drunk and the first one to throw a punch,’ Legolas guessed.

Camentur looked surprised.  ‘How did you know?’

The Wood Elf shrugged.  ‘Experience.’  He brooded on what he had seen.  ‘Spoiled brats – too much money, too little to do.  Self-indulgent and spiteful.  And attracted to those who are apparently strong-minded – and who can offer them what they see as excitement and good times.  The one who broke Litheredh’s arm – he is the one of whom to be wary.  A nasty piece of work.’

‘I doubt they will find themselves with too little to do in the future,’ Camentur told him.  ‘The High King has a way of setting the indulged sons of the wealthy to work when they are brought to his attention this way.  And by the time they return to Tirion, they have generally learned a few lessons the hard way.’

‘You will not be surprised if I say that I am glad to hear it.’

‘Camentur!  What has happened?’ The elleth flushed slightly as she caught sight of Legolas beyond the Noldo’s shoulder.  ‘Oh – I am sorry to intrude.’

As she turned away, Camentur took hold of her sleeve.  ‘There is no need to run off!  This is my sister,’ he told Legolas.  ‘Elerrina.’

‘My lady.’  Legolas bowed slightly.  ‘We have met.  Several times, I believe – although you have avoided giving me your name.’  His eyes lingered on her hair and took in her now-pale cheeks. 

She dropped her eyes.  ‘Atar wants to speak to you,’ she informed her brother.  ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Whatever your brother has been doing, Lady Elerrina,’ Legolas said, his tongue lingering over her name, ‘he has been doing in the company of, among others, Lords Finrod and Orodreth.  Surely that in itself makes it acceptable?’

There was definitely a hint of green in the soft eyes.  ‘Perhaps, my lord.’ She did not appear to think much of him, Legolas decided, wondering if he had done something to offend her.   ‘Atar is waiting, my brother,’ she reminded Camentur.

‘It is never wise to keep your adar waiting – especially if he is less than pleased with the way events have turned out.’  Legolas grinned.  ‘I daresay we will meet again, Camentur.  When the High King has finished his deliberations.’

The elleth inclined her head and left with her brother.  Legolas sighed.  She was clearly totally unimpressed by him.  He must have lost his touch.

***

‘I am not certain that the High King’s judgment is likely to improve relations between the Noldor and the Silvan.’

Galadriel paused in her walk and settled her star-kissed eyes on Thranduil’s son.  ‘Possibly not,’ she agreed.  ‘Not, at least, among those who are too prejudiced to look beyond his decision to make an example of those … oafs.  But there are many Noldor who were as appalled by the actions of these few as we are ourselves – and as pleased that the High King has made absolutely plain that he will not tolerate any incidents of such behaviour.’  She inspected Legolas.  ‘You need to assert your position more, my lord Prince,’ she added.  ‘There are many elves of the Greenwood who would fight, kicking and screaming, any attempt to remove them from their forests – but there are those here in the Blessed Realm who have led warriors and sat in council with your adar and daeradar.  You need to engage them in establishing your people as a single kindred with a voice that will be heard in the halls of Tirion, of Valmar and Alqualondë – as well as on Tol Eressëa.’ 

A sigh that was little more than a breath made her smile.  ‘Your people have been leaderless too long, Aranion.’

‘If I disagreed with you,’ Legolas said ruefully, ‘your words would be easier to bear.’

Galadriel looked at him compassionately.  ‘You needed time to restore yourself, Legolas,’ she said.  ‘It it only recently that Elrond and I have been ready to shoulder any responsibilities – and, even then, we know that there are others around us who can bear the burdens equally well.  You arrived here a century after us, after having fought the need to sail for most of that time – and accompanied by one who needed you.  It is surprising that you are as well as you are.’  She resumed her graceful stroll along the long rose walk.  ‘But what you need now is purpose – and you could not have a better one.  And you are,’ she added pointedly, ‘the only one of your house here to pursue it.’ 

A group of ellyth clothed in pastel shades gathered on the wide lawns.  Legolas found himself looking in their direction to see if one among them was crowned with hair of red-gold.

‘She has gone home with her family,’ Galadriel observed.  Legolas flushed at the implication that his interest was obvious enough to be generally known.  ‘Her atar is…’ she tilted her head thoughtfully, ‘less open than some,’ she concluded. Her glance was amused.  ‘You do not make things easy on yourself, Thranduilion.’

Legolas decided he was relieved that she chose not to take the thought further.

‘The people of the woods have never been one,’ he said.  ‘Not since the days of Lenwë – not even then, really.  They tend to be independent – go off in pursuit of their own goals – and look for leadership only when things are going wrong.’

Galadriel laughed.  ‘I have spent long enough among the Galadhrim to recognise the truth in your words,’ she agreed.  ‘Some will be waiting for my lord – others for the return of Amdir or Denethor, others yet for Lenwë or Elwë, with yet more determined to lead their own lives in the absence of any interference.’  She glanced at him humorously.  ‘You do not come of an amenable race, Thranduilion.  Yet they need a spokesman – someone who can take their part in the councils of the great.’

‘And you think I am that person?’  Legolas raised his eyebrows.  ‘Yet am I not so young that many in Finarfin’s circle consider that I have barely cut my eye-teeth?’

Galadriel’s smile lightened her usually dignified demeanour.  ‘Many of them think that I am too young to have anything useful to say.  They just have to be ignored – and at least none among them knew you as an elfling!’  They paused and looked through a circular opening cut through the wall to a vista of distant trees and rolling hills.  ‘The battle ahead of you,’ she said, ‘is one that requires neither bow nor blades – but it needs fighting.  You have much to do, Legolas.’

It was, he found, a strangely heartening thought.  He had not left striving behind on the shores of his land of birth to stagnate in this peaceful realm, but was, instead, taking up arms of a different kind to go to the defence of his people. 

‘The Silvan are too scattered,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘to rule – as Finarfin rules the Noldor and Olwë the Teleri.  And they dwell on sufferance in the lands of others.  But you are right – they need a voice.  And they need a home.’

‘That will come,’ Galadriel’s voice sounded dreamily distant.  ‘It is not yet time – but it will come.  It is for us to prepare the ground over these next years, so that our future path may be eased and the elves of Ennor find their place here in the Blessed Realm.’

Legolas looked at her uneasily.  Glimpses into the future, he felt, were an unreliable guide to the task at hand.  ‘Oh well, then,’ he declared, ‘that is all right.  I suppose.’

Galadriel blinked and smiled.  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It will be all right.’

***

Taryatur seriously disliked him.  Legolas was almost offended by it.  What had he ever done to upset the Noldo – apart from cast a few admiring looks at his daughter?  And not many elves thought of that as a reason to detest another.  A reason to send the elleth on a protracted visit to her grandparents, perhaps, in the hope that her absence would cool any unwanted interest, but it was not a reason for loathing. 

The elf’s son had shrugged with embarrassment when Legolas had asked him just why Taryatur seemed determined to contradict every word that he uttered.  Camentur had simply muttered something about his atar always having been that way – and that he was sure Taryatur would learn to appreciate Legolas soon.   The tone of his voice, however, had suggested that any such diminution of the older elf’s disapproval was highly unlikely and that Legolas might have a long wait if he hoped to be viewed with any kind of approbation.

In fact, only Legolas’s wish to promote his cause in the court of the Noldor High King had persuaded him not to revert to childhood – and indulge in a delicate needling of the elf who so clearly mistrusted him.  It had become instead a matter of pride to display impeccable manners in the face of provocation – and not only because the greenish-grey eyes of Taryatur’s daughter were on him.

Although she seemed as doubtful of him as her sire. 

It was, he supposed, hardly surprising.  Taryatur and his wife were hardly likely to have brought up their children to be accepting of anything beyond the everyday experiences of the Noldor.  The only wonder was that Camentur seemed to be so interested in discovering more about Legolas and his world – even though Taryatur did his best to keep his son away from the Silvan elves who accompanied Legolas on his increasing number of visits to Tirion.

Legolas advanced quietly across the busy room towards the chatting elleth.  She did not appear to have noticed his approach in time to move gracefully away to another part of the ballroom as was her usual custom.  Perhaps, this time, he would manage to disconcert her into agreeing to dance with him. 

‘He is stalking you,’ the dark-haired Calissë hissed.

‘I know.’  Elerrina’s lips twitched.  ‘Let him get just a little closer – and then we can slip away.’

‘I fail to understand why you tease him so much.’  Calissë shook her head.  ‘He is really very attractive.’

‘He is a Wood Elf – they are reckless and wild,’ Elerrina shrugged.  ‘Atar is of the opinion that they cannot be trusted.’  She pursed her mouth thoughtfully.  ‘I am not so sure, myself – it seems a bit of a comprehensive condemnation – but I would not want to upset Atar.  Is he still coming?’

‘I cannot see him – there are people in the way.  Had we better move?’

‘I will find my brother and make him dance with me – right in front of him,’ Elerrina grinned mischievously.  ‘He will be so exasperated!’

‘Perhaps you would care to dance with me, Lady Elerrina?’  His accent had improved over recent years, but his voice was still soft – and, despite her best efforts, she found it hard to resist.  Before she thought of an excuse, her hand was in his and he was leading her to the sets of dancers.   ‘There is no need to drag your brother from his wife.  I am more than happy to substitute for him.’

‘Are you sure this is politically wise?’ Elerrina asked him airily.  ‘You usually confine your dancing to the wives of the High King’s most powerful advisors.’

‘It is safer to do so,’ Legolas murmured confidentially, leaning closer to her ear.  ‘I have long found it unwise to expose my throat to naked blades.  With you, my lady, I can feel sure that your atar’s distaste for my kin will keep me from certain attentions.’

Elerrina blinked at him, disconcerted.  ‘I think, perhaps, this dance should end, my lord,’ she said primly.  ‘I have no desire to be employed as a tool to annoy my kin.’

He smiled dazzlingly.  ‘If I gave that impression, my lady, I am very sorry.  I merely wish to spend time in the company of Tirion’s most beautiful daughter.’

‘Now that, Lord Legolas, is simply ridiculous.  I number more than enough yeni to be aware that I am nothing of the sort.’  Her voice contained undertones he did not understand and the eyes meeting his had taken on the gleam of green marble.  She allowed him to lead her through the complex pattern of the dance in cool silence.

‘I have been trying unsuccessfully to win a dance with you for some time – and all I have done is given myself reason to apologise to you,’ Legolas said ruefully.  ‘I wish I could ask you to start again – and I promise that I will keep to innocuous subjects.’

Elerrina inspected him from under the shadow of her eyelashes.  She smiled.  ‘The weather has been remarkably fine recently,’ she remarked.

‘Indeed it has, my lady – and the stars promise to shine well on the night’s festivities.’

She dimpled at him.  ‘And this is proving a remarkably interesting evening.’

‘I have rarely known better.’

‘Are you planning on remaining long in Tirion?’

‘I fear not, my lady.’  He sounded truly regretful.  ‘I have made arrangements – clearly far too precipitately – to meet some of my adar’s former advisors shortly.  I will have to leave when Ithil starts again to cross the sky.’

Her eyes met his and their steps slowed.  ‘That is a pity.’

‘But I will return,’ he promised as the music ended.

Promptly a hand clasped Elerrina’s possessively and a tall body inserted itself between the two of them.  ‘It is time for us to leave, my daughter,’ Taryatur said pleasantly, with a glare at the Wood Elf that left Legolas in no doubt that he was being warned to keep his distance from the only elleth he had met in the Blessed Realm who stirred his interest and, without allowing either of them the chance to speak, Taryatur whisked his daughter away.

Slow but Sure

Taryatur scowled.

His wife sighed internally, but maintained her calmly stubborn look.  ‘It is only courteous,’ she said.  ‘Camentur works with him, my husband.  It is part of his responsibility as one of Lord Finrod’s aides.  It is only right that he should invite the Silvan prince to dine with us.’

‘Could you have not arranged this while Elerrina was visiting your grandparents?’ he asked crossly.  ‘She only returned to us a month ago – we can hardly send her away again so quickly.’

‘Why should there be any need to send her anywhere?’ Linevendë snapped.  ‘I am talking an evening’s entertainment – not an invitation to bond with my daughter!’  She pressed her lips together, making an effort to calm herself so that she could coax her husband into being more co-operative.  ‘Nisimalotë can look after Elerrina and ensure that she and Lord Legolas do not spend any time alone – and Camentur can take him off to the library after they have eaten.’

He could not deny – to himself, at least – that this blond elf of Endórë was decidedly less irritating that the aggravating lordling who lived in his memory.  And he had to admit that the High King and his advisors seemed to take him as an equal and accept his presence – but then, he was not making eyes at their daughters.  He rolled his glass between his fingers, admiring the barley sugar twist within the stem.  He was sure that this princeling was kin to the one he had known.  He had refused to ask – better, he was aware, not to know – but he could see it in his face.  Grandson, perhaps, or great-grandson.

Part of him felt ashamed of his conduct on the muddy shores of the reshaped land.  He had not really behaved as was fitting for a member of the Valar’s Host under the command of his king – but he still only had to think of that sanctimonious, short-tempered, self-opinionated Sinda for his temper to rise … he drew a deep breath and released it slowly.  It was a long time ago.  He should be over this by now.  Yet were the effects of war ever really over?  Even now it only took the growling of thunder and sheets of lightning ripping apart the sky and he was back in the nightmare before Angband.  His family thought he walked in the rain because he enjoyed the drama of the storm – if they only knew!

He had fallen into Linevendë’s arms when the ships had come to shore: held her as if she was the only certainty in a life that had changed beyond recognition.  They had married and – he had tried to appear as if he was the same elf who had embarked on their heroic journey.  He had always felt guilty for inflicting on her someone who was not the husband she had chosen to love – but what could he do?  And, gradually, the wounds had healed over and life had become routine.  They had not had children, though: not for a long time.

And then, when a new age had begun, they had decided the time was right – and first Camentur had brought them joy and then, later, they had brought Elerrina into the world. In bringing them to adulthood, he had been able to release much of the pain of those now-distant memories – and discover, in caring for his children, the delight of being an atar.  And he did not now intend to surrender his precious and protected daughter to the dubious care of an elf of that marred world.

He looked at his wife, patiently waiting for his reply.  She would not give in, he knew, admiring the copper of her hair and her determined manner.  She was, for all he would not say so out loud, his strength – their bond was something he would never regret for a moment – and once she had made up her mind, he had not a chance of moving her.  Knowing when to give in had proved one of the most useful of the skills he had learned over their yeni together – and this was clearly one of those moments.

‘Very well – invite him,’ he surrendered.  ‘Just be sure that Elerrina is not left alone with him.’

Linevendë rose and put her hands on his shoulders, leaning down to rest her cheek on his gleaming dark hair.  ‘You worry too much,’ she told him.  ‘There are some things you cannot control – and your grown children are among them.’  She dropped a kiss on his temple.  ‘Do not put ideas in their heads,’ she recommended.  ‘They doubtless have enough of their own.’

***

Legolas slowed his horse and leaned his head back to admire the tracery of fresh leaves against the blue of the sky.

His companion glanced at him with amusement. 

‘I know.’  Legolas smiled wryly.  ‘It is only an evening – and being diplomatic is the reason I am here.  It is simply…’

‘If you did not look at his daughter, the elf might find you less irritating.’

‘He loathed me before he ever saw me.’  Legolas shrugged.  ‘I have clearly spent far too much time in congenial company performing congenial tasks.  I have grown unaccustomed to being looked at as if I am being considered as an addition to the menu.’  His smile widened.  ‘Not since an orc last thought he had me trapped.’

‘My wife’s adar used to look at me in the same way,’ Litheredh observed.  ‘He still does, on occasion.’

‘It is not the same.’  Legolas raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course not, my lord.’

‘I am constantly surprised that Camentur is Taryatur’s son.’  Legolas ran a hand over his braids.  ‘He is so interested in learning things that are outside his experience – and his atar so clearly is – not.’

Litheredh looked sideways at his lord.  In the years since he had been attacked by the young Noldor, he had grown into the role of a leader of his small group of green elves and seemed to spend ever longer away from his trees in consultation with Orodreth’s representatives – but he could not say he enjoyed it.  He accompanied Legolas to the councils of the great, listened to their words, spoke little – and learned.  It was surprising, he thought, what the powerful would say in the hearing of those they considered insignificant.  It was almost as if they were so used to being surrounded by those with no voice that they no longer noticed them at all.  Better, though, to keep quiet – his king’s son would doubtless learn soon enough what he did not already know, and he had no desire to be the one to carry tales of the distant past.

The house beyond the trees was long and low – and surprisingly harmonious with the land around it.  Legolas had expected pretension, he realised.  Taryatur seemed abrasive and arrogant and the sort of elf to be seeking a position among the powerful, but this building seemed to suggest someone far more at ease with himself.  His wife, perhaps, Legolas decided, reluctant to abandon his view of the older elf.  The gardens were filled with flowers – tall delphiniums and lupins, fragrant pinks and bright marigolds among others he could not name at this distance, while vines of honeysuckle and jasmine twisted over the walls to nod their flowers against the open windows.  It appeared deeply peaceful and about as remote as it was possible to be within a day’s journey of Tirion.

An elleth in a gown of soft blue was gathering flowers.  Legolas ruthlessly suppressed the disappointment at seeing her crown of dark hair.  He was not interested in a maiden of the Noldor.  His adar would be apoplectic if he arrived in the Blessed Realm to find his son bonded to a daughter of that kindred!  Not even a defence of diplomacy would work – he might accept a Vanya into the family, he would – reluctantly – acknowledge kinship with the Teleri, but a Noldo would be taking things too far.

The stable yard was neatly cobbled and clean – but clearly not regularly frequented by too many horses.   Camentur waited for them to dismount and opened the doors to two loose boxes.  Buckets of fresh water and nets of sweet-smelling hay had been prepared, but there were no other heads gazing out over the half-doors.  Beyond the row of stables a series of workshops showed more sign of being in regular use, but even there the scent of fire was dying down and the song of the birds clear enough to indicate that the buildings were empty.

‘My atar enjoys working glass,’ Camentur said, noting Legolas’s interest in the workshops.

‘I though the Noldor preferred working in metal – or jewels,’ the fair-haired elf commented.

‘A common misconception.’

Legolas shot a glance at him.  Again there was an undertone he did not understand.

‘Although my mother prefers to weave – and, as you know, I have chosen to engage in oiling the wheels of bureaucracy.   Elerrina is the one to have inherited Atar’s talent for making things of beauty.’

Legolas felt his eyebrows arch.  ‘Your sister makes glass?’

‘You will have seen her work.’  Camentur smiled.  ‘Many of those at court wear it – although I do not know if they are aware whose hands create their adornments.’  There was a finality to his tone that suggested he had no indication of expanding on his words.  He turned to Litheredh.  ‘You are most welcome to our home,’ he said formally.

The Wood Elf bowed.  ‘You do me honour,’ he replied.

‘Shall we join my parents?’ Camentur suggested.  ‘My wife has produced some of my favourites to delight our palates – and it would be wiser not to be late.’

***

Legolas fixed his eyes on the gleaming glass in his hands.  Was it, he wondered, the work of his reluctant host?  Or perhaps of his daughter?  He risked a quick glance at the gleaming russet hair, but Elerrina was – as usual – looking anywhere but at him.

‘You know Tol Eressëa, of course,’ Taryatur said politely, in response to his wife’s toe against his ankle.  ‘Have you travelled extensively on the mainland?’

‘Tirion, of course,’ Legolas managed a diplomatic look of admiration.  ‘Alqualondë – and Valmar.  And I am attempting to journey further afield to reach those regions where many of my adar’s people have settled, but, by their very nature, they are scattered.  I am hoping to have the chance to travel more for pleasure in coming years.’  He smiled and inclined his head.  ‘The Blessed Realm is indeed blessed in its beauty.’

Camentur looked from one to the other.  ‘You should visit Lord Aulë’s Halls,’ he said.  ‘He would welcome a Dwarf-friend to his Great Court, I am sure.’

There was a sudden unexpected tension in the air, Litheredh noticed, as if Camentur had said something that made all those in the know uncomfortable.  He turned over the words, contemplating how they might fit in with what he had learned.  How could suggesting a visit to one of the Powers be something that would turn a stiff atmosphere so frosty? 

‘I am sure Lord Legolas would be more at home visiting Lord Oromë’s woods,’ Linevendë said calmly.  ‘I am told they are a wondrous sight – forest as it was when the Trees lit the lands, ancient and pure.’  She smiled.  ‘There are those who say his woods are dangerous, for many who visit them do not return – but I suspect that is because they wish to stay.’

Legolas laughed lightly.  ‘I cannot afford to become ensnared by the beauty of a Vala’s home, my lady.  My adar would be most displeased if he were to arrive to find me idle.’

Her eyes twinkled.  ‘Whatever makes you think that those who dwell in the home of a Vala are idle, my lord?’  She glanced involuntarily at her daughter, before flicking her eyes back to hold his.  ‘The courts of the Powers are where one goes to learn – and that learning is demanding!’

‘Your son tells me that you create objects of glass.’ Legolas turned to Taryatur, his smile determinedly pleasant.  ‘Is it you who are responsible for these beautiful pieces?’ He indicated the frosted glasses and bowls of bright ruby and gleaming blue that adorned the table.

Taryatur relaxed a little as Legolas kept his attention averted from Elerrina.  ‘I am,’ he conceded.  ‘I have only a small workshop here – for the times when I cannot refrain from experimenting at my craft – but most of my work is carried out at our home near my wife’s kin.’  He met Legolas’s eyes squarely, his face impassive.  ‘It is easier to move ourselves than it is to shift the materials needed to make good glass.’

There it was again.  Legolas smiled, but could not help wondering what was behind those occasional moments of withdrawal.  He was clearly missing something – something that he was supposed to know.   He flicked a glance at Litheredh, who was talking politely with Camentur’s wife about her garden, apparently oblivious to the undertones.  ‘So I would imagine,’ he agreed.  ‘We had forges near my adar’s Stronghold for a limited amount of metal-working – but it was always easier to establish workshops near a ready supply of raw materials.  Of course, we had the river nearby, which helped.  Water transport is much easier and more cost effective than trying to carry heavy goods overland.’

By the time they had managed to exhaust the merits of water as a method of transport, they were nibbling the dried fruit and nuts that customarily ended a meal.  Taryatur rose to fetch a decanter of amber cut-glass.  He poured a small amount of clear liquid in the glasses in front of Legolas, Litheredh and Camentur, while Elerrina and Nisimalotë cleared the table and disappeared in Linevendë’s wake.

Taryatur sat back, clearly more at ease without them in the room.  ‘My son tells me that your business at court seems to be flourishing.  The favour of the High King’s daughter cannot fail to be a recommendation – and I understand you have some connection with the Telerin King.’

‘Remote.’ Legolas waved his hand airily as he brought the glass up to scent the contents.  Miruvor-like, he thought.  Heady with the fragrance of flowers and honey-sweet, it clearly packed considerable power.  A cautious sip reinforced his suspicions – and Litheredh’s easy confidence with the liqueur revealed something he had not known about his aide. 

‘But acknowledged.’  Taryatur looked at his glass for a moment; then brought his eyes up to focus on the Wood Elf’s fair face.  ‘It would be dishonest not to acknowledge kinship,’ he said, ‘for whatever reasons.’

Camentur twitched and produced an uncomfortable laugh.  ‘We all have relatives we would prefer to keep at a distance,’ he said.  ‘They are something we can do nothing about – they are gifted us by birth, not choice.’  He raised his chin and made a show of settling himself comfortably.  ‘Take Nisimalotë’s brother-in-law,’ he smiled cautiously.  ‘Please – take him!  He tries my patience terribly.’

Legolas laughed.  He had no idea what was going on here – but he was going to find out.  It would appear that there was something beneath the surface that everybody imagined he knew – and he had better discover what it was before he made a fool of himself.

***

Lady Galadriel looked at him meditatively until he was almost ready to squirm like an elfling – but he remembered he was Thranduil’s son, a prince of his realm, one of the Nine Walkers and formerly Lord of Ithilien.  Although, he thought ruefully, if he was reduced to repeating his claims to fame and authority, the Lady’s inspection was clearly having its intended effect.

‘I suppose,’ she said finally, ‘that you could find many people here who would tell you what you want to know – so my refusal would do little to keep the matter quiet.  Not that there is any reason to keep it from you.  It is no more Taryatur or Linevendë’s fault than it is mine and there is even less reason why anyone should look at them askance.  It is not something that can be described as anybody’s fault.’  She hesitated, then shrugged.  ‘Linevendë is descended from Mahtan the Smith,’ she told him.  ‘Her grandmother is Mahtan’s younger daughter.’

Legolas maintained his expression of polite interest.

Despite her concern, Galadriel could not conceal a flash of amusement.  ‘You undoubtedly learned the name at some stage during your education,’ she remarked.

‘Possibly.’  The cautious reply suggested to her that he may well not have done – or that, if it had been spoken, he had not been paying attention at the time.

‘Mahtan learned his craft at Lord Aulë’s forges,’ she lectured him.  ‘He is a master among masters – so highly skilled that none has ever matched him.  Save only one – the elf who wed his first-born daughter.’

A frown marred Legolas’s face, but he chose to remain silent.

Galadriel sighed.  ‘His daughter Nerdanel,’ she said, ‘married Fëanor, son of Finwë and half-brother of my own atar.  And,’ she added, just in case the quality of education in the shadows of Mirkwood was not up to standard and had chosen to avoid the details of the Kinslayers’ genealogy, ‘mother of his seven sons.’

‘Which makes Linevendë,’ Legolas said slowly, ‘first cousin to the Fëanorionnath.’  He paused.  ‘Like you.’

Just for a moment, Galadriel considered pointing out again that Finarfin and Fëanor had only been half-brothers, but then decided against it.  ‘Yes,’ she said.  ‘She is first cousin once removed.’

‘You seem to live with the connection quite happily – why do Taryatur and Linevendë seem to find it such an embarrassment?’

The Lady met his eyes.  ‘They have lived here over three ages – with the echoes of Alqualondë echoing in their ears.  Has it never occurred to you to wonder how it must have been here in that darkness that followed the death of the Trees, when the host of the Noldor had followed Fëanor to their doom?  How they endured, those who were left behind?’  She took Legolas’s arm.  ‘Walk with me,’ she requested, guiding him along a path over which tall trees reached to offer a dappled shade to those below.  ‘The pace of life here is slow.  The passage of yeni does not erode the bitterness of memory.  East of the sea…’ she paused, ‘there was a greater chance of earning your own reputation.’

She strolled in silence along the walk, keeping his pace to hers while she let him think over her words.

‘And then,’ she observed.  ‘Taryatur is not High King.  Those who would overlook my atar’s closer connection with the Kinslayers would not afford the same grace to Nerdanel’s kin.’  She glanced quickly at him.  ‘But Taryatur did not care,’ she informed him.  ‘He loved Linevendë – and would not allow his family’s doubts to matter to him.  When he returned with the Valar’s Host, he embraced her as his wife.’

‘Yet there are still those who would hold her … her distant cousins’ acts against Elerrina?’ Legolas was indignant.  ‘And Camentur?’ he added swiftly. 

‘What would be Thranduil’s reaction if he arrived to find you had wed the cousin of those who slew Dior and brought Doriath to ruin?’  Galadriel stopped and waited until Legolas had turned to her. ‘I think I can tell you from experience that it would be less than positive.  It is not only the elves of Middle-earth who would say that Elerrina bore no guilt at all – but who would still prefer not to have her marry into their family.  She is a beautiful and talented elleth – but do not pursue your interest in her, Thranduilion, unless you are very sure.  I will not have you hurt her.’

Legolas smiled.  ‘Her adar, on the other hand, would be only too happy to hurt me.’

‘Ah well.’  Galadriel resumed her stroll.  ‘That is different.  You cannot expect him to welcome your attentions.’  She laughed softly.  ‘Ask Celebrían how my lord reacted to Elrond’s first show of interest in her.  For all he respected Elrond as a wise elf and a warrior and cared for him as Elu’s descendant, he was not at all sure he wanted to have him as a son.’  She shook her head.  ‘It took all Celebrían’s wiles to overcome their caution and coax Elrond into courting her anyway.’ She shot an amused glance at Legolas.  ‘You might want to remember that, Prince of the Greenwood.  In this matter, the decisions are not all in your hands.’

***

The wood was quiet.  Squirrels sought out their stores busily and the narrow trails suggested that there were deer in plenty concealed in the brush.  Birds flew back and forth in search of insects to feed their young, indifferent to the presence of elves relaxing on the mossy bank beneath them.

‘The wood has recovered well,’ Legolas observed.

‘Once the problem was removed,’ Litheredh agreed.  ‘We have been left alone here since then – no others wished to risk the High King’s fury.’  He looked around him.  ‘Even Lord Orodreth does not hunt here any more.  I think he has decided to cede the forest to us – in effect, if not in name.’

‘It sounds like him.’  Somehow, though Orodreth was doubtless a worthy lord, he lacked Finrod’s charm, Legolas thought.  It would be like him to do something positive in a way that obtained him neither credit nor thanks.  ‘Although I doubt the Noldor would be willing to accept a formal change of title.’

Litheredh sighed.  ‘What we need is somewhere that belongs to us,’ he said.

‘We are too scattered to wield the power our numbers merit.  Too … too inclined to disappear from sight, as well, when we are challenged.  It may be wise,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but it is hardly a way to impress others.’

‘Perhaps we will learn to be thankful that Elrond Eärendilion sent you on his quest,’ Litheredh mused.  ‘It has given you a … a presence among the powerful.’

‘I doubt that was his intention.’

‘Nevertheless…’

Legolas sat forward and ran his fingers through his hair before resting his forearms on his knees.  ‘It is hard to know where to start,’ he admitted.  ‘I cannot credit that three ages of Wood Elves have retired to the trees and waited for one as … as ordinary as me to put their case for self-determination.  It is not as if I am the first lord of our people to reach these lands!’

‘I cannot think of any other who has arrived without a sojourn in Námo’s Halls.’  Litheredh grinned wryly.  ‘Most of the leaders of the Wood Elves, my lord, fight tooth and nail not to be dragged from their native forests – and those few who have returned to life in the Blessed Realm are generally at peace with the world as it is.’

The immensity of the task before him weighed down upon his shoulders.  ‘I cannot do this,’ Legolas stated.

‘You cannot do it alone, my lord.  But you are not alone.  And like all journeys – it starts with a single step.  We have this wood – we have the goodwill of the Noldor High King and his kin.’  Litheredh grinned.  ‘And you can attend all their receptions, dressed in your finest, and make sure that you are seen and acknowledged as your adar’s representative.  Make friends – you are good at that.  Let the daughters of the Noldor make eyes at you – beat their brothers at the butts.  Drive a wedge into a world that sees us not – a wedge that the king can use when he comes.’

‘You make it sound so pleasant.’ Legolas did not conceal his sarcasm.  ‘And I do not wish to flirt – I can think of few more dangerous habits.’

‘There is safety in numbers, my lord.  Dance with them all, let them drag you on picnics, offer your smiles generously – until they give up on you.’    

Legolas snorted.  ‘I will do my duty as I see it, Litheredh – to my adar and our people, since I can no longer serve the Wood of my birth – but that does not include serving myself on a plate to tease the appetites of a gathering of hungry maidens.’

‘Probably just as well.’  Litheredh grinned.  ‘It would do our cause no good to have a host of angry parents chase you out of Tirion.  And you catch more flies with honey, anyway.’

***

Legolas loosed his arrow – and was unsurprised when it struck the gold.  Archery here was more a game than a matter of survival, and it made a difference.

‘You are beyond good,’ Camentur approved.

‘There are many as skilled.’  Legolas averted his eyes as the Noldo prepared to send his own arrow towards the target.  It was remarkably difficult not to intervene and correct Camentur’s stance, he found, but taking on the role of archery master was hardly what he was here to do.

They had gathered an audience.  Legolas registered them swiftly.  A scattering of youths, eager to emulate the skill.  A few older elves, some of whom held their bows with the confidence that came from much practice.  But they were there, too.  Neither mature nor young, finely-clad, they were the sort of ellyn whose only purpose, as far as he could see, was to provide a market for the multiplicity of expensive goods produced for sale here in Finarfin’s centre of power.

‘Horse dung!’ Camentur exclaimed cheerfully, as his arrow dipped to stick askew in the edge of the target.  ‘I will have to ask you to give me some pointers, my friend.  I clearly did not spend enough time mastering such skills when I was young.’

‘I doubt your atar put weapons’ training high on the list of skills he wished his son to acquire.’

‘True.’ Camentur grinned.  ‘But it is remarkable what skills prove useful when Lord Finrod decides your duty is to act as liaison with a Wood Elf prince.’

‘Tell me,’ Legolas murmured, removing a second arrow from the collection in front of him and inspecting it.  ‘Who are the popinjays who seem determined to sneer at our activities wherever we go?’

Camentur glanced behind him, his face sobering as he turned back to Legolas.  ‘No-one important,’ he said, ‘whatever they might think.’

Eyeing down his arrow, Legolas released it to fly to the heart of the target.  ‘But Lord Finrod will doubtless find their names on a list shortly?’

Camentur’s eyes opened innocently.  ‘Why would you think that, my lord?’  He frowned at the target.  ‘There seems little point in continuing this competition, I fear.  I will concede defeat – before I am made to look a complete incompetent.’

‘You could rapidly become more accurate.’  Legolas shot him a glance.  ‘If you wanted to, that is.’

‘But I promised Nisimalotë that I would invite you to join us for lunch.’ Camentur shook his head.  ‘She would be displeased if we were to be late.’

Legolas sighed.  To his mind, Camentur worked far too hard to please.  He was frequently torn between Finrod’s instructions, his atar’s prejudices and his wife’s ambitions.  And then, combined with all that, he seemed to be an unconscious part of the conspiracy that kept Legolas from ever getting more than a glimpse of his sister.  ‘That would be delightful,’ he said politely. 

***

‘Oh, Nisimalotë,’ Elerrina sighed.  ‘I hope he does not come.’

‘You do not have to lunch with us,’ her sister-in-law suggested.  ‘You must be tired.’

‘A little.’  Elerrina unbraided her hair and brushed it rapidly.  ‘But I am also hungry – and I do not wish to be driven into hiding because of an ellon.’

‘If you did not like him, it would not matter,’ Nisimalotë said shrewdly. 

Elerrina stopped and then drew the brush through her hair rather more slowly.  ‘I do not like him,’ she said defiantly.  ‘It would not be appropriate.’

‘You like him.’  Nisimalotë sat on her bed.  ‘You are doing your best to keep as far away from him as you can – partly because of your atar, but mostly because you do not expect him to like you.’

‘I am not going to talk about it.’  Elerrina began to redress her hair.  ‘It is quite impossible – for a whole variety of reasons – and I am not going to be so foolish as to pretend otherwise.’

Her sister-in-law pressed her lips together and brushed her hand back and forwards over the wooden box on the bed.  ‘May I look?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ Elerrina took a ribbon and tied it round the end of her braids.  ‘My idea worked out well, I think – I am pleased with the results.’  She smiled.  ‘I did not want to return so quickly, but Andatar was taking Andamil to Lord Aulë’s court.  They asked me to join them – but I would rather spend more time in the workshop.’

Nisimalotë unfastened the catches and lifted the lid.  It was typical of Elerrina, she thought, to house her work more carefully than she packed her clothes.  ‘Oh, you are right,’ she exclaimed, taking a pair of large beads from their soft wrappings.  ‘They are beautiful – and the patterns are intriguing.’

‘I thought you might like them.’ Elerrina sounded pleased.  ‘I have set those already – you may wear them, if you like.’

‘You should not give them to me.’  Even as Nisimalotë protested, she was fastening one of the brooches to the collar of her gown. 

Elerrina offered her the small hand mirror so she could see it against her dress.  ‘Nonsense,’ she smiled.  ‘You are one of my best advertisements.  Everyone will see you wearing this – and half of them will ask where you found it.’

‘And where will I say?’ Nisimalotë asked dryly. ‘Not ‘in my sister-in-law’s chamber’ for certain.  You still insist on supplying the demand for your pieces through that little shop?’

‘Of course.’  Elerrina grinned.  ‘If they knew I made them, half the ladies of court would stop wearing them – and the rest would expect me to provide them for nothing.’

‘Nisimalotë!’  Camentur was clearly surprised on opening the door to see his sister, but he did not have time to focus on her.  ‘Lord Legolas came back to lunch with us, my love – but…’

‘Everything is prepared,’ she soothed him.  ‘Take him into your study and pour him a glass of wine.  We will be with you immediately.’

Her husband’s expression tensed as his eyes slid to Elerrina.

‘Do not be an idiot, my brother,’ she recommended.  ‘He is no more enthusiastic about spending time in my company than I am about meeting him.  Atar need not worry that we are about to elope.  He is as aware of what is due to his family as I am to mine.’

Camentur raised an eyebrow at her.  For all her years, his little sister could be remarkably naïve in some matters.

‘Go!’ Nisimalotë turned him and pushed him gently through the door. ‘You do not have time for this.’

Elerrina sighed as the door swung closed behind them.  She had no interest in this elf from distant Arda – really she did not.  He was, as she reminded herself regularly, one who would have no time for a daughter of the Noldor – and even less for one who was kin to the Kinslayers.  He kept looking for her in order to avoid her rather than to seek her out – just as she did him.  Moreover, her atar said he could not be trusted:  he knew far more about these matters than she did and he was undoubtedly right.  And, if she kept telling herself of her that, she might even come to believe it.   Perhaps.

***

‘You are causing a great deal of stir in the dovecotes,’ Finrod grinned.  ‘I think the High King is torn between wishing to keep an eye on you and sending you back to Tol Eressëa under the supervision of a guard.’

Legolas raised an eyebrow. 

‘Oh come!’ Finrod’s expression showed plainly that he doubted Legolas’s air of apparent innocence.  ‘You come among us like a lamb – and gather ever-increasing numbers of reserved Silvan elves to your side.’  He shook his head.  ‘There are some who think you to be more of a wolf in the sheep pens.’

‘King Olwë,’ Legolas remarked, ‘said that he was pleased to see one settle here who could offer a focus to a people who seemed so lost in the Blessed Realm.’

‘King Olwë,’ Finrod challenged, ‘lives by a sea the Wood Elves prefer to leave.  Those who have remained in his lands are few indeed.’

‘King Ingwë felt that the Silvan were a kindred under-represented in the councils of the great; a kindred who merited a voice.’

‘Few, too, are the Silvan elves who have chosen to seek out the groves of Valmar to make their homes.’

‘Some might say that the Noldor are the kindred who have spread themselves furthest in the lands of Aman – and that challenging their claim to rule anything that has not been guarded jealously from them is merely a matter of fairness.’

‘And would those ‘some’ include the heir of Oropher’s house?’  Finrod stared at the much younger elf.

Legolas shrugged.  ‘No,’ he said simply.  ‘I have no desire to take from the High King anything that is his – only to safeguard the rights of those who have little say in their fate.’

Finrod laughed.  ‘It would not surprise me if the High King wanted to keep you where he could keep an eye on you.’

‘So would your friendship – and that of your aide – be part of that strategy?’ Legolas asked coolly.

‘Me?   No!’  Finrod’s smile took on a reminiscent tone. ‘You remind me of a world I loved and miss still.  A world of wonder and variety that is denied those confined to the Blessed Realm.  And I suspect that Camentur sees a touch of the same magic – and it intrigues him even as it repels his atar.’

They paused, eyes distant, and recalled a land separated from them by more than time and distance.

‘Did you know my daeradar?’ Legolas asked abruptly.

Finrod turned his head to inspect him.  ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘Not well – he was one of the younger elves – not in Elu’s first circle – but I knew him.’  He smiled.  ‘You remind me of him in some ways – he could draw others to him when he wished – make them see the vision in his mind.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Eager,’ Finrod said finally.  ‘Eager.  Eager for life – for love – for experience.  Passionate in his loves and hates.’

‘I know so few whose memories of him are not shadowed by what came later,’ Legolas said sadly.

‘Well, you are in the right place now to find some who never knew what became of him after the Kinslayers came.’  Finrod’s dry tone made Legolas stare at him, startled.  He waved a hand apologetically.  ‘The past is not forgotten here,’ he said.  ‘Never forgotten – and not often forgiven.’  He sighed.  ‘Sometimes overlooked.’

‘Perhaps it is time to move on,’ Legolas suggested.  ‘Long enough has been spent in reparation for what cannot be changed.’

‘Perhaps,’ Finrod echoed.  He shook his head.  ‘We will if you will.’

Both contemplated the prejudices of those who looked to them for leadership and laughed. 

‘If only it were that easy!’ Legolas sighed.

Growing Roots

A house of his own?  It was, he supposed, a good idea.  There was really no need for him to wander like a rootless vagabond.  But here?  He looked doubtfully around the wide room furnished with nothing but Anor’s rays.  Finrod had assured him that the house was in the High King’s gift – had been the home of a cousin, he had said vaguely, who would not return to dwell in Tirion.  Better, Legolas had decided at the time, to enquire no further.  He was not sure he wanted to know any more than he had to about Finrod’s cousins.

It was far too big for him.  He went from room to room, looking out the windows at the wide gardens.  Finrod had laughed when he protested and pointed out that if was about time he returned some of the hospitality he had received over the past century.  Which brought problems of its own.  And then – how in Arda’s name was he to fund living in such a style?  He had no lands, no taxes to bring him in money, no skills that could bring him wealth – no time to earn.  He was far too busy working to represent his people, spread across the face of the Blessed Realm.   Yet he could not ask those who dwelt hand to mouth in the forest to provide of the little they had so that he might live in pretentious grandeur.  And neither could he live on Noldor charity.  He grinned.  His adar would have his ears.

Elrond watched him sympathetically.  ‘It is not as bad as it seems,’ he said.  ‘There are several farms attached to the estate that provide food and raw materials.  They have, in recent years, been sending that to the king’s agents – to be stored or sold.  The funds will have been held to maintain the house and improve the land.  They will come to you along with the title.  The farmers know what they are doing – and you would have little need to manage them.  The house is unstaffed – save for a caretaker – but that is probably for the best.  I cannot imagine that you would want a house filled with Noldor servants.’

‘It is all very well for you…’  Legolas drew a deep breath.  ‘Your lady is Finarfin’s granddaughter.  You are yourself the descendant of Fingolfin.  It is more than reasonable that the High King should ensure that you have somewhere to live that befits your status in his realm.  I am no kin to him.’

Elrond acknowledged his concern.  ‘Olwë would house you, if you preferred,’ he suggested.  ‘But Tirion would be a more central situation and give you better access to the places where the Wood Elves have gathered.’

‘I would be better setting up home among them,’ Legolas murmured.

‘Debatable.’  Elrond shrugged as the Woodland Prince frowned at him.  ‘To serve them best, you need to be at the centre of power.  Valmar and Alqualondë have their strengths – and I would suggest that you establish representatives in both, as well as keeping a presence on Tol Eressëa – but this is where the decisions are made.’

Legolas sighed.  ‘I am not equipped to manage a household,’ he admitted.  ‘I am none too sure what is involved. Not in detail.’

‘You need a wife,’ Elrond teased, then held up a placating hand at Legolas’s reproachful glare.  ‘Celebrían will help – she knows the importance of setting the right people in the right place.  Once that is done, the household will run itself – more or less.’ 

‘There are those who carried out key roles in running the Stronghold,’ Legolas mused.  ‘Galion has not sailed, but his assistant lives on Tol Eressëa – and Adar’s housekeeper travelled west when her son died.’

‘Find the right people – and delegate,’ Elrond shrugged.  ‘You have too much to do to concern yourself with day to day management.’  He paused.  ‘You will accept Finarfin’s offer?’

‘In the hope that, one day, I will be able to reciprocate and offer a similar boon to those representing the Noldor.  Yes,’ Legolas said reluctantly.  ‘I will accept it.’  He shot a sharp glance at the former Lord of Imladris.  ‘I should ask who once dwelt here – in the certain knowledge that, if there is something I would rather not know, someone is bound to tell me.’

Elrond laughed.  ‘Even in the Blessed Realm, nothing lasts indefinitely, Thranduilion.  This is not the former home of Fëanor or any of his sons.  One of Eärwen’s nephews lived here for a few yeni while his atar and he were – er – on not very good terms.  He has long since returned to Alqualondë – and I believe Finarfin was hoping to bestow the estate on my adar-in-law.’  He shook his head in amusement.  ‘But he has not yet arrived – and Finarfin is less than pleased with him.’  He grinned.  ‘His displeasure with Celeborn is to your benefit, however – and the benefit of your people.’

***

The wind whipped his fair hair across his face and the salt stung his eyes, but he could not suppress the excited grin on his face.  No reason why he should, either – there was no better way to get on with the sons of Alqualondë than to relish flying across the surface of the sun-silvered sea in a small vessel cutting a wake of foaming white.

‘Not many of the tree-folk are prepared to risk their lives on the bottomless sea,’ Espalas remarked.  ‘They seem to feel unsafe away from anything that has roots.’

‘I used it as way to challenge the sea-longing,’ Legolas admitted.  ‘To abandon myself to the waters – and then return to the land, because I chose to do so.  The sons of Dol Amroth’s Prince were only too happy to teach me how to sail a dinghy – they would face any conditions and laugh in the face of the fiercest storms.  It was terrifying at times – but nothing I have ever done matched the exhilaration.’

The Teler grinned.  ‘I would have liked to know them,’ he said cheerfully.  ‘There are not many who are prepared to cast themselves on Ulmo’s mercy.’  He moved the tiller to keep the small vessel quartering on the wind.  ‘Did it help?’

‘Help?’

‘With the sea-longing.’

‘Oddly, yes.’  Legolas eyed the pennant at the mast-head.  ‘It soothed the ache – and made the wait easier.  Until the next time the need came, anyway.’  He glanced at Espalas.  ‘It worried those who cared about me – I think they saw me setting forth across the Sundering Seas with nothing but what I stood up in, and not realising what I had done until it was too late.’

Espalas shrugged.  ‘Those who do not care for the sea will never understand it.  They look on it as an enemy, while to us it is…’ he smiled, ‘like the water from which we emerge to be born.’

‘I am still an elf of trees, though,’ Legolas added.

‘Well – nobody is perfect.’

They laughed as Espalas brought his craft round the harbour wall to ease its way to the jetty.  ‘You will need to bathe,’ the Teler said. ‘Daeradar is more or less inured to us turning up salt-stained and sticky, but the ladies of the family disapprove very vocally.  My wife would never forgive me if I failed to give you enough time to remove the fragrance of fish and seawater.’

Alqualondë gleamed like a pearl in the afternoon light, heat radiating from the white walls to weigh heavily on the quiet streets.  Away from the sea, elves drifted indoors once Anor was at its highest, sheltering from the warmth and waiting for the shadows of evening to refresh the atmosphere. 

Legolas drew a lungful of warm air scented with the jasmine that tumbled over from the elegantly wrought balconies and found himself thinking of an elleth with hair like dawn sunlight.  They hardly spoke and did their best to avoid being in each other’s company, and yet there was something about her that...  He sighed.  Forget her, he told himself firmly.  Concentrate on making friends – there were Wood Elves here in the forests behind the sea-facing settlements of the Teleri.  They deserved his full attention – and he did not want to worry Olwë as he clearly did Finarfin. 

It was a relief to enter the shady rooms away from the purple bougainvillea and pots of scarlet flowers that adorned the steps and window sills.  The shutters were closed, admitting only a dim light and keeping out the majority of the heat.  At least, he smiled reminiscently, this city of the Teleri did not have the smell of fish and rotting seaweed that had been such an inevitable part of summer in Dol Amroth.  It would not, of course.  Alqualondë was part of the Blessed Realm and the smell of a port in summer was far too mundane to be permitted this side of the sea.

He stripped off the sea-dampened clothes that had dried in the sun only to dampen again as he sweated his way up the hill, and hoped briefly that there was someone here who would remove them to return them fresh and pressed for him to wear in the morning.  Perhaps he should start carrying more baggage as he journeyed from wood to wood.  He grinned at the thought.  A pack horse or two, maybe, laden with embroidered tunics and silk robes.  He could just see the faces of the Wood Elves as Thranduil’s son turned up prepared to primp himself up like an elleth going to her first ball.  They would never take him seriously.  On the other hand… he washed himself swiftly, enjoying the cool water on his skin… there were those who would never take him seriously if he dressed like a practical elf – those to whom the show was the substance.  Perhaps… he slowed as he turned over the thought… perhaps he did need a base here as well as in Tirion and on the Lonely Isle.  Perhaps he needed somewhere he could leave a few things – and someone who could be his voice when he was elsewhere.  He ran the comb through his damp hair and sighed: this was all getting far too complicated for a straightforward warrior like him.

Had Elu Thingol looked like his brother, Legolas wondered as he sat at the king’s table beside his gentle queen.  Olwë had the wisdom of ages in his eyes, and a patient endurance about him – like one who had been tried and found worthy.  His silver hair resembled Celeborn’s, but fell freely over his shoulders and poured down his back like water cascading from the cliffs to the sea.  No braids to keep it from his bowstring or to bind it out of his eyes while he fought.  Only the pearl-studded circlet that hinted at his authority blended in with his mane – as if, even here, he felt no need to assert himself.

‘My grandson says that you clearly have Teleri blood in you,’ the queen smiled.  ‘Espalas has little time for those who are not at home on the water – I fear you have passed the test and he has taken you as a friend.’

‘Well – my naneth was Silvan,’ Legolas grinned, ‘but my adar’s kin came out of Doriath to become Sindar princes of the Great Forest.  Since Elu and Olwë were brothers, that must make me kin of some degree.’

She shook her head.  ‘It takes more than a kinship of blood to make my grandson accept an elf as worthy – he is far more impressed by a reckless disregard for safety in a small boat.’ She touched a warning hand to his knuckles.  ‘I promised my granddaughter that you would come to no harm in Alqualondë,’ she said.  ‘Take no foolish risks, child.  You are your adar’s only son – and your people’s hope.’

Legolas’s eyes softened.  He could never have had a better or wiser upbringing than that his adar had given him, but he sometimes wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a naneth’s love.  ‘I will take care, my lady,’ he promised.

‘You are not alone,’ she told him.  ‘And there are many here who will offer you all the aid they can.’

Legolas glanced towards her husband.

‘He cannot say so, of course,’ she said serenely.  ‘It would be undiplomatic.  But rest assured that I would not suggest anything with which I did not know he would agree.’  She patted his hand.  ‘And I am told to keep an eye on those hunting you as well.’  Her eyes were shrewd.  ‘I give you fair warning – I think my granddaughter has plans for you.  You might want to start running now.’

***

He hated to admit, but Legolas actually found that he rather liked Tirion.  They would probably be deeply insulted if he told them, but it reminded him a little of Minas Tirith.  Alqualondë had little of the vivacity he remembered from Dol Amroth and was a bit too tuned to the song of the sea – and Valmar was just – he frowned – it was just too contemplative.  Nobody seemed to say anything that was not laced with layers of meaning.  Tirion, however, was full of busy people all concerned with their own business and to whom the fascinations of the court meant little.  Except, he grinned, when they could profit from them.

Legolas stepped back into the shadow of a striped awning and watched a stallholder allow himself to be bartered down from a ridiculous figure on the first strawberries to one that was only extortionate.  The ellon negotiating for them snapped his fingers authoritatively and two lesser servants came forward to shoulder the boxes and carry them up to Finarfin’s house.  The stallholder bowed and offered baby carrots and early peas at a rather more reasonable rate. 

Filigon should feel proud of himself, Legolas mused.  If he regularly made that much on the crops he sold, it was no wonder that Maenas was able to display account books with such satisfactory figures.  The estate here not only paid for itself, it also provided enough money for him to filter small amounts into supporting Wood Elf projects across a range of areas.  Many themselves, he was told, now earning their own profits.

Not that he could take that much credit.  He had been astonished when Celebrían had taken him to one side and patiently instructed him on how to exploit the weaknesses of the Noldor to establish his position in the city, but everything she had said had proved to be right.  He was not, he occasionally thought, sure how Thranduil would feel about it – his son had, after all, spent his years in Lasgalen serving in the patrols that attempted to keep the forest safe – but he suspected that his adar might, at least, be impressed by his ability to balance the books.

The freshness of the early morning breeze flapped the awnings and made him turn his head to keep the hair from his eyes.  A glimpse of copper among the dark heads of the Noldor drew his attention.  Legolas raised his eyebrows.  What was she doing out in the town so early in the morning?  It was not as if either of her parents would want her to do the marketing – and Nisimalotë would definitely send her housekeeper to seek out goods from this early produce market, however much she might like to shop later in the day at the small exclusive craft stalls set up in the shade of the sheltering trees.

Almost without noticing, he began to trail her as she wove her way through the busy market.  She had a purpose, he realised and wondered what it might be, slowing suddenly as he thought that she might be going to meet someone – a friend she wished to keep hidden from her family.  His jaw tightened.  He hoped not – he did not think she would … would look at him when they met, not if she was interested in someone else.  But then, he brooded, why should she not seek to find someone whose fëa called to her?  It was not as if he had made any attempt to treat her as more than the sister of a friend.  One who was sometimes inconveniently in the way when he visited, but whose presence or absence meant nothing to him.

In his distraction he had lost sight of her.  He stopped and frowned at the people who had dared to block her from his line of vision.

‘Were you looking for someone?’  There was a sharpness to her light voice that suggested she was less than pleased.  ‘What gives you the right to follow me, my lord?’

Legolas opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly as a sudden flush coloured his cheeks.  ‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said meekly.  ‘I did not think through what I was doing – or consider how my actions might seem.’

Elerrina held his eyes for a moment, chin in the air so that she could look down her nose at him.  ‘What makes you so inquisitive about my actions, my lord?’

‘Can you not bring yourself to call me Legolas, my lady?’ He smiled winningly.  ‘I find myself drowning in formality, here in Tirion – and I would appreciate it.’

‘I could,’ she granted, ‘if, that is, I wanted to become the topic of gossip throughout the Blessed Realm.  What has she done, they would ask, to earn her a favour denied to all the other ellyth in Tirion?  I dread to think what else might be said about me.  I doubt my atar would be very happy!’

The only thing that he could do that would make Taryatur happy, Legolas suspected, was to remove himself permanently from his daughter’s vicinity – and that was something he was not prepared to do.  ‘Will you permit me to escort you wherever you are going, Lady Elerrina?’ he asked.

‘I do not require an escort.’  The snub was definite.  Her green-tinted eyes held his as he hesitated, then bowed in acceptance.  ‘However,’ she said, mollified, ‘if you wish to walk with me, you may.’

‘Thank you,’ he said meekly.   She looked at him suspiciously, but he concealed any amusement and gravely offered his arm.  ‘Where may I walk with you?’

She paused.  ‘The gardens are beautiful at this time of day,’ she suggested.

‘But you were not going to the gardens.’  He raised an eyebrow.  ‘I would not want my presence to prevent you from completing whatever task was driving you.’  He drew her back as a handcart laden with produce bullied its way between the stalls.  ‘But we had best not remain here too long – or we will be the topic of petty gossip anyway.’

She sighed in clear frustration.  ‘Very well,’ she agreed.  She frowned at him, making him smile in return.  ‘But I do not want you spreading this around!’

‘You have my word,’ Legolas said promptly. ‘Your secrets are mine!’

Her frown deepened.  ‘That is just foolish,’ she informed him. ‘You have no idea what you have committed yourself to keeping secret.’

He grinned.  ‘If you wish something kept in confidence, my lady, that is enough for me.’

‘And that is patronising.’  She shook her head.  ‘That is assuming that any secrets I might have are insignificant – that merely because I am an elleth, I can have no part in greater matters.’  She glanced sideways at him.  ‘It would serve you right to discover that, in your arrogance, you have now committed yourself to a plot against the High King.’

‘Have I?’ he asked, the warmth of his smile reflecting in his eyes.

She sighed.  ‘No.  Unfortunately my business today is just that – my business.’

‘Your glass?’ he asked.

She stopped, so that he turned to face her.

‘Your brother is very proud of you,’ he said.  ‘And the pieces I have seen are very special.  I do not know why you are so keen to keep your skill quiet.’

‘Because I am an elleth, of course.’  She started walking again.  ‘And so I am supposed to be skilled in areas that are appropriate for my gender.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘It is said that people can work in whatever role suits them and that no-one is restricted from learning because of being ellon or elleth – but it is not strictly true.  Weaving and spinning, stitchery, healing and educating children – those are considered roles very suitable for a maiden.  Working in a forge, or making glass – those are things that ellyn do.  And politics – well, just look at who fills the councils of the powerful.   Not an elleth to be seen.  Except, on occasion, the Lady Galadriel – and she is the High King’s daughter.’

‘The Lady Nerdanel is famed throughout Arda as an artist in the forge,’ Legolas protested.

‘Another reason for me to keep my skills quiet.’

This time Legolas stopped and looked her full in the face.  ‘I disagree, Elerrina,’ he said intensely.  ‘You have no reason to feel anything other than proud of yourself and what you do.  None at all.’  Involuntarily he raised a hand to touch her cheek, but stopped himself a few inches away, leaving his fingers caressing the air. 

Elerrina closed her eyes briefly and shook her head slightly from side to side as if she did not know how to stop.  ‘Thank you, Lord Legolas,’ she said, stepping back.  ‘I will not take you further out of your way.’   Her eyes met his briefly, and, before he could recover the power of movement, she was gone.

***

The shelter of trees was soothing – and they sang with similar voices to those with which he grew up.

‘You waste too much time in Tirion,’ Haldir sniffed.

‘Perhaps.’  Legolas relaxed in the talan high above the forest floor.  ‘Although some would say what I do is necessary.’

‘Perhaps.’  Haldir smiled wryly.  ‘I would not want to do it.’

‘You did not feel that your duty was to stay with Lady Galadriel?’  Legolas asked.  He had long wondered why this one of the Galadhrim had settled in a dense forest in the foothills of the Pelori rather than remaining close to his lord’s wife.

‘She asked me why I should wait in misery for Lord Celeborn – when she would be quite safe in the care of her family.’  He shrugged.  ‘She said she would send me word if she required our service.’

‘And has she?’  Legolas flicked an amused glance at the march warden of the Golden Wood.

He sniffed again.

Legolas understood the resentment under the reaction.  ‘She is her adar’s daughter as well as Lord Celeborn’s wife,’ he said mildly.  ‘And she has been parted from her family for a long time.’

‘But what will our lord do when he lands?’  Haldir looked around him contemptuously.  ‘This is no home for the Lord of Lothlórien – for Elu’s kin.’

‘There will be a home for him.’  Legolas spoke with certainty.  He paused.   ‘His lady gives him the right to demand the High King’s support.  Finarfin will grant his son by marriage much that he would not give to any other.’

Haldir ran his fingers over the wood grain absently.  ‘He seems to favour you,’ he observed.  ‘And you like playing the Noldor prince.’

‘You are old enough to understand politics.’  Legolas stared at him, his eyes hard.  ‘Even if you do not wish to play them.  The power here is in the High King’s hands – if we wish to have our needs taken seriously, we need a voice at court.’

‘I wish my lord would come.’  Haldir sounded hollow.  ‘We are wasting time here twiddling our thumbs and scratching around for things to do – while the Noldor farmers look at us as if we are a threat to their safety.’

Legolas drew a breath.  ‘A threat?’

Haldir’s smile twisted.  ‘Do they not think we notice that they keep their daughters behind walls and plough their fields in parties – some of them armed with stout sticks or carrying scythes?’

‘Do they have any reason to fear those of the wood?’ 

‘What do you take us for?’ Haldir stiffened.

‘It is not what I think.’  Legolas glanced towards the broad plain beyond the trees.  ‘If they are afraid…  There must be some reason behind it – even if it is in their own heads.’

‘There are some who gather in the villages – whipping up their feeling against anything that has not been in place for more than an age.  A few of our younger elves are enraged by what they see as prejudice and like to swagger into the inns – just to annoy the farmers.  They are the veterans of the battles for the Golden Wood – they are not used to being looked on as orcs.’

‘Come, Haldir!’  Legolas slapped his hand down on the wooden platform.  ‘You know better than to tolerate such stupidity!  We cannot afford to make enemies.’

‘You would bear their insults?’ the march warden hissed. 

‘Yes!’ Legolas declared.  ‘It is only for now.  A little pain will produce so much more gain.  If we turn the Noldor against us we will get nowhere.’

‘You would lick their boots?  And let them treat you as their lap-dog?’

Legolas tightened his jaw until his teeth ached.  ‘I would have you behave as befits a leader,’ he said.  ‘That means keeping your people under control.  And if you cannot do that…’ He left his threat unfinished.  After all, what could he do?  Haldir was answerable not to him, but to Celeborn – who lingered east of the sea.  Perhaps Galadriel…  But then again, perhaps Galadriel kept her distance deliberately rather than be defied by those who still looked on her as a foreign exile.

Haldir’s mist-grey eyes met his.  Whatever his faults, the elf did not lack courage.  ‘I have no authority, lord prince,’ he snapped.  ‘I am simply one of the Galadhrim, answerable to my lord.’

Legolas bent his head and ran his tense fingers through his hair.  ‘Then take the authority,’ he said.  ‘A power vacuum creates chaos – Lord Celeborn will not thank you for allowing his people to lose their way.’  He rolled his shoulders and stared intently at the other.  ‘Do what you know your lord would have you do.’  He sighed. ‘If I had known to what straits the sea-longing would have brought me,’ he murmured to himself, ‘I would have fought even harder not to sail.’ He shook his head with resignation.  ‘Do I need to find someone to invest you with the power, Haldir?  The Lady, perhaps?  Or Lady Celebrían?  Or do you have the strength of will to take charge and do what needs to be done, merely because it needs to be done?’

The talan moved slightly in the breeze that stirred the canopy, rocking them gently as a naneth’s arms comforted her fretful children.  ‘I will see to it,’ Haldir agreed grudgingly.  ‘The Galadhrim will not let my lord down.’

Well, Legolas sighed.  That was probably the most he could achieve – and more than he had any right to expect.  Once committed, Haldir would work loyally for their cause – and he was an elf worth having by your side.  ‘Then let us make plans, my friend,’ he said.

***

‘It is beautiful, my daughter,’ Taryatur said with affectionate pride as he held Elerrina’s latest design to catch the light.  ‘Like flowers preserved in crystal.’

She smiled. ‘It is only glass, Atar,’ she pointed out. 

‘It is more than that,’ he insisted.  ‘You have taken something remarkably simple and turned into an art form – the elves of Tirion flaunt your pieces, yet ignore the jewels crafted by others.’

‘It is fashion, no more than that.’

‘Perhaps that has something to do with it,’ he admitted, ‘but there is not a Noldo in existence who would prize fashion over beauty.  These are both elegant and stylish – and they are different.’  Taryatur smiled at his daughter.  ‘Your talent grows with your experience, my child – you have outstripped my skill by far.’

‘Only in this!’ she protested. ‘I do not have anywhere near your talent for colouring glass or for making vessels.’  She slipped her hands round his arm and held him affectionately.  ‘You see my work through the eyes of love, Atar.’

He rested his cheek briefly against her braided hair.  ‘I see nothing that is not there, my star-child.’ 

She leaned back and looked at him before planting a swift kiss on his cheek.  ‘Do we have to return to Tirion so soon?’ she asked.  ‘It is so much more comfortable here.’

He tapped her gently on the nose with his forefinger.  ‘Your amil is happiest there,’ he said.  ‘She would not want to dwell so far from your brother.  And there is little point our making all these items if we cannot make them available to others – we already have enough to fill every shelf we own.’

Elerrina sighed.  ‘Spending so much time at court is tiresome,’ she said.  ‘I would rather be away from all those watching eyes – and doing something more meaningful.’

‘Has he been bothering you again?’  Taryatur sounded resentful.

‘He does not bother me, Atar.’  Elerrina took the glass globe from his hands and wrapped it in the soft cloth.  ‘I do not understand why you dislike him so much.  He is always very courteous.’

‘It is bad enough that your brother must spend so much time in his company!’  Taryatur heard the edge in his voice and closed his eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths to steady himself.  ‘He is … scarred,’ he said after a moment.  ‘He has seen and done things that you cannot understand.  I do not want you to set your heart on him, my daughter.  He will only do you harm.’

His words hung between them as she continued to pack away the latest products of her craft.  ‘I will not do anything you would not like, Atar,’ she said softly.

A tall figure, broader in the shoulder than was common among elves blocked the light coming through the doorway.  ‘There you are,’ Taryatur’s atar-in-law said.  ‘Mahtan has a visitor sent from Lord Aulë’s court to whom he wishes to introduce his kin.’  He moved forward into the rectangle of bright sun from the window. 

Behind him a slighter figure entered.  A pair of blue-grey eyes met Taryatur’s somewhat deprecatingly.

Did that Endórë-spawned elf get everywhere?   Even as his precious daughter stood quietly, half in his shadow, he could feel the shift in her balance, as something in her yearned to move towards the Wood Elf.  A surge of resentment tightened his throat. Would he leave her nowhere to hold as a sanctuary from him?  Everywhere she went, there he was, his eyes devouring her without his even realising it.  At least here she had been able to get away from thoughts of him – but no longer.

Linevendë’s atar looked at him with amusement, a challenge in his glance that seemed to demand how his son-in-law liked having an unsuitable suitor sniffing around his only daughter. ‘Andatar wished to see you, Taryatur,’ he said with a certain relish.  ‘I am sure we can leave Elerrina to show Legolas around.’  He smiled at her benevolently.  ‘Join us for dinner, Legolas,’ he added amiably.  ‘There is no need to hurry your tour – there is plenty to see here, and Elerrina knows the area well.’

With an almost audible grinding of teeth, Taryatur followed the older elf out of the workshop, pausing only to threaten Legolas with a glare fierce enough to be almost physical, leaving behind him an atmosphere heavy with suspicion.

‘Well,’ Legolas smiled, ‘I am at your command, my lady.’

***

Elerrina walked at a discreet distance, keeping her eyes averted, even as she chatted pleasantly about the trees she had known since her earliest years, and he was careful not to say anything in response that might make her retreat even further. 

‘What brings you here, Lord Legolas?’ she asked finally.

He smiled wryly.  ‘Nothing of which you would disapprove,’ he assured her and fell silent for a few moments as he followed her up the steep slope behind the workshops. Finally he sighed.  ‘My … my friend and brother entrusted me with a duty before he died.’

She looked at him wide-eyed.

‘You have doubtless heard of Gimli,’ he said.  ‘I am sure the gossip about the pair of us spread far beyond the shores of Tol Eressëa.’ He noted the incline of her head.  ‘He spent much of the later years of his life in the lands of his birth accumulating as much as he could of the history of his people – he believed that his race was unlikely to survive the current age and wished me to place the knowledge in the hands of Mahal, where it would remain preserved until the world is remade.’  He sighed.  ‘I have been putting it off,’ he admitted.  ‘I did not wish to part with what I had left of him – I felt that handing his legacy to Lord Aulë would be bidding him a final farewell and accepting that my life would move on in his absence.’

He felt her sympathy even in her silence and turned his head to see her green-grey eyes fixed on him.  They stared at each other like a pair of cats, before the colour rose in Elerrina’s cheeks and she looked down, breathing as if she had been running.  Legolas swallowed.

‘It is impossible,’ he said.

‘Totally impossible,’ she agreed.  ‘It must not be – and therefore it cannot mean what it seems to mean.’

He attempted to untangle her words.  ‘I am not sure that you are right,’ he frowned.

‘I must be,’ she told him firmly.  ‘Otherwise I must tell you to keep your distance – and that it would be better if we never saw each other again.’

‘I cannot keep away from Tirion.’  Legolas looked at his hands and then up again.  ‘It is my duty to my adar – to my people – to support them wherever I can.’

‘I cannot keep away from Tirion,’ she declared.  ‘It is the home of my kin – and my brother lives there.’

‘Then we must determine that we will merely be friends.’  He remained motionless.  ‘I am not sure that I can do it.’

‘You must.’  Elerrina lifted her chin.  ‘I must.’  She looked up from the forest floor and forced a smile.  ‘Lord Aulë received you well?’

‘With great courtesy,’ Legolas inclined his head.  ‘He questioned me at length about those of his people I had come to know – and we talked of Gimli.’   He started to walk. 

‘You must miss him.’

He stopped and turned towards her.  ‘He was … he was my friend,’ he said.  ‘I always knew – intellectually – that our days together were numbered, but I loved him.  He tried to endure – he lived longer than any dwarf since the days of Durin – but he was not immortal, and in the end remaining became a burden I could not ask him to bear.’

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘you have to accept that love lies in letting go.’

‘You have lost many to the circles beyond the world?’ He kept his voice non-committal, but she heard his resentment at the words he felt to be meaningless.

‘None,’ she admitted.  ‘My knowledge comes merely from books, my lord – and from listening to those with more experience than I will ever gain.’

His eyes softened.  ‘No-one would wish you to learn the pain of losing those you love, my lady.’

‘Even the air of the Blessed Realm cannot protect one from pain,’ she said, her eyes flicking up to meet his.  Briefly, so briefly that he almost doubted it had happened, he felt her fëa brush his, before she broke the link and turned away from him.   Stunned, he tilted his head back and stared accusingly as the apparently innocuous expanse of sky.  Fate and the Valar could not take pleasure in offering him a glimpse of the one whose soul matched his, only to place her beyond his reach, kept from him by ancient enmities and more recent resentments.  Could they?

‘We had best return to Andatar’s house.’  Her voice was subdued, as if she too had received a sight of something that had shaken her.  ‘He will wish to continue teasing my atar, but…’ she glanced doubtfully at the fair-haired elf, ‘please…’  She fell silent as if she did not know how to explain what she wanted to say.

‘I will be good,’ he promised.  ‘There may be no dragons for me to slay, but I will appear oblivious to Taryatur’s disapproval – since you ask it of me, my lady.’

Taking Steps

Galadriel stood on the top of the dunes while the brisk breeze tugged at her skirts and blew her hair back from her face.  Small grains of sand marched steadily away from the white beach, disregarding anything in their way, while the stiff marram grass rustled like a gathering of disapproving matrons. 

Briefly, Elerrina glanced at her, then turned her eyes back to the restless waves that rolled into shore and broke to froth before dragging fragments of shell and the shards of ancient mountains back to fuel its play.  It was indecent to see that much pain in someone’s face – and shocking to realise the hidden depths of loss concealed beneath the Lady’s serene surface. 

Seabirds called, their voices harsh and haunting, and Galadriel drew a breath, like a child roused from uneasy dreams beyond her comprehension.  ‘I should not come here,’ she admitted.  She glanced at Elerrina.  ‘I no longer come here alone.’  She kilted up her skirt and drew the tail through her belt, so that her long legs were bare to the knee.  ‘Celebrían worries,’ she said.  ‘When first I landed, the song of the sea haunted me – and I think she was afraid…  But she need not be.  It is no more than a barrier.  One I cannot pass.’

She moved down the dune towards the water, the surface soft enough to make her grace a little more forced than usual and her toes burying themselves in the warm grains until she reached the wave-marked area of rippling sand. 

Elerrina followed her.  ‘I have never spent time by the sea,’ she remarked.  ‘My parents have always avoided it.  It is – impressive.’

‘That is one way of putting it.’  Galadriel pressed her foot into the wet sand and watched the print fill with water.  She looked up at the elleth.  ‘I do not believe you are naturally attuned to the life of the Teleri,’ she smiled.  ‘I am glad your parents agreed to let you come with me – there is much pleasure to be had in introducing someone to something that is new to her.’

The sand shifted under her feet, Elerrina realised, becoming liquid enough for her to sink slightly into it.  She prodded it with a toe and it shivered.

Galadriel laughed.  ‘It looks solid,’ she agreed, ‘but it is not – in some places it is soft enough that even elves sink in it.  Sometimes it is wet enough that it is no more than grains suspended in water – while in other places it is firm enough to ride in safety.  Yet it all appears the same at first glance.’ 

Occupied as she was with holding her skirt up with one hand and trying to keep her hair out of her face with the other, Elerrina still heard a deeper meaning in the Lady’s words.  She turned her head to look at Galadriel’s face, but saw nothing beyond a wistful study of the blue waters.  It could be difficult to keep up with the Lady at times, she admitted privately.  You would find yourself shifting from an easy conversation on sewing, or the weather, or someone’s budding romance, to hearing echoes of foresight and the shadows of ancient experience – and allegories relating your problems to entirely irrelevant aspects of life.  It was infuriating.  If she wished to interfere, could she not at least do it openly?

The water lapped towards them, stopping tantalisingly short of their feet and withdrew, leaving only a trace seeping into the sand.  Galadriel moved forward, drawn towards the water and it returned to meet her, pushing at her ankles.  She smiled.  ‘We should dispense with the gowns and bathe,’ she said.

Elerrina looked over her shoulder to the windows of the houses that faced the beach.  This was not the busiest part of Alqualondë.  Well away from the fishing port and beyond the area overlooked by Olwë’s house, there were still far too many people nearby for her to consider entering the water.

Galadriel laughed.  ‘Very well,’ she said.  ‘There is a quiet cove up the coast a little way which is used for bathing – we will go there.  You will enjoy bathing in the sea – it is very different from fresh water.  More buoyant, more active – more alive.’

A vision of a still green pool amidst tall trees flashed before Elerrina’s eyes.  Honeysuckle scrambled up sapling birches and its sweet-smelling flowers dangled over the water.  Cool mosses dripped as the water from a hidden spring trickled to replace that overflowing the flat stone slab at the far end.  ‘Maybe,’ she said doubtfully.  ‘I think I prefer the woods.’

A hint of satisfied smile displaced the regret from Galadriel’s face.  ‘It is probably as well,’ she remarked.

***

Drifts of sweet-smelling pinks whitened the flower beds beneath the window.  Camentur shifted uncomfortably.  He would always associate the fragrance of pinks with bearing unwelcome news to his employer.  It was a shame – they were among Nisimalotë’s favourite flowers.

Finrod sighed.   ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said.  ‘I cannot comprehend where people come up with these ideas.’

‘I doubt the rumour was started in the spirit of friendship.’  Camentur glanced at Finrod’s tapping fingers.  ‘There are always those who will envy one who has bypassed the tedium of seeking patronage – but I believe that none of the most obvious detractors are involved, except that they are more than happy to join in spreading scurrilous rumours to discredit the prince.’

‘I will not have it.’  Finrod turned his gaze to the outside world.  ‘Make it known, Camentur.’

‘My lord.’  Camentur cleared his throat.  ‘Do you think it is a good idea to suppress the feeling without finding out who is responsible for fanning it?’

‘Would you let a barn burn down while you sought the source of the fire?’  Finrod continued to tap his fingers against the window frame.  ‘No.  I want the rumours quietened – and I want people in place to see where the flames re-ignite.’  He smiled at Camentur.  ‘It is not your problem,’ he added.  ‘I am pleased at the level of amity you seem to have developed with the young prince.’  He returned to the cluttered desk, smiling wryly.  ‘Although it seems that your atar is less impressed.’

‘I like Legolas.’  Camentur flushed slightly.  ‘Atar sees something in him that I do not – something, I think, that still lingers from his days in the Host that sailed east over the sea.’

‘A long time has passed since then.’  Finrod looked up.  ‘Long enough for wounds to have healed.’  He linked his fingers to stop their restlessness.  ‘I am slightly concerned…’  He let the words trail away.  It was not his business how Taryatur dealt with family matters.  And, moreover, any interference would undoubtedly make matters worse – between the elf and his son as well as between his daughter and her unwelcome suitor.  ‘I am glad that Elerrina is spending more time in my sister’s company.  Artanis needs something to take her mind of the non-arrival of her dilatory husband.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’  Camentur reminded himself that it would be unwise to suggest that the Lady Artanis’s involvement might be part of his atar’s problem.  ‘My sister is due to visit our grandparents shortly, but I am sure she would remain if the Lady requested it of her.  My wife suggested that we accompany her to Andatar’s, but I am rather concerned about what seems to be going on…’

Finrod drew a deep breath.  ‘It would be such a suitable match,’ he mused.  ‘It would take the wind out of a lot of sails – and announce bonds between our kindreds.’

‘It is not our way to choose whom we love for convenience,’ Camentur snapped without thinking.

‘But there are times when convenience and choice go hand in hand.’  He raised one hand in acknowledgment.  ‘No interference,’ he promised.  ‘I will not say a word – but you have to admit that, however much Taryatur tries to keep your sister away from young Legolas, he has not had any success in reducing their interest in each other.  Amarië tells me you can almost cut the tension between them.’

Camentur’s shoulders drooped slightly.  ‘But the bond would be no more acceptable to Legolas’s kin than it would be to my atar.’

‘If we have acquired any wisdom over the millennia of our existence,’ Finrod reflected, ‘it should inform us – loud and clear – of the sense of keeping our fingers well clear of anything to do with romantic matters.  I am afraid that, in this case, I will leave any meddling to my sister – and my wife.  I give you my word, Camentur.  I will keep my observations to myself.’  He grinned.  ‘But do not expect to achieve miracles, my friend.  They have not yet spent yeni circling each other, it is true – but their interest over the past century has only grown stronger.  They will have each other yet – whatever their families might think!’

‘I have to hope not, Lord Finrod.’ Camentur shook his head slightly.  ‘I am not sure the peace of the Blessed Realm could withstand the strain.’

***

Aulë’s Great Court was … impressive.  It seemed as if the world was full of experiences – and that he was constantly encountering those which were somewhat … more than anything he had met before.  He had thought, as an elfling, that there could be no structure more amazing than his adar’s Stronghold – and no trees more inspiring than the beeches and oaks of his home.  And then he had seen Imladris.  Delicate arches and silvered roofs, wide windows open to the sun, both part of the world round it and apart, it had been unbelievably light and airy, yet at the same time hospitable and rooted in the earth.  It had exuded welcome and security and he had felt that the warriors at its borders had been no more than a gesture towards defending the Hidden Valley from dangers such as those that loomed over his home.  Lothlórien, when they crossed its boundaries after the horrifying dark of Moria, had been – almost an offence to his eyes.  Mirkwood has darkened and bent and turned away from the elves as the evil of Dol Guldur had corrupted it, but the trees of the Golden Wood had soared to the sky: immense, and aged, and powerful.  Then he had thought that, after the Black Gate, he would never again face anything so intimidating that it made him feel he might be unable to meet the challenge – but that was before he started keeping company with the Valar.

The heat and smell of the forges managed to make him feel an outsider – as he had among the dwarves of Aglarond.  But – as in Aglarond – he had those who welcomed him in this world of hot metal and singed leather.  And, he thought critically, much of what was made was no more beautiful than the creations of metal and polished stone that came from the hands of Gimli’s craftspeople.  Different in style, perhaps, but no better, whatever the Noldor might think. 

Lord Aulë himself seemed to relish the challenge of taking the inanimate and producing remarkable objects in a forge that was strangely quieter and cooler than those of his students.  The Vala was, of course, impressive – it was only to be expected – but he seemed, too, hungry for news of those lands he had not seen in more than two ages.  Or, not so much news, perhaps – as an understanding of everyday life in an alien world.  His eyes reminded the elf of Gimli’s: they were dark and bright and fierce and burned with curiosity.  He sifted through Legolas’s memories of the dwarves in the hope of finding out more about his people – making the elf feel helplessly ignorant.  How could he have spent so much time among the Naugrim and learned so little about them?  Yet the Vala kept asking Legolas to return to his court, finding in him the closest contact that he had had to the race he had created and surrendered into the hands of Eru.

The peace restored Legolas as he walked beneath the trees.  Here, at least, if nowhere else, the heat of the forges seemed to co-exist in harmony with the forest.  He smiled.  It would, he supposed.  He could not imagine Aulë’s Lady permitting her husband to despoil her woodlands.  He wondered idly whence the charcoal came in sufficient quantity to provide the fuel for the workshops.  Not from these trees, he mused, running an appreciative hand over the ridged bark of an oak large enough to have been standing since before Anor’s rising. 

He leaned back against the broad trunk and closed his eyes.  What was he going to do?   He was tired of always having to be the one left to make the decisions.  Even in his gloom, he found that he had to grin.  Feeling sorry for himself?  What would his adar say?  That privilege brought responsibility, that was for sure – and that, if the Wood Elves of this peaceful realm looked to him for guidance, he should be honoured.  And he was.  But was it really too much to wish that he could have met an elleth of his own people who stirred him as she did?  He sighed.  Clearly it was – for it was too late to change what had happened.  He might never win the hand of the one whose face haunted his dreams – but he had no desire to seek a lesser happiness elsewhere.  He pushed the thought away with determination.

‘You are not alone, son of the Greenwood.’  He was unsure whether he had heard the words or if the knowledge of them had simply formed in his fëa.  He tensed.  Even here, none should be able to approach him without his awareness.  If he failed to hear movement, the trees themselves would warn him.  Unless…

He opened his eyes.

Tall, she gleamed green and gold, like a sunlit glade in a spring dawn.  Her presence was misty, as if she was unused to taking enough of herself from the living world to form a figure – and the wood was reluctant to let her separate herself from it.  She smiled as he dropped to one knee.

‘Lady,’ he said with the deepest respect.

‘Greenleaf,’ she replied.

He felt her curiosity like a soft summer breeze rippling through the canopy.  It brushed against him gently, yet as irresistible as the waters of a tumbling stream.  He held still, his gaze focused on the green gown that seemed to grow from the grass beneath her.  Her fingers touched him on the chin and lifted his face so that he gazed into eyes as deep and changeless as forest pools.  He swallowed.  And he had thought Galadriel powerful!  This… this being was the power of the living world incarnate.

She smiled.  ‘My Lord Aulë has spoken of you,’ she said.  ‘He said that you had the song of the forest in you – tempered with a little steel and stone to give you resilience.’  She considered his pale face.  ‘He was right,’ she decided.  ‘I shall watch your progress with interest, son of Ennor.’  Her touch was a gentle caress, and, before he could gather his scattered thoughts enough to respond, she had gone.

Val…  He cut himself short before finishing the plea.  It would probably be less than wise to invoke the power of the Valar at the moment.  How did everything conspire to make him feel like an elfling escaped from the nursery?  It was almost enough to make him wish he was back in the White City with a bunch of awestruck youths and besotted maidens looking at him as if he was something from legend.  He had not felt so gauche since he had been forced to attend his first formal dance.

And yet – he could not help smiling as he leaned into the song of the exultant tree.  Had the experience not been … beyond amazing?   Lord Aulë rang with power and authority – he had the strength of rock and the keenness of forged metal.  But the Lady Yavanna…  His smile became dreamily reflective.  She was filled with life, with the beauty of the growing things.  Although the thought of her watching him was worrying – he really was not at all sure he wanted to be the object of a Valië’s interest. 

He sighed.  And it took him no further forward in his need to promote the issues that had been overlooked for so long – and made it no less necessary to step with caution  enough to irritate both those displaced to dwell among these trees and the ones who had dwelt here since the Great Journey.  Thranduil would laugh if – when – he arrived, to find his headstrong son driven to behaving with the care he had always deplored – if, that is, his adar did not arrive to find him driven demented by the demands of trying to tease co-ordination from so many divergent interests. 

He looked up at the glints of blue between the green leaves.  Using his fingers to seek out crevices in the bark, and supporting himself on tiny irregularities, he climbed easily to reach the wide branches high above the forest floor, moving more quickly as the tree spread out.  A Wood Elf in Aulë’s court, maybe – but the hand of Yavanna was over him.  It was strangely comforting.

***

‘You are fortunate.’  The innkeeper proffered the glass of light wine.  ‘Your prince seems to show a great deal more interest in his folk than some I could name.’

A mocking laugh sounded behind Litheredh.  ‘A great deal more interest,’ a dark young Noldo jeered.  ‘I have heard a thing or two about the prince that makes me glad he is not hanging round my sister.’

Litheredh stiffened slightly, but took a sip from his glass.  ‘My king’s son is a good leader,’ he remarked mildly.  ‘He has led his warriors in battle long enough to know the value of caring for their interests.’

‘But not as much as he cares for dwarves.’ His challenger curled his lip. ‘I know not how you can have any respect for an elf who would abandon his own kind in his affection for one of the stunted folk.’

‘Lord Gimli was an elf-friend.’  Litheredh stated.  ‘One who walked into peril beside my lord – and lived to talk of end of Sauron.  He was devoted to the Lady of the Golden Wood.  Perhaps you should take your criticism of him to the one who gifted him with strands of her hair.’

‘Would you care to eat now, my lord?’ the innkeeper interrupted.  ‘My wife has trout today – and asparagus.  Your usual table is ready for you and your friends.’  He inserted himself between the Wood Elf and the Noldo with the ease of long practice, diverting the attention of the brightly-clad elf.  ‘And I have some of the new vintage just arrived – it is a fresh little wine.  Well worth the tasting.’

The Wood Elf looked down, concentrating on his glass.  There was no point getting into a fight.  The Noldo doubtless had his contingent of lackeys only too ready to leap to his defence – and then cry ‘attack’ on their lone opponent.  Last ditch stands were all very well in legend, but in real life it was far better to know when the prospect of defeat was too great.  From the corner of his eye he noted the figure of a quiet elf move slightly to get a better view of the one who had sneered at Legolas.  Litheredh raised an eyebrow slightly, but resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.  Better not to attract their attention.  Not when someone else was doing the job of identifying the participants unobserved.

Another glass appeared on the table in front of him.  ‘My apologies,’ the innkeeper muttered.  ‘And my thanks – he is not one to appreciate being crossed.’

Litheredh shrugged.  ‘It is not the first time I have heard such suggestions. It takes no intelligence to bark like a dog.’

‘The one to watch is the one who blows the whistle.’ 

The Wood Elf met the other’s eyes and held them briefly.  ‘I shall do that,’ he said.

A soft rain was falling on the white stones of the square.  Litheredh drew the hood forward over his head.  Much as he liked rain on broad leaves and bright grass spears, here in the city it always seemed much wetter.  It did not, he thought, smell as good either – although it had the merit of refreshing the dusty stone and leaving it glinting in the sun that followed.

The rumours had been following the prince since before he had landed – and he treated them with indifference, regardless of how his followers felt.  It was about time, Litheredh thought, that someone disposed of the slanders about Legolas and his relationships with Arda’s other races for once and all – or they would hang like a weight round his neck from now until the end of time. 

He stepped, cat-like, over a stream pouring from a broken down-pipe.  Yet he was not the best person to scotch this.  Every fierce defence only produced another tale – and elves were only too prone to thinking that rumour must, by definition, have some basis in truth.  Litheredh shook his head, sending out a scatter of droplets.  He was unsure if the elves here were naïve – or just so bored with the predictable nature of their lives that the spreading of unfounded rumours was needed to afford them a moment’s entertainment.

Whatever the cause, he thought that the solution probably rested in more ruthless hands than his.  He would seek an audience with Lord Celeborn’s wife.  She would know whose ears were listening for this information– and what best to do.

***

Linevendë placed a careful stitch and watched Finarfin’s daughter under her eyelashes.  ‘I am concerned,’ she admitted.  ‘My son is spending overmuch time in the Woodland Prince’s company.  He is only too happy to serve Lord Finrod in this matter – but I would not be doing my duty as his amil if I did not worry about the influence the Silvan elf was having on my son.’  She appeared to inspect her work. ‘And my husband is less than happy,’ she added.  ‘He feels that the ellon’s impact on Camentur’s behaviour is not good.’

‘Let us be honest…’ Galadriel lowered her work to her lap.  ‘He is less concerned about Legolas and Camentur than he is about Legolas and Elerrina.’

Linevendë abandoned her pretence at working.  ‘He finds it somewhat easier to keep several leagues between our daughter and the prince,’ she said dryly.  ‘When Legolas is in Tirion, he sees to it that Elerrina is not.   Keeping a similar distance between Camentur and the elf of Endórë is less straightforward.’  She sighed.  ‘And Camentur has begun to defend him to his atar – which, of course, makes things worse.’

‘Why is Taryatur so determinedly resistant to his charm?’ Galadriel asked with irritation.  ‘Most of the elves of Tirion would be delighted to have Legolas take an interest in their daughter!  It is not as if he is unappealing – he has looks and position as well as intelligence and a well developed sense of responsibility.’

‘He is of Endórë,’ Linevendë shrugged.  ‘That is enough in itself to make my husband wish to keep his distance.’

Galadriel gazed over the quiet garden.  Lavender bloomed profusely along each side of the old brick path, the tall flowers bobbing under the weight of drunken bees and the jasmine made a fragrant canopy to the stone bench.  She sighed.  ‘What happened to Taryatur in Endórë?’ she asked.  ‘The Host brought many innocent ellyn over the sea – but few of them seem as scarred as Taryatur.’

‘Many of them merely hide it better,’ Linevendë murmured, lowering her eyes to the fine cloth before her and placing another stitch.  She looked up again and smiled defiantly.  ‘And he is too determined to shield us from that which still hurts within him.  He does not wish us to know what he experienced.’

A wisp of a sigh escaped Galadriel.  ‘Time passes so differently here,’ she said.  ‘Those who endured east of the sea have not had the leisure to allow the scars to fester – they had to face whatever challenges came next out of the dark.’  She smiled slightly.  ‘I imagine there are few still living there who would count the War of Wrath the worst thing they ever had to endure.’

Linevendë stilled.  ‘That is exactly it,’ she exclaimed.  ‘Can you not see that Taryatur does not want our daughter to know the effects of the evil that Fëanor loosed on the world?  He wishes to protect her!’

‘Fëanor cannot be blamed for everything,’ Galadriel remarked sadly.  ‘Evil came into Arda at its very making – and he was as much its victim as anyone else.’ She brooded as a soft breeze stirred the jasmine.  ‘But I understand only too well the longing to protect your child – even if I also know that, in the end, you cannot take their choices from them.’   She glanced at Linevendë.  ‘I will not meddle,’ she said.  ‘I doubt it will make any difference – I think matters have gone too far for any to be able to divide them, even if they can be kept apart.  If it is any consolation, Legolas’s adar will be no more delighted than Taryatur.  I suspect his reaction will shatter windows in Tirion and leave none in any doubt of his displeasure.’  She shook her head as Linevendë raised her chin defiantly.  ‘Not because of any connection to the sons of Fëanor,’ she denied, ‘but simply because she is not a Wood Elf.  Thranduil is at least as proud as a Noldor prince – and far more vocal.’

‘Perhaps Lord Legolas should bear that in mind,’ Linevendë declared.  ‘It is his duty to comply with his atar’s wishes.’

Galadriel smiled wryly.  ‘I am sure he is trying,’ she said.  ‘But I have yet to find anyone who can hold back the tide.’

‘All I want,’ Linevendë said in a low voice, ‘is for my children to be happy – and for Taryatur to be happy for them.’

‘A noble ambition.’  Galadriel sighed.  ‘But one, unfortunately, that it is not in our power to control.’  She glanced at Linevendë.  ‘Although I have little doubt that we will continue to strive towards it.’

***

Happy did not begin to describe the feeling that was surging through Taryatur.  Furious, perhaps, would be a better description.  Frustrated, maybe.  Incredulous.  Bemused.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, although a failure to hear the words – and a lack of understanding of what they suggested were not, in fact, the problem.  He stared down his nose at the younger elf, intimidating in his hauteur.

‘Oh, come,’ the ellon said, suppressing a wriggle of discomfort.  ‘Everyone knows how much you despise the so-called prince.  He is not worthy of serving in the kitchens, let alone sitting at the High King’s table.  And then – to bring his savage ways into the Blessed Realm and behave as if he is our equal!  It is beyond vile.’

‘You are a fool,’ Taryatur declared.

‘You are telling me you think someone like him has a right to look at Lady Elerrina as if he is waiting to pounce on her?’

‘No,’ Taryatur said.  ‘Fool is too kind.  You are a blockhead.’

‘He has managed to cozen his way into Lady Artanis’s affections – and she has made him welcome in places where no mere Wood Elf should walk.  Of course,’ he added, ‘her judgment has always been suspect – she did not even have enough sense to wipe the dust of those corrupt lands from her feet when she had the chance.  And she turned her nose up at dozens of worthy Noldor before being forced to settle for that Sinda – who ran as soon as she turned her back on him.’

‘I know not who has been dripping poison in your ears,’ Taryatur said menacingly, ‘but, if you had the sense with which you were born – which you clearly do not – you would pay some attention to what is going on around you.  I may not like the ellon – and I may not want him as a son – but he is a more worthwhile elf than you will ever be.  Stop admiring yourself in every mirror you pass and make some effort to put something back into this world before your brain atrophies completely!  And if that does not convince you that I want nothing to do with whatever devious and spiteful little schemes you might be evolving, remember that the High King, unlike you, is not a fool, and he will not tolerate the persecution of those whom he has approved.’  He stared at the ellon before him, but before the other could respond, he turned and stalked away, the very image of outraged virtue.

As if it was not bad enough to be confronted with admirers of the Woodland Prince everywhere he went, to be forced to support him was … the outside of enough!  And to have someone – even a complete moron – believe that his dislike of the ellon would be enough to have him dip his fingers into the tacky dishonesty of discrediting him was outrageous!  Beyond outrageous.  It was almost enough to give him another reason to hold a grudge against the ellon.

He stopped so suddenly that his robes batted into the back of his legs as if indignant with him.  He could not do it – not just because it was wrong, but because he could not endure the look of disillusion in his daughter’s eyes if she discovered that he was actively working against that … that public nuisance.  It was one thing to hold himself aloof and tell her that the environment in which he had grown up made the ellon unsuitable in every way, but quite another to lower himself to something that would make him far worse.  And it asked more of him than simply walking away.  Taryatur scowled.  To make it all right with himself, he would have to do more to pull the teeth of this wretched plot – and that would involve him in actually acting in support of the Wood Elf.  He pressed his lips together to hold back the words that wanted to escape.  With luck, he could get away with no more than a few words in Camentur’s ears – but, the way things usually went for him, he would doubtless find himself acting to advance the wretched princeling’s cause. 

Taryatur sighed.  As long as it stopped short of encouraging the ellon to have any expectation that he would consent to a bond between him and Elerrina.  The snow would melt from the summit of Taniquetil before he would agree to something that he believed would be so harmful to his precious daughter.  He started walking more slowly towards the complex of buildings behind the gardens, reluctant for once to find his son and share with him his experiences of the morning. 

***

It was amazing how somewhere that had seemed while he dwelt there to be an alien environment could become relaxingly familiar in contrast to the life he was living now.  Legolas perched on the stone balustrade.  It had been typical of Gimli to require a home of stone here in this island where most people were more than happy to build their houses of weathered wood – and equally typical of the elves of Tol Eressëa to go out of their way to help him find the source of sufficient square cut blocks to complete the structure and roof it in thin slabs of blue-grey slate.  

He looked affectionately at the tower behind him.  Typical, too, of Gimli to construct something that was unexpectedly delicate and disconcertingly elven here on the cliff overlooking the sea.  He sighed.  He missed him still – and always would – but had come to realise that nothing had been lost; not really.  Talking with Lord Aulë of all he had learned of the lives of his friend’s deeply private people had only reinforced his understanding that under their outward differences, most people experienced the same concerns.  Gimli’s friendship was constant – wherever he was now, that would not change.  It was up to him now to prove worthy of the courage the dwarf had shown in taking ship. 

Not until after they had reached the Lonely Isle had Legolas understood that Gimli had never really believed that he would reach the Blessed Realm, never believed that he would be permitted to step onto its white sands, never believed that he would live out his remaining years in the care of the elves.  He had embarked on that last journey for one reason – to ensure that the sea-crazed, bereft elf to whom he had given his friendship would seek the only aid available to him rather than surrendering his fëa to the care of Lord Námo through his sheer obstinate refusal to seek help.  Legolas patted the balustrade.  He only hoped Thranduil had recognised the lengths to which the dwarf was prepared to sacrifice himself – and he looked forward to hearing his adar acknowledge his friend’s devotion.

‘Are you planning on sitting there all day?’ Nathroniel could not keep the amusement from her voice.

‘I am harming nobody.’  Legolas could not help sounding somewhat defensive.  Accusations of idleness customarily had Nathroniel finding him useful tasks – such as tidying his clothes or helping her shell peas.

‘Did I say you were?’  She looked him up and down critically.  ‘You look tired, young one.  I hope you are not doing too much.’

‘I feel as if I am never where I am needed,’ he complained, one hand dragging through his fair locks.  ‘I am chasing my tail – always arriving in the wake of a crisis, in time only to put a final gloss on whatever solution has been found.’  He dropped his head to study the tight joints between the slabs.  ‘Take this last time…’ He looked sharply at the elleth, as if to assure she was paying attention. 

Nathroniel folded her hands in front of her and looked at him so attentively as to force a reluctant smile.  ‘You spend too much time alone, my little bud,’ she declared.  ‘You need someone by your side to share the burden.’

‘Not you, too!’ He looked at her reproachfully, making her laugh and step close enough to rub his shoulder gently.

‘Not a wife,’ she told him.  ‘That will wait – a friend.  You have those who help you across the face of the Blessed Realm – but they all go home to their families and you move on to try to help elsewhere.  It is not good for you – you need someone with whom you can talk freely.’  She paused.  ‘What has happened to make you rue the past?’

‘The usual.’  He sighed.  ‘Confine two packs of wolves into the same territory and they will fight.’

‘You are not comparing your people to a pack of wolves, I hope?’ She attempted to sound stern, but could not stop the corners of her mouth from curling upwards.

‘Even here…’ His hands indicated the island around them.  ‘There are conflicts.  Sindar and Silvan are too closely packed – and they are supposed to be allies!  On the mainland, there is more space, but the suspicion between those born in Aman and those from over the sea is … is endemic.’

‘They have dealt with it for centuries, Legolas.’  He could not help smiling at the comfort her tone brought.  How many times had she told him stories on oppressive nights when he could not sleep?  How many times had she rubbed his back in just this way?  Perhaps he should coax her into travelling as his aide – she certainly managed to soothe him more efficiently than most of the solemn-eyed ellyn who usually detached themselves from other duties to escort him.  Not that she would agree.  It had taken her long enough to find a husband to suit her and she was enjoying his company far too much to want to wander the Blessed Realm – even for the one she still irritatingly called her ‘little bud’.  He made himself listen to her words rather than the soft hum of her voice.  ‘They dealt with their differences before you came to shoulder them – and they will deal with them if you stand back and let them get on with it.  You cannot be everywhere, elfling.  Being in control does not mean attending every council meeting and ratifying every agreement.  Think: what would your adar do in situations like these?’

He laughed.  He could just imagine the look of barely-contained fury on Thranduil’s face at some of the situations that had confronted him recently.   No question but that some of those who had summoned Thranduil’s son to settle their disputes would never have dared inflict the task on his adar.   They would probably not even have bothered him with informing him of the decisions they had reached.  ‘But I am not my adar,’ he pointed out.

‘Neither was Thranduil his.’  Nathroniel grinned.  ‘As he is not here to discover it, I will tell you now that your adar had similar problems when he returned to the wood after Dagorlad.  It took him some time to learn to bear the power that was now his.’  She reflected.  ‘In some ways it was worse for him – the wood was in disarray and Oropher had never been one to allow anyone else to carry authority he thought was due to him.’  She gave Legolas a pat and stepped away.  ‘Elf after elf came to Thranduil demanding that he do this or do that – or that he solved this problem or managed that disaster.  He was running himself ragged trying to cope with all the demands on his time and strength.’  She inspected him surreptitiously.  He definitely seemed more relaxed – if only for now.  ‘I think it was one of the things that made your naneth recognise him as the one for her,’ she said chattily.  ‘He so clearly cared more for the wood and its people than he did for himself.’

‘I hope we are not back to the topic of marriage,’ he said suspiciously.

‘Would I?’ she asked, managing to sound pained.  ‘After all, we are not in Lasgalen now.  How could there be anyone here good enough for you?’  She paused.  ‘Come, my lad,’ she said.  ‘We have talked too long and your dinner will be getting cold.’  She smiled.  ‘No matter what your problems, there is no point in letting good food go to waste.’

‘You put me back in the nursery, Nathroniel.’

She laughed.  ‘It will do you good to forget your troubles for a while, my lord prince.  Come and have something to eat – and I will tell you some stories about your adar that will make you laugh.’

Legolas grinned.  ‘Are you not afraid that he will discover your treachery?’

‘We will deal with that problem when it arises,’ she said cheerfully.  ‘There is no point in borrowing trouble, my prince.  Let us move forward one step at a time – that is quite enough – and we will reach the same place in the end.’

Making Progress

Celebrían smiled sweetly at Haldir, but there was no mistaking the authority in her bearing – and no missing her resemblance to her absent adar.

‘As you command, my lady,’ he said reluctantly. 

Amroth had ruled the Golden Wood in Haldir’s youth – and, by the time he had pursued Nimrodel to his presumed death and Celeborn had assumed his authority, Celebrían had been long wed to the Lord of Imladris.  She could not command him: not really.  But he was, he found, unwilling to put his theory to the test.  She was still of Elu’s house – and, although that did not mean a great deal to him, it had been of key importance to his parents.  Come to that, he thought, Lord Elrond was Elu’s heir – his direct descendant – and, if he wished, he could exert that authority.

Haldir relaxed a little.  If his lord’s daughter and her husband wanted him to do this, then he no longer had to debate how far his responsibility extended.  He just had to worry about how he could achieve what they asked.

‘We could easily provide suitable clothing in blue,’ Celebrían said, her eyes looking him up and down critically.  ‘But that just would not do.’

Haldir’s gaze settled on a rather bemused Elrond.

‘Why not?’ the elf lord asked with interest.

Celebrían shook her head pityingly.  ‘Dark blue and silver are the colours of Imladris, of course.  Greens and browns are associated with Legolas and the Greenwood.  The Galadhrim require another colour.’

‘Grey,’ Elrond suggested. 

‘On its own it would be too dull.’  Celebrían walked round the former march warden.  ‘And, with his hair, it would make him seem too wishy-washy.  He needs something stronger.’  She inspected him for a moment longer.  ‘Dark red, I think, with silver-grey.’

‘I am sure it will look very stylish,’ her husband said gravely.

Celebrían frowned.  ‘And I leave it to you to coach Haldir in how he should conduct himself,’ she declared before heading off to search out the garments of her choice.

Elrond offered him a glass of wine.  ‘Just behave normally,’ he shrugged.  ‘Keep your mouth shut, smile and do not ask any elleth to dance more than twice,’ he said.  ‘And if anybody corners you, ask him about himself.  It works wonders, I find.’

‘What if he refuses to be diverted?’

‘He will not.’  Elrond smiled.  ‘Not tonight.  I will see that there is someone close enough to come to your rescue if need be.’

Haldir shifted uncomfortably.  ‘I am a warrior, Lord Elrond.  I do not have the skills needed to debate with the High King’s councillors – I am afraid that I will say something I should not.’

‘You will have my naneth-in-law watching over you,’ Elrond reminded him.  ‘Lady Galadriel will not permit anyone to take liberties.’  He noted Haldir’s faint blush.  ‘She does not wish to appear to use the Galadhrim,’ he added thoughtfully.  ‘She is only too aware that there are still those to whom she is unwelcome – I suspect she wants to strengthen your hand without appearing to interfere.’  He looked at the fair-haired elf.  ‘No-one from Celeborn’s council resides here on the mainland – and there are precious few on Tol Eressëa.  Harthad would be the natural person to represent the Galadhrim in the absence of my wife’s adar – but he remains east of the sea.  You, Haldir, are here – and you are an intelligent elf, willing to do what your lord and people require of you.’ 

The shoulders under the soft leather jerkin squared. 

‘It is only a reception.’  Elrond continued his reassurance.  ‘If Legolas can do it, I am sure you can do it too.’  He raised his own glass to salute the elf.  ‘The worst part of the experience will be satisfying my lady that your appearance does you credit.  Believe me – the evening will seem straightforward in comparison.’

***

‘I do not bite,’ the slight elleth said waspishly, looking up at the elegantly clothed march warden.

‘I beg your pardon?’  Haldir blinked.

‘I do not bite,’ she repeated.  ‘I am not carrying anything more deadly than a comb – and I am not trying to entice you into marriage.  This is simply a dance!’

‘I have always found,’ he retaliated, ‘that an elleth is at her most dangerous on the dance floor.’

‘And you have clearly had plenty of experience of avoiding the threat,’ she commented as she guided him in the right direction.

‘These dances are not like ours.’  He could hear himself sounding defensive.  ‘And I have spent little time at affairs like this.’  He looked round the wide chamber rather disapprovingly.

The elleth nodded.  ‘We are, of course, a desperately light-minded and worthless people, scarcely worthy of your courtesy.’

Haldir looked at her in disbelief.  ‘I did not say that.’

She lifted an eyebrow.  ‘You hardly needed to say anything,’ she said.  ‘You simply looked it.’

He opened his mouth and closed it again.  The music drew to its finish and he bowed to her.  ‘My apologies,’ he said, as he guided her back to her friends. 

The elleth remained somewhat stiff and dropped her hand from his arm as soon as she could.  ‘Allow me to introduce you to another partner, my lord,’ she announced, looking round for volunteers.  The tall redhead inclined her head slightly.  ‘This is Haldir, Elerrina,’ she said, slightly mollified.  ‘Haldir, may I introduce Elerrina.’

He bowed again and offered his arm with obvious resignation.  He was clearly going to have to spend the evening partnering elleth after elleth.  They appeared to be sharing the duty out amongst them, turn by turn. 

‘What did you say to Calissë?’ The elleth sounded decidedly amused.  ‘She seems less than impressed.’ 

‘I am not a courtier, my lady,’ Haldir managed to make it sound like a boast.

‘Lady Galadriel said you were charming,’ the elleth remarked.  ‘She said that you were a good dancer, too.’  She veered to a different set and readied herself for the dance.

‘She exaggerated.’  Haldir smiled.  ‘What was wrong with that set?’

‘Salmar is too curious,’ she told him.  ‘He would look on the dance as sufficient introduction to interrogate you.’  She grinned as his mouth dropped open.  ‘Did you not expect the Lady’s protection to come in petticoats, my lord?’  She shook her head.  ‘Naïve of you.’  She rested her hand on his as the music began.  ‘We are everywhere, Master Haldir.  Observant, but unobserved – and there are many who refuse to take us seriously.’  His greenish eyes held his.  ‘Take Calissë, for example.  She is smaller than most, and slight – and very interested in what people are wearing – but she listens to what people say and she puts together what she hears.’

‘Is that a warning, Lady Elerrina – or advice?’

‘That would depend, would it not?’

Haldir looked at her.  He had heard a few things about this red-headed elleth – few of them favourable.  The thought of a Noldo hooking her claws into Thranduil’s son appalled him nearly as much as it would the prince’s adar – he had thought of telling the ellon he ought to keep his distance, but he seemed to be trying to avoid the elleth without any interference and he was, moreover, unlikely to appreciate the thought.  Having met her, though … well, he had to admit she seemed intelligent.  Which could, of course, make her far more dangerous.  She seemed well disposed, though – which was more than could be said for some of those watching the dance floor, who were hard pressed to conceal their scowls. 

He sighed.  Give him a bow and a patrol of orcs.  He knew where he stood with them.  He only hoped his lord would realise what he was prepared to suffer in order to do the best he could for the Galadhrim.  The girl grinned.   He hoped he had not looked as long-suffering as he felt, but apparently he was doing a less than successful job of concealing his feelings.

‘Never mind,’ she said consolingly.  ‘Lady Galadriel has chosen to look after you.  You are quite safe – at least until she decides otherwise.’

He should be reassured, he knew.  But, somehow, he was not.

***

‘The High King,’ Finrod said mildly, ‘is of the opinion that we should work towards the founding of homelands for the green elves – and the grey.’  His line dangled over the edge of the small boat, bobbing in the small ripples that fanned out across the glassy water.  ‘In a perfect world, he says, Noldor and Teleri and Vanyar would clasp the elves of Endórë to their bosoms and embrace them as brothers – but this is not a perfect world.’

‘I think that is part of the problem.’  Legolas abandoned the chore of watching his line.  It was too sunny to catch any but the most foolish fish, anyway – but at least the appearance of fishing gave him a chance to talk privately to Finrod away from a thousand wagging ears.  ‘My people have long dreaded leaving the … reality of Ennor to sail into a golden sunset – but having done so, they expect perfection.  They are disappointed to find themselves in a world where rivalries still exist and they must negotiate a path through traps they never expected.’

Finrod grinned.  ‘If it were truly so insipid here, they would soon become bored,’ he said.  ‘When I returned, I was happy – of course I was – to be reunited with my parents.  To be reunited with Amarië and find she loved me still was – more than I deserved, but …’ He shook his head.  ‘I tried to conceal my dread that life in Aman would be a reversion to a cosseted childhood.  And I grew up here and knew what life was like!  I cannot blame those who have sailed over the ages for expecting something other than what they have found.  We are elves still, my friend – contentious at times, demanding, seeking always to make things better – to improve on the world created for us.’

‘I would fear…’ Legolas lifted his head and looked keenly at Finarfin’s son, ‘being shunted off to lands that no-one else wants.  And that there might be a reason for their rejection.  Life there might be unsustainable – and we would be closed out from life among those who count the Blessed Realm as home.’

An airy wave of the hand dismissed his point.  ‘You need not worry,’ Finrod said candidly.  ‘The land far exceeds what is required by those born here.  The Noldor – the Teleri – expand their boundaries gently, drifting north and west to the mountains.  Southwards – to a degree.  The Vanyar …’ he grinned, ‘breed less and prefer to remain where they are.  They seem to lack the physical curiosity of the rest of us and desire only to expand their minds!  There is room in plenty.  And,’ he added, returning Legolas’s gaze, ‘I think my atar has something in mind that will not detract from the Noldor’s holdings.’

‘Yet,’ Legolas said slowly, ‘neither are we one people.’

‘I doubt my sister will let him forget that!’  Finrod laughed.  ‘My little sister can be very determined,’ he said affectionately.  ‘She has always reminded me of a hunting dog – once she sinks her teeth in, she will not let go!  Atar had better bear in mind that she is the Lady of the Galadhrim if he wants to dwell in peace until the end of days.’

Legolas grinned.  ‘Haldir is coping better than I expected,’ he said.

‘You should be grateful.’  Finrod reclined gracefully, tacitly agreeing to give up even the illusion of fishing.  ‘At least he has taken her attention away from you.’  For a few moments they listened in companionable silence to the song of contented birds, before he added.  ‘And he has provided Taryatur with another reason to dislike you presumptuous elves from east of the sea.’

Legolas tensed, but kept his opinions, both of Taryatur and the apparently easy friendship between Elerrina and Haldir, to himself.

‘The poor elf finds it hard to object, though,’ Finrod said, carefully noting the reaction so he could report it to his wife when she asked.  ‘Elerrina is only doing as my sister asked – and Taryatur wishes to do nothing to upset her growing confidence in his daughter.  He is caught between a rising tide and a cliff.  Whilst unable to swim or climb,’ he added thoughtfully.  ‘It is no wonder he looks as if he is about to burst.’

‘I would like to know more about these lands the High King is considering.’  Ignoring Finrod was the only option that would avoid his revealing far more than was judicious.  ‘Where they are – who is mapping them – who will decide what should be offered – whether it is our part merely to accept the gracious generosity of the Noldor or whether there is more behind the suggestion than you are prepared to say…’  Legolas ran out of breath.

‘The Valar, you mean?’  Finrod rubbed his nose.  ‘It is possible.  More than possible, even.  It may be there are lands waiting for you that have always been there.  Or,’ he grew enthusiastic, ‘I have at times wondered if the Blessed Realm is … is a growing place – that, as new lands or new challenges become necessary, they come into existence.  It would make sense.’

‘That, as a child grows, its parents introduce it to new experiences?’ Legolas said dryly.  ‘Extend its boundaries so that it might learn?’

Finrod lifted his head and looked at him quizzically.  ‘In a much more adult fashion, of course.  We are, after all, the Firstborn.’

‘And parents are so much more concerned to stretch the talents of their firstborn,’ Legolas grinned.  ‘By the time they have a quiverful of children, they have discovered that the young manage to grow to maturity pretty well on their own.’

‘I think I would be much happier had you not put that image in my mind,’ Finrod said.  ‘Leave us some illusions of superiority, please!  I do not want to spend the remaining ages of Arda thinking of Aman as a carefully supervised playground in which we fritter away our time.  It is much better to believe that our actions have some significance in the world.’

‘And they do.’  Legolas returned his attention to the idle fishing line, but his voice was serious.  ‘For all the people who count on us to make things right for them, they matter a great deal.’

***

Camentur ran a teasing finger up the nape of his wife’s neck, making her shiver, before seeking the jewelled pins that held her hair in place and coaxing them out.  She made an inarticulate protest, but he bent and kissed the soft skin under her ear.  ‘I am not sure,’ he said, ‘whether I prefer being able to seek out your neck freely whenever I wish – or if I prefer to have it hidden enticingly under the splendour of your hair.’

‘We are going out,’ she complained, leaning her head back into his shoulder, ‘and I had just finished arranging that style.’

‘Do we have to go?’  His breath tickled her ear.  ‘I can think of better ways to pass a moonlit night.’

She shivered again.  Camentur was just … far too good at this.  ‘We have to go,’ she said firmly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.  ‘We are expected.’

Her husband took her earlobe between his teeth and nibbled gently.

‘Lord Finrod expects you to be on duty – and Atar requires that we chaperone your sister.  He will be most annoyed if we allow her to spend too much time in Legolas’s company.’

‘She would not.’  He trailed kisses up to the point of her ear.  ‘He would not.  They are both aware of what keeps them apart – and they are resigned to it.’

Nisimalotë reached back to caress her husband’s cheek and Camentur promptly slipped a hand under her arm to cup her breast.  ‘I was resigned to my atar’s objections, too,’ she said.  ‘And it did not keep us from each other.’

‘He did not make it easy, though.’ 

‘He did not want to make it easy.’  Nisimalotë gasped as Camentur touched one of her most sensitive spots.  ‘He wanted us to fight to be together – to be sure that we were right for each other.’

Camentur’s fingers slowed.  ‘He wanted you to realise that you would face prejudice,’ he said softly.  ‘And he wanted me to know what that would make you suffer.’

His wife turned in his arms, taking his chin in her hands.  ‘No-one blames you for anything,’ she said fiercely.  ‘You cannot help your kin – and you have no responsibility for things that happened millennia before your birth.  Your atar has passed his insecurities to you, Camentur Taryaturion, but you have no need to make them yours.’  She kissed him demandingly, refusing to allow him to take on himself the guilt her atar had imposed.  ‘I hope Legolas defies them all and loves Elerrina anyway – and that she is prepared to flout your atar to take him.  No-one has the right to live their lives for them.’

Camentur drew his head back.  ‘I hope you have not put that idea in her head!’ he said, alarmed.

‘I am not stupid,’ she protested.  ‘That would only make it worse – I know that!  It has to be their choice to … to face down the world.’

He stared down at her and wondered if anyone could actually claim to understand his wife.  Nisimalotë seemed so soft and compliant most of the time that it was easy to overlook her core of steel.  He touched the tip of her nose with a gentle finger.  ‘Are you not ready to leave?’ he asked in mock surprise.  ‘I know not what it is about ellyth – you always keep us waiting.  Here I am, as ready as I will ever be, and you are only half-dressed.’

Provoked, his wife slapped his chest.  He clutched dramatically at the injury, reeling away from her and groaning as if she had actually hurt him.

‘Although I do not know why she would want to take on a husband,’ Nisimalotë informed him.  ‘You are an extremely annoying breed!  Now, give me back my pins and let me get my hair done before we really are late.’

***

Elerrina hummed contentedly as she worked.  There was a rightness to the physical effort of preparing her glass that burned away all the stresses of her other life in Tirion and made her feel more herself than she ever did elsewhere.  She rolled the molten glass balls across the white gold foil, looking critically at the effect.  She liked these, she thought.  They were so clearly not a version of the many-faceted stones turned out in their hundreds by the Noldor jewel-smiths.  The combination of patterns and colours made them different – and therefore interesting to those who had seen so much over so many years.  Not that that was important.  She paused briefly.  Perhaps, she thought, molten stringers of coloured glass would add something.  Her eyes narrowed.  It would be worth trying – after all, if her craft did not develop, there was little point to it.  She returned her attention to the waiting beads to add the transparent layer of glass that finished off their glowing brightness. 

The temperature in the small workshop flushed her cheeks and dampened the wisps of hair that escaped from her tight braid, but she was too accustomed to it to notice, moving from furnace to workbench with a graceful economy of movement that seemed like a dance.

‘They are very pretty!’

Elerrina looked up at the sound of her naneth’s voice.  ‘They are not the most technically difficult,’ she said, ‘but they are rewarding – the colours glow so richly.  I was thinking about adding a small flower drawn on in molten glass – it would be effective, I think.  And I am sure I could do more with small canes of different coloured glass.’  She looked vaguely into the distance, working out how she might turn what she saw into reality.

Linevendë shook her head.  ‘You can think about it later, my daughter,’ she said.  ‘The day is spent – and, if you remain here much longer, you will be unable to see the bench before you.’

‘Oh, Amil!  I am sorry,’ Elerrina looked guilty.  ‘I promised to help you with the cooking – and I have left you to do it all yourself.’

‘No matter.’  Linevendë smiled.  ‘It is only a meal for us to share – it is no great hardship to cook for you and your atar.’ She laughed softly. ‘And I have left him to finish everything.  But come now, Elerrina – by the time you have washed and changed the food will be ready.’

‘Give me a few moments,’ her daughter requested.  ‘I must safeguard the fire and put away my finished work – I dislike returning to an untidy workshop.’

Her naneth looked at her affectionately.  ‘You have always been tidy,’ she said.  ‘Camentur would leave his room as if a whirlwind had passed through, but even when you were tiny, you liked everything to be neat.  I think it is why you enjoy working with something as polished as glass.’

‘Perhaps.’  Elerrina hastily neatened her work area and riddled the ashes of her fire.  ‘I was happy to find such pleasure in the same skill as Atar, too – and enjoyed the time we spent together as he taught me.’

‘He was disappointed that Camentur showed no inclination to learn,’ Linevendë admitted.  ‘He would rather have had his son striving to create beauty than weaving his way through the politics of the city – but you cannot live your lives through your children.  They have to go their own way – either with or without your blessing.’

Elerrina glanced at her suspiciously, but Linevendë’s face appeared open and relaxed. ‘He is proud enough now of what my brother has achieved.’

‘He is,’ her naneth agreed.  ‘He has nothing but respect for Lord Finrod and feels that his influence on Camentur can only be for the good.’  She smiled.  ‘And he is fond of Nisimalotë – who makes your brother very happy.’  She hesitated, her face sobering.  ‘He only wants the same for you, child.’

‘And you are sure that he is right?’  Giving her hands a final rub, Elerrina spread the cloth over the stool.  She felt slightly distant, as if she was listening to this conversation from some point closer to the ceiling and looking down on herself.  ‘I accept that he is more experienced than I am and that he only has my best interests at heart – but how can you be sure that he knows what will make me happy?’

The evening air outside the door was cool and fragrant and made Elerrina realise how hot and grubby she felt.  The breeze lifted her hair and brushed comfortingly over her flushed cheeks and she lifted her face to the silvering sky.  Linevendë had not spoken, she realised.  Elerrina turned her eyes to her naneth’s face, her gaze sharpening as she noticed the doubtful expression.   ‘What is it, Amil?’ she asked.

Linevendë was clearly debating with herself.  ‘Your atar prefers not to speak of those days,’ she said.  ‘I have respected his wishes – but there are times…’  She paused again.  ‘You are old enough to know,’ she decided.  ‘To leave you in ignorance would mean that you might hurt him inadvertently – and I would not have you wander innocently beyond the point where you could choose to step back.’  She stopped and looked again at her daughter.  ‘We have always done our best to shield you,’ she said carefully.  ‘Your atar, especially.  You are his little elleth – his star-child.  When you arrived in our lives, for the first time in more than an age, I felt your atar was able to … to close the door on what he had seen east of the sea.  Able to put it away in the darkness where it belonged and look forward.  We lived here,’ she waved vaguely at their surroundings, ‘in peace and harmony with the world.  He could channel his spirit into making things of beauty.  We had you and Camentur and loving kin who accepted us as we were.’  Her eyes were dark as she looked at her daughter.  ‘I did not want to see the shadow emerge again.  Oh,’ she raised her hand to silence Elerrina, ‘he hides it.  He keeps it out of sight beneath the surface – none could be more skilled in pretending that nothing is wrong – but it has been woken.’

They walked in silence so deep that the brush of their skirts against the grass sounded like the sawing of wood.  Linevendë stopped suddenly.  ‘He will not tell me what happened,’ she said, and Elerrina could hear the pain in her voice.  ‘He says that he does not want to darken my fëa with the knowledge of what savagery can be carried out in the name of defeating evil – that sometimes it is hard to tell the difference between good and bad – that sometimes it is even harder to choose what is right from what is expedient…’  Her voice dropped to a murmur.  ‘I have seen him wake, night after night, from a dream path that contained horrors of which he could not speak; seen him weep for those who did not return from the lands east of the sea; seen him waste away to the point of fading because he could not stop seeing, before his eyes at all times, the faces of those he had killed.’  She glanced at Elerrina.  ‘He is better now – but it is still there.  Overlaid now with happy memories and centuries of useful work, but still there.  It stirs at times – when thunder growls in the sky and lightning flashes – but he can subdue it.  Mostly.’  She drew an unsteady breath.  ‘He sees it in Legolas, my child,’ she said.  ‘Legolas has known the dragon of war.  He has killed – in battle and in the quiet of a savage night.  He has blessed those from whose eyes the light has fled – and paced the charnel house of the battlefield in search of those who were his friends.’  She swallowed.  ‘Your atar does not want him near you because he does not want you touched by that darkness.  You are pure and clean and untouched by the shadow – and he wants it to stay that way.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘Bad enough to lose you to a nice Noldor ellon who has grown up in this Blessed Realm – but he does not want to lose to you to an elf from those marred lands.’

Elerrina stared at her naneth, overwhelmed by the picture she had painted.  ‘I did not understand.’ 

Her naneth smiled slightly.  ‘We are barely scratching at the surface – but if I have given you something to think about, then that is all I can do,’ she declared.  ‘Just – do not let your heart rule your head, my daughter.  Some decisions will haunt you until the end of days.’

Grasping her naneth’s sleeve, Elerrina looked intently into her face.  ‘Do you regret bonding with Atar?’ she asked.  ‘He came back to you in pain and haunted by what he had seen and done – do you ever wish you had not wed him?’

Shaking her head slowly, Linevendë sighed.  ‘Emotions are too complicated to sum up in a tidy sentence, Elerrina.  I have never wished that I had not chosen your atar – yet I have spent many long hours weeping for the joyful elf he was before the Host set sail. I will always be glad that he came back to me, when so many others did not return, but I know better than many that what he says about the shadowed lands is true.  He wants what is best for you.  Do not fight him on this – not unless you are very sure.  And even then…’ her voice trailed away.  ‘Accept his wisdom, child.  He knows more on this subject than we ever can.’

***

The treesong was comforting – almost like home, but not quite.  Two homes weaving themselves together, perhaps, she thought with determined optimism: the home of her youth and the home of her maturity.  Slender fingers caressed the rough bark, familiarising themselves with each bump and fissure, but her mind floated free, brooding on lands and faces she would never see again.

She did not look up at the feel of a familiar presence, but shifted obligingly so that the new arrival could sit beside her.

‘They will come.’  Galadriel spoke reassuringly.  ‘Have faith, my daughter.  They will come.  Your sons are elves in the depth of their being – the time will arrive when the song of Ennor will no longer hold them.’

Tears stung Celebrían’s eyes.  ‘Do you have the same faith that Adar will bid farewell to the trees of home?’

‘He will fight until the last.’  Galadriel smiled wryly.  ‘But he is a practical elf.  I am sure he will not sacrifice himself to make a point.’  She took her daughter’s hand between both of her own.  ‘One morning we will wake and know that their ship is seeking the Straight Path.’

‘Is that why you are not doing more to advance the cause of the Galadhrim?’ Celebrían looked at her naneth sharply.  ‘It is not like you to move so cautiously when you have a cause to defend.’

‘They would think twice about following my lead, anyway – three times; more – and then still decide to wait for your adar.’  Galadriel looked suddenly haunted and Celebrían turned her hand so that it was she who was offering the comfort.  ‘I miss him.  Even when we were apart, even when we were in disagreement, he was still with me, staunch and true.  Without the knowledge of his presence within me, it is as if I am deaf, blind, abandoned.  And I ache for Lothlórien.  Miss it as if a part of me has been torn away.’

‘You invested so much of yourself in the Wood,’ Celebrían told her gently.  ‘You wound your power in it, rooting yourself in the reality of Arda.  And,’ she added, ‘you made it a shield – a place apart, somewhere between two worlds.  You could not not miss it.’  She looked at her naneth.  ‘And I know what it is like to have that part of yourself open and bleeding.  I cannot tell you that it heals – and why would that help anyway, when all you yearn for is to be one again?’  She looked at her naneth in understanding silence as the fluttering leaves rustled in apparent sympathy.  ‘Why do you not get away for a while, Naneth?  Not the sea – I do not think it is good for you to be looking back.  Visit the forests instead and listen to the trees.’  She grinned impishly.  ‘I am sure Haldir would be only too happy to escort you.’

Galadriel laughed.  ‘He would probably prefer it to being paraded as a leader among his people,’ she said.  ‘I daresay, when my lord finally arrives, Haldir will seize the chance to disappear into the deepest woods for a century or two, where he will not be called upon to speak tactfully to anyone.’

‘And will certainly not have to dance with Noldor maidens.’  Celebrían shook her head.  ‘Poor Haldir.  It is unfair to tease him.’

‘He needs to get used to taking responsibility,’ her naneth said heartlessly.  ‘I have plans for him that require him to outgrow this urge of his to hide among trees.’

‘Poor, poor Haldir,’ Celebrían mourned, her eyes dancing.  ‘Still, I am sure Adar would feel he was a worthy sacrifice – if only to keep you pleasantly entertained until he steps ashore.’

‘They will come.’  Galadriel reverted to the subject on both their minds.  ‘They will all come.’

***

The network of branches swayed beneath him.  He had better not try to get any higher or his earnest effort to appear a hard-working Wood Elf striving to collect the season’s bounty would end in him tumbling to the forest floor and looking a fool.  If, that is, it continued to matter to him how he looked at that point!  The noise would be bound to disturb the bees as well – and harvesting the year’s honey would be a failure and his popularity among this group of green elves would plummet.

Legolas listened intently, but the hum of the bees was remarkably subdued.  It would appear that those who dwelt here were right.  Seeking to share the honey in the middle of a moonless night was wiser than attempting the task at any other time.

The chief hunter had taken one look at the prince and handed him one of the hide buckets, clearly thinking that it would be safer to give him a task that was fairly foolproof   He could not help but agree – Legolas knew he could offer his muscles and his willingness to help, but he had never sought to appease a tree full of bees before.

‘They brush the bees away,’ Litheredh breathed in his ear, ‘and use a wooden blade to cut the comb – the bees apparently dislike metal.  They will put what they harvest in the buckets and leave us to lower them, while they go on to the next colony.  They never take too much – and they sing to the bees to keep them calm.  Some of the bees will be angry, but most accept sharing some of their wealth with us and refrain from stinging.’

‘This is an amazing sight.’  Legolas’s voice was equally soft.  ‘I have seen trees with a hive or two, but this one must have two score or more.’

‘It provides my cousin’s people with the majority of their trade.  They can take the excess honey to market and barter it for those things that do not grow here among these trees.’

‘Worth protecting!’

‘And worth taking.’

A dark-haired elf, his hair braided to keep it out of his face, frowned at them and they lapsed into silence until they were back on the ground.

Legolas lifted the yoke carefully, a bucket of sticky honey on either end.

‘We want to get it in sealed containers before daylight rouses the bees,’ a brisk elleth explained.  ‘We work in a nearby glade – we would not want to attract the bees to our homes.  If you will follow me.’

She moved swiftly and sure-footedly, leaving him to step carefully across the unfamiliar ground.  A busy group of ellyth worked in harmony, filtering the sticky liquid and squeezing the last drops from the comb.  They poured the results into large jars that they then corked and stood in the stream to wash away any traces of honey from the outside. 

Legolas paused to watch.  ‘Who wishes to take this from them?’ he asked Litheredh as he joined him.

The elf shrugged.  ‘Those who farm the adjoining lands.  They say the woods are theirs, and they feel that the profit from the honey trade should be theirs, too.  They refuse to offer goods that are of equal worth – and my cousin tells me that they have to accept what is given.  Then the honey is taken to the city and traded for four or five times as much.’

‘That is not uncommon,’ Legolas said slowly.  ‘Those who take the risk of seeking the raw materials are never those who benefit most from their sale.  Every time goods change hands the price doubles.  Perhaps what these people need is a greater understanding of trade.  If they took the honey to the city themselves, they would be able to get a greater price.’

‘But they would pay more for what they wanted – and lose what goodwill they have among the local farmers.’

Legolas ran his hand over his head, then pulled a face as he realised he had transferred an unfortunate amount of honey to his hair.

‘You had better bathe before we go back to the village,’ Litheredh grinned.  ‘You do not want to have bad-tempered bees chasing you.’

‘Thank you very much!   I will be sure to send them in your direction.’  He paused and sighed.  ‘You can see it from their point of view, too,’ he said reluctantly.  ‘This was all theirs – until we settled here.  Now, what was more than enough for them has to be shared among ever-increasing numbers.’

Litheredh raised his eyebrows.  ‘You might want to think twice before saying that,’ he said.  ‘Such words are unlikely to please either side.’

‘Is that not half the trouble?’  Legolas could barely conceal his exasperation.  ‘We need to try to be fair.  It is so much easier to stir up hatred than to try to understand each other’s point of view.  One fool with an over-large mouth and a sense of indignation can overturn the careful work of years!’

‘Obviously.’  Litheredh was unmoved.  ‘And one mistake can destroy a thousand successes.  It is one of the many reasons that I am glad I am not you.  Constantly, you have to watch what you say and how you say it and make sure you share you attention fairly among all the different people trying to obtain your favour.  I daresay you cannot even relax and follow the dream path of your choice.’

Legolas grinned reluctantly.  ‘Well, as far as that goes…’  He left his words to trail away.

‘I prefer not to think about that!’ Litheredh grinned back, before returning his attention to the work before him.  ‘The bees can share,’ he said.  ‘They are reluctant to part with what is theirs, and they will sting if they catch you – but they live in harmony with the elves.  You will never convince the different kindreds to love each other, Legolas, but they will live side by side in reasonable co-operation.  They just need time to grow used to each other.’

‘I am not sure that even elves have that much time,’ Legolas sighed.  ‘A people who have harboured grudges since before the Great Journey are not going to move swiftly towards harmony.’

‘You expect too much too quickly.’  Litheredh crouched to wash his hands in the stream.  ‘You have already made more changes than you realise.  If you keep on the way you have started, my lord, you will get what you want.  When the time is ripe.’ He looked up, meeting Legolas’s somewhat startled gaze.  ‘Believe me.’ 

Two Steps Back

It was a very pretty glade.  A willow hung over a sparkling stream edged with banks of cropped grass studded with celandines.  Small fish darted beneath its shade and the water gurgled pleasantly round the glinting grey slabs in its way.

Elerrina sat, her feet primly together, on a water-worn rock looking at the linked fingers in her lap.  Friends, she reminded herself.  Neither more nor less.  Only she did not usually find it so difficult to talk to her friends.  She glanced up swiftly through the defences of her eyelashes, to see Legolas watching the fish, his face as sober as she had ever seen it.

‘Did you know,’ she said, making an effort to break the silence between them, ‘that Lady Galadriel has decided to travel to the foothills of the Pelori and spend some time among the forests?’ She smiled.  ‘The High King was not pleased – he insisted that Haldir was not sufficient escort and demanded that she should take her brothers with her.  It took all Queen Eärwen’s skill to calm him down when their daughter refused to hear of it.’

‘Which brothers?’ Legolas asked with interest.  ‘The Galadhrim might not mind a visit from Finrod, but I cannot see them appreciating the presence of the others.’

‘That is hardly fair!’ Elerrina objected. 

‘It is interesting to see that even Finarfin’s political instincts can be overcome when it is a matter of his daughter.’  Legolas grinned.  ‘I would not want to be Celeborn when he finally gets round to taking ship.  When he steps ashore, he will meet a danger greater than any he confronted in Ennor.   He will be lucky indeed to survive his first meeting with his wife’s adar.’

‘The High King only wants what is best for his daughter!’

Their eyes met and for a moment Elerrina forgot how to breathe.

‘Ah, yes,’ Legolas said neutrally.  ‘I am told it is a characteristic that comes with parenthood.’

That was the trouble with friendship, Elerrina thought as her racing heartbeat slowed.  Whatever she said, whatever he said, it all came down to the insurmountable mountain ranges between them.  His people, her people.  Old prejudices, new responsibilities.  Yet still she came back: drawn to him like a moth to a flame, having to touch the wound to see if it still hurt.  You would think she should have learned by now that it did.  She glanced at him again.  Long and lean, muscled like one who worked with his body rather than his mind, hair pale as ripe wheat, he walked with her in dreams as he never could in real life. 

Legolas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, shredding a small stick and dropping the debris into the water.  He did not even need to look at her.  Having her so close that the scent of her hair drifted across the space between them was … unendurable.  Her agreement to walk with him had taken him aback, but now he rather wished… It was easier to see her across a room, talking with another.  Sitting with her sister-in-law or carrying out Lady Galadriel’s bidding.  Come to that, it was easier to see her in her adar’s company!  Here – she was so near and yet as beyond his touch as a star in the night sky.  He raised his chin involuntarily to inspect her tumble of hair, her slender figure, her mouth…  He swallowed.

‘Your brother has said he will take me on a hunt,’ he volunteered.  ‘He said that Nisimalotë’s parents have a house in the hills.’

Elerrina turned her head.  ‘It is a beautiful place,’ she said.  ‘I think you will like it there.  There is a lake – and it is so quiet there that you can hear the fish leap.  Deer come down from the forest to drink at dusk and in the morning.’  Her eyes refused to lift from his hands.  ‘I have not been there very often, but I always feel at home.’

‘Remarkable.’  He attempted a rallying tone.  ‘A Noldo who likes to be among trees.’

‘And water.’  She glanced at him swiftly.  ‘Do not forget the water.’

‘Will you be attending the High King’s reception tonight?’  Legolas abandoned the attempt to chat.  ‘I believe there will be dancing…’

‘There is always dancing,’ Elerrina interrupted, but Legolas refused to accept the distraction.

‘I hope you will consent to dance with me,’ he said.  ‘If you can partner Haldir, your adar should be able to endure seeing you take to the floor with me.  Even,’ he added, ‘if he finds the sight infuriating.’

‘My atar would have no objection to a dance, I am sure.’  Elerrina sounded offended.  ‘He is not unreasonable.’

‘Except where I am concerned.’

‘It is not only he who looks sideways at us.’  Elerrina said dryly.  ‘There is not a single person among your entourage who does not frown in my direction as if I am leading you astray.’

He grinned, his face looking suddenly much younger.  ‘I am old enough to know my own mind, my lady.  Be assured – their opinion matters to me not one jot.  And anyway,’ he added, clearly realising that his words were confirming her analysis of the situation, ‘no-one who knows you would be so foolish.’

‘Then Tirion is clearly full of fools who know me not.’

‘Would you prefer me to keep my distance?’  Legolas spoke carefully, keeping his voice light and even.  ‘I would not make your life more difficult.’

‘No,’ she insisted, rising gracefully to her feet, rapidly followed by the Wood Elf.  She looked up, meeting his eyes steadily.  ‘I will not be made to feel guilty.  I see no reason why we cannot be friends, Lord Legolas – and I refuse to turn away from my friends.’

He took her hand in his carefully, smoothing his thumb slowly across her knuckles as if to preserve the contact as long as he could.  ‘Friends, then,’ he said, and only the slight trembling of their fingers said anything different.

***

Galadriel, daughter of the House of Finwë, took another appreciative glance around the apparently uninhabited trees and drew a deep breath.  Who would have thought, she mocked herself, that a Noldor princess would come to crave the space and silence of the forest.

‘Are the Galadhrim spread as far afield as the Silvan?’ she asked, sure that she already knew the answer.

Haldir glanced at her.  ‘It depends,’ he said cautiously, ‘what you mean.’

She shot an amused look at him.  He endured being dressed up and paraded as an acceptable representative of the Galadhrim – a people who, for all their reserve, had a respectable history that dated back to the earliest days and who combined that with a range of qualities that even the pickiest of Noldor bureaucrats could not find objectionable – but he had yet to learn to like it.  In fact, Galadriel found his resistance rather endearing – although she would not dream of telling him so.  Occasionally, just occasionally, she glimpsed in Haldir an echo of the elf on whom he had unknowingly modelled himself – and she found herself grinning to picture her husband’s response to the more irritating aspects of life in the Noldor court.

‘Are my words that difficult to understand?’

The pause suggested that Haldir was trying to present his information in the most pleasing way.

‘Just tell me, Haldir,’ she said.  It was, in many ways, rather unfortunate that he was still so wary of her.  She had never, she thought, deliberately gone out of her way to engender such caution in the people she and Celeborn had ruled – in fact, she rather thought that she had striven to present a calm and helpful face, offering constant support and gentle wisdom and dutiful work.  Yet a millennium’s striving could be overturned by one moment when the barriers were lifted.  Haldir had been at Celeborn’s shoulder when the walls of Dol Guldur tumbled to dust – and she had changed in his eyes from the Lady of the Wood to powerful and rather terrifying Elda.

‘Mostly,’ Haldir said, ‘those of whom I know have sought these woods.’  He tilted his head, as if listening to the song of the trees.  ‘But the forest extends from one end of the Pelori to the other – and those who dwell here are spread wide.’  He sighed.  ‘Many of those who sailed most recently gather together – but there are those who sailed at other times.  After the Last Alliance – again, when Durin’s Bane stirred the evil in the mountains and Lord Amroth was lost.  The different groups…’  He stopped.  ‘People seek out their families,’ he tried to explain, ‘but it is not always possible to ignore what has happened in the yeni since last we met – and, then, there are those who return from Námo’s Halls, who cannot endure the wearing of time they see on those who suffered east of the sea.’  He shrugged uncomfortably.  ‘I know not how it works for those who returned to their kin among the Noldor,’ he said, ‘but often those who return seek to dwell among others who have shared the same experience.’

Galadriel opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.  She had not even thought about it.  When she marched away from the lands of her birth, there had been no need to consider such matters – and, when finally she returned, she had been in no condition to think about just who dwelt in this most Blessed Realm.  She had expected to see her brothers – and she had – and it had never crossed her mind to think about the patient adjustment that had brought them back to her adar’s court to re-establish lives that had been twice torn from them.

The greening beech, filled with the energy of spring, brushed her gently with its opening leaves.  She was herself, she realised, still wakening from a frozen winter of the spirit.  For all her superficial certainty, there were still places within her that she shielded from anyone’s touch – and it had never occurred to her that her family were permitting her this slow healing.  She smiled wryly.  Doubtless her naneth – and her daughter – were conspiring to ease her out of herself, just as she was easing Thranduil’s son towards his future and placing Haldir in situations that would force him into the growth he resisted.  And doubtless, too, they were cheering her on.

‘I do not think my lord will find these woods enough for him,’ she said.  ‘Nor for those under his protection.’

Haldir blinked.  ‘We have found sanctuary here, my lady,’ he answered.  ‘There are – difficulties – at times, but we are better off than many of the Silvan, who are far too closely bounded by the farms of the Noldor.’

‘Does it feel like home?’

He looked round the fresh glade, where wood anemones nodded in the slightest breeze and blackthorn petals drifted to the sprouting grass.  ‘Not really,’ he admitted.  ‘We feel like guests in another’s sanctuary.’

She stepped onto a low branch and strolled into the tree as easily as if she was walking on the manicured paths of Finarfin’s house, before settling among the welcoming leaves.  ‘We must work towards discovering our own place, Haldir,’ she said seriously.  ‘It will be for my lord to find – but we must set the groundwork in place, so that he is free to seek it.’  She glanced westward, where the Pelori rose above the forest.  ‘It will be better for all of us.’

Haldir sighed.

‘I know.’  She smiled sympathetically.  ‘You would rather undertake tasks more to your taste – but it is important that the Galadhrim as well as the elves of Lasgalen should be seen among the powerful.  And at present the Galadhrim require subtlety rather than force of arms.’  She turned resolutely to gaze to the east.  ‘And for now – we will visit village markets to meet farmers who do not care for elves who hide in trees – and build bridges.’  She raised her eyebrows at him.  ‘If the High King’s daughter and the finest representatives of the Galadhrim cannot dent their prejudices, then we are less skilled than I believe.’  A laugh escaped her at his expression.  ‘Oh yes, my friend.  I did not escape my adar’s court merely to listen to the song of the trees.  Gird yourself – we have work to do.’

***

Legolas reminded himself that punching Elerrina’s adar on the nose would hardly be likely to advance his … friendship with the elf’s daughter.  And, he thought with fleeting satisfaction, he had learned at Thranduil’s knee that, on occasion, driving your opponent to frenzy with a display of mild reasonableness could be even more rewarding that allowing your fury to show.

The Noldo’s expression caught his attention: not so much anger, he noted, as despair. Taryatur had the look of an elf who was fighting something that was beyond his capacity to overcome.  ‘Can you not see it?’ he asked.  ‘She is no more right for you than you are for her!’ 

A certain sympathy stirred in the Wood Elf.  Taryatur was, after all, correct – Legolas’s interest in Elerrina had been unguarded enough to arouse some very critical comments from the less broad-minded – and more foolhardy – of his people.  And no-one should condemn a parent for wishing to protect his child.  ‘It is not, I fear,’ he said in a determinedly even tone, ‘something in which I find I have any choice.’

Taryatur stepped back.  ‘We always have a choice,’ he replied.  ‘To deny that is to play into the hands of the Shadow.’  He closed his eyes wearily for a moment.  ‘I will not have you hurt her.’  He sounded defeated – and totally unlike the elf who had, moments before, been demanding nothing less than his promise never to be in Elerrina’s company again.

‘If I were to have my way,’ Legolas said, ‘nothing would ever hurt her.’

He was surprised when a laugh was wrenched from Elerrina’s adar.

‘Then you would have more power than any I have ever known.’  Taryatur stared at him for a moment before turning abruptly away.

‘What did he mean by that?’ Legolas sounded confused.  ‘At one moment I thought he was about to hit me – and I was debating just how to get out of the situation without doing him too much damage.  Then, he…’  He looked at the receding figure and shook his head.

Litheredh stepped forward from the shadows to which he had retreated when Taryatur arrived, determined to force a confrontation that clearly needed no third party.  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you might be winning him over.’

Legolas shook his head.  ‘You mean he was telling me he liked me?’  He sounded incredulous.

‘I would not go that far,’ Litheredh judged, his voice unnaturally solemn.  ‘He might have begun to notice that, no matter what he does, you and his daughter are still drawn together.  And, you never know, it might have crossed his mind that, if he is going to be routed, it would be better if it happened on his terms.’

‘I dread to think what his terms might be.’

Litheredh looked thoughtful.  ‘It might not be his terms about which you most need to worry,’ he said.  ‘He is, I am reluctant to say, right about one thing – this would not be a popular match anywhere.’

‘If I am not mistaken, Lady Galadriel would be pleased.’

‘Ah.’  Litheredh noted his words.  ‘She has always liked to stand out from the crowd.’  He glanced sideways at Thranduil’s son.  ‘But she would be among the very few.  I would not want to see the work of the last years come to nothing because of any impulsive commitments.’

‘You need not concern yourself.’  Legolas’s smile twisted.  ‘The elleth in question may yet decide to have nothing to do with me.  And even if she did – I would make no irrevocable decisions until my adar has arrived to resume his own authority.  Duty, my friend, takes precedence over personal attachments.  I have been trained well enough to know that, believe me.’

***

The faces watching her were – more than guarded, she thought.  Totally expressionless, the innkeeper brought the food and drink she had requested, bowing as he placed the trays on the table, his obsequiousness clearly aimed at her alone. She was unsure whether it was her parentage or her purse that had won his grudging approval.

‘Join me,’ she invited. 

The village leader sat reluctantly, his movement copied swiftly by his scarcely-adult son and Haldir.  They accepted the chased pewter mugs she poured for them and the younger elf stretched out his hand to the plates of savoury pastries, pulling it back when his atar frowned at him. 

Galadriel helped herself to a selection and indicated to the ellon that he was to do the same.  It seemed that the ways to win over the young remained unchanged, wherever they might have grown.  She looked at the triangular pastries and hoped they were rather more flavoursome than they looked, but she had smiled while eating a range of unpleasant offerings – she doubted that these would be too much for her.

‘They are not a people,’ the headman reiterated the comment that had led her to place a hand on Haldir’s wrist.  ‘A people has lords – and laws – and lands of their own.  They are … wild,’ he added defiantly, ‘and dangerous – and we will protect our own.’

Haldir’s jaw tightened.  Galadriel was pleased to see, however, that he managed to appear relaxed and in control of himself.  He raised his goblet to sip from it without any noticeable tension.  Perhaps, a fleeting thought crossed her mind, he was starting to grow into the elf she saw him becoming.

‘The Galadhrim are an ancient people – with laws that are in many ways no different from ours,’ she said smoothly.  ‘They await their lord’s arrival – and, when he comes, they will seek lands that await them.  Your … determination to keep them fenced beyond your borders is driving wedges between you that need not exist.’

The village leader’s eyes narrowed.  Not, Galadriel noted, one who took well to contradiction.

‘We used to hunt in the woods,’ the younger elf remarked suddenly, licking crumbs from the corner of his mouth.  ‘There are trees that provided the villages here with medicines – a cave system where we sought our salt.  All sorts of things – just because we did not live among the trees does not mean that they were not ours.’

His atar pressed his lips together and elbowed his son.  ‘Eat,’ he snapped.  ‘At least it stops you speaking.’ 

‘We have no wish to keep you from your traditional activities within the forest,’ Haldir said.  He sounded slightly offended.  ‘We dwell there – but we do not own it.  The forest owns itself.’

‘Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding,’ Galadriel allowed herself to sound puzzled.  Her eyes settled on the rather threadbare elf.  This village, like the others they had visited, had clearly seen better days.  Those elves who worked the land were generally less wealthy than those who worked as craftspeople or merchants, but these farms on the edge of the forest seemed less profitable than most.  If the villagers had relied on the bounty of the forest to make up the difference between their crops and their needs, she could understand why they so bitterly resented the influx of the Galadhrim.  And, she thought, why suggestions of trade had been received with such hostility – it was asking people to pay for what they already considered to be their own.  Unfortunately, gathering the Galadhrim together and taking them elsewhere was not an option that was open to her.  Somehow or other, these reluctant neighbours had to learn to get on – and to get on in a way that made life better for both sides.

‘No-one will come to support us against these… these usurpers,’ the village leader muttered, the words wrenched from him as if he knew that it would be wiser to keep his opinions to himself.  ‘They can spread themselves through the trees and take what they want, but as soon as we try to recover what is ours, out come the bleeding hearts who talk of their rights, their difficulties, their needs.  What of us?  A hundred yeni and more my family has dwelt here – yet they can come and take what they want and no-one expects us to defend ourselves?’

Haldir blinked.  Had he been so intent on seeing the Galadhrim as victims that he had not considered that the local farmers might feel themselves to be the injured parties in this … this competition of hostility? 

‘It is difficult for all,’ Galadriel said smoothly.  ‘But we are elves, my friend – by our very nature we seek to open our minds to greater truths.  Haldir, here…’  He froze, wary of whatever the Lady might choose to say.  ‘Is he so different from your son?  Am I, in my concern for my husband’s people, so different from you?’

The elf’s storm-grey eyes inspected her somewhat cynically.  ‘You have more power to affect the outcomes, my lady,’ he said, ‘than I will ever possess.’

‘But it is not my business to impose a solution on you – my atar’s people and my lord’s – when there must be a way forward that will benefit all.’

‘We are few.’  Haldir felt Galadriel’s nudge to him to make some effort.  ‘The forests are but sparsely populated – why should you not continue to use them as you always have?  We would welcome you – provide escorts so that you might feel safe among us, if you wish.’  He felt, rather than saw, Galadriel’s smile.  ‘We will happily share the bounty of the trees – if you will do the same.’

‘So we labour in the fields to provide you with what you cannot take from the forest – while you graciously allow us to work among the trees, too.  And what do you bring to this bargain?’ The village leader jutted his jaw towards Haldir, his hands clenched into fists and his whole posture one of rigidly-controlled anger.  His son looked at him in some alarm, but that did not stop him helping himself to the last of the pastries. 

‘Just because we do not farm as you do does not mean that we are idle!’ Haldir snapped.  Galadriel’s foot stepped on his and he drew a calming breath.  ‘Perhaps,’ he said evenly, ‘if we knew each other better, we would be less likely to imagine insult where no such intention exists.’

‘And perhaps pigs might fly!’ the other declared.

‘They might,’ his son grinned.  ‘Andatar’s pig flew when it got itself on the barn roof and could not climb down.  It had a mighty heavy landing, though – and we dined on roast pork that night!’

Galadriel looked at the ellon with increased interest.  Here, perhaps, was one who was more open to change.  He gazed back guilelessly.  She took one of the pastries from her plate and offered him the rest.  ‘That sounds like a story I would like to hear,’ she said appreciatively.  ‘And like one in which my grandsons would have had a – er – moving part.’

‘It is early in the year,’ Haldir said, responding to Galadriel’s silent urging, ‘but it is our custom to celebrate the return of life to the forest and to offer thanks for the food the season brings.  Would you care to join us?  It would be a step towards building a better understanding between our peoples.’

‘It is a busy time for us,’ the village leader stated flatly, his reluctance obvious.  ‘We have too much to do in the fields and orchards to waste time on frivolity.’  He glanced at his son and then, warily, at the High King’s daughter.  ‘But I suppose we could spare an evening.’

‘Oh good.’  Haldir’s smile did not reach further than his lips.  ‘I will look forward to it.’

***

A golden eyebrow raised in surprise.  ‘Really?’  Finrod looked over the slender ellon.  ‘I would not have thought it – my brothers and I have hunted many times in the forests that cover the Pelori’s foothills.  We climbed there, too, in our wilder days – and yet I never found open passes tempting me to seek a way to cross them.’  He smiled slowly.  ‘But then, perhaps I should not expect that they were there for me to discover.’ 

‘It seems they are not generally known, my lord.’  The ellon’s voice was soft and he shifted uncomfortably as if he was not altogether at home in the elegant hunting lodge where he was meeting the High King’s son.  ‘There are a few among the Silvan and the Galadhrim who find their way through the maze – but they do not return to tell others what they have found.’  He hesitated.  ‘That is not altogether to the good – it prevents an exodus, but some are convinced that their kin have fallen foul of some unprincipled traffickers who – well – if they do not make an end of the travellers, at the very least compel them to labour in distant servitude.’

‘There are elves in the Blessed Realm who truly believe…?’ Finrod sounded incredulous. 

The ellon shrugged.  ‘I do not know if they truly believe it – any more than they believe the stories told round the fire on a winter’s night – but the rumours certainly exist.  The elves I met scoffed at them – but there was an unease in their eyes that suggested they were not entirely convinced of the tales’ legendary nature.’

‘And what is the other side of the passes?’  Finrod noted the tales and added them to the list of problems that must be tackled.  He could not – would not – have even the most rustic of Wood Elves looking on his people as kidnappers of children and exploiters of their own kind.  That way, he felt, led to a situation worse than any they had faced in Endórë. 

‘My lord?’  Artless surprise dripped from the words.

‘If there is anybody I would count on to pass an impassable barrier and return to tell of it,’ Finrod said dryly, ‘it would be you.  You of all people would not be intimidated by the knowledge that you were not supposed to return.’

The ellon grinned.  ‘I did not attempt the final wards,’ he admitted.  ‘I felt that descending the other side might be more than even the most tolerant Power would allow – and instead climbed above the pass to see what I might.’

‘And?’

‘Forest, my lord.  Beautiful, endless, virgin forest.  Birds wheeling above great trees – Anor glinting on expanses of water.  No evidence of farming, no cutting of timber, no towns, no sounds of people.’

‘And so you concluded that some few among the Silvan have found a home to suit their taste.’

Finrod inspected the silent ellon, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his knee.  This could be something worth knowing, he thought.  Remaining one step ahead of any opponents was the way to succeed in statesmanship – being two steps ahead was to excel. 

‘Does my sister know of this?’ he asked.

‘Not from me.’ 

Finrod nodded slowly.  ‘Not that that means anything,’ he remarked.  ‘Galadriel has resources available to her that I do not – and she would not tell me anything she would prefer me not to know.’  He considered.  ‘The Wood Elf Prince, on the other hand…’ he mused, ‘is too unpractised in the arts of deception to conceal such knowledge – and I would wish his innocence to be maintained for as long as possible.’  He looked sharply at his informer.  ‘There are some things that are best kept to a very narrow circle – and, in my opinion, this is one of them.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’

‘And, in the meantime, you will continue to learn as much as you can.  This is knowledge that could prove immensely valuable.’

***

Somehow, it still surprised Elerrina to see her sister-in-law humming contentedly as she worked in the kitchen.  It seemed such an unlikely place to see the elegant elleth who so much enjoyed negotiating her way through the intricacies of court life.

Nisimalotë pushed a tendril of her glossy black hair away from her face, leaving a trail of flour across her cheek, before returning to the business of kneading the dough.

‘I love the smell of spiced bread,’ Elerrina said, drawing a deep breath of a fragrance that was both warming and comforting.  ‘It always reminds me of being a child – Atar would make it as a treat, and Camentur used to make me think he was being kind to his little sister when he gave me the task of taking all the seeds from the raisins.’

‘Your atar does make very good spiced bread,’ Nisimalotë approved.  ‘I am not surprised that your amil left it to him.’

‘It did mean that we did not get it very often.’  Elerrina leaned on the far edge of the table.  ‘Which, I suppose, made it even more of a treat.’

‘When I have elflings…’  Nisimalotë’s busy working slowed, ‘I think I shall encourage them to think that such things are a special part of being a family.’

‘Are you thinking of…?’ Elerrina stopped.  ‘I do not mean to pry,’ she finished apologetically.

‘No.’  Her brother’s wife cut the dough into a number of pieces and began to knead one of them to shape it into a loaf.  She smiled tightly.  ‘Camentur feels it is too soon – and in many ways I agree with him.’  She looked up almost defiantly.  ‘We have many centuries ahead of us in which to have children.’

‘Of course.’  The silence was broken only by the rhythmic working of the dough, but the tension suggested that perhaps Nisimalotë was less of an equal partner in the decision than Camentur might think.  A definite sniff drew her eyes to Nisimalotë’s face and Elerrina stepped hastily round the table to fold her into a warm hug.  ‘I have been so busy thinking about my own problems that I have not been paying attention,’ she said.

‘There is nothing for you to pay attention to…’  Nisimalotë rested her head on Elerrina’s shoulder briefly, then straightened up.  ‘You are covering yourself with flour,’ she said practically.

‘It cannot make a worse mess than charcoal.’ 

‘Do not believe it!’ Nisimalotë had buried whatever was worrying her under a mask of good humour.  ‘Flour gets everywhere – and the application of water turns it into a particularly messy glue.  Go outside and dust yourself off!’

Elerrina stepped back.  ‘You always seem to me a most unlikely person to be working in the kitchens,’ she remarked.  ‘I do not know what your amil would make of it!’

‘I would not have minded working as a pastry-cook.’  Nisimalotë looked almost dreamy.  ‘To spend my days creating sweet breads and pastries.’  She shook herself slightly.  ‘And now I have my own kitchens, I shall do as I want!  Nobody frowns because you want to spend your time in dirty workshops – that is thought to be a most suitable place for a Noldo.  I cannot see what is wrong with wanting to provide delicious food for your family.’

‘There is nothing wrong with it – it is just the combination of you and it!’  Elerrina grinned.  ‘What did Camentur think the first time he found you dusted in flour and hovering over the ovens?’

A small giggle escaped her sister-in-law.  ‘I think he thought I was trying to impress him,’ she admitted.  ‘And he was prepared to be kind about my efforts – and then he tasted them.’  She placed the loaves in a warm place to prove.  ‘Then he seemed so uncomfortable with me working in the kitchen that I feared he did not approve – and Camentur thought I was only doing it because we could not employ a cook – and that I was being brave!  It was some time before he truly believed that I was in my element.’  She inspected the other elleth.  ‘You have not distracted me, you know.  I still want to know what Legolas said to make you look as if it was raining on your begetting day celebrations.’

Elerrina brushed at the white marks on her gown with an attention they did not merit.  ‘He did not say anything.’

‘Is that the problem?’

The fire popped as the logs crumbled.  Nisimalotë tested the temperature of the oven with a practised hand and added a carefully chosen block of wood to the embers beside it.  The kitchen sounds were comfortable and reassuring – and did not make Elerrina feel any better.  She swallowed, attempting to force the lump in her throat back where it belonged, but it did no good.

‘His hand touched mine – and our eyes met.  That is all, Nisimalotë.  Our fingers brushed – and I feel as if I have been burnt!  Is that not enough?’

‘And Legolas?’  Nisimalotë used a folded cloth to lift the kettle from the hob and pour boiling water onto a jug containing a handful of dried leaves.  The fragrance of mint freshened the smell of baking.

‘He looked as if he had been struck.’

Nisimalotë stirred the infusing leaves slowly before pouring two cups of the tea and offering one to Elerrina.  ‘You cannot go on like this indefinitely,’ she said practically.  ‘You are long past the point when glances and sighs were enough for you.  You either have to decide on a way to make this work between you – or ensure that you never meet again.  Move on.’  She kept her attention on the steaming liquid.  ‘The second option would be far and away the more sensible of the two.  Your atar will never accept this willingly – and neither, I believe, would his.  And Lady Galadriel would tell you that a bond between two from very difficult peoples brings with it difficulties that will pursue you down the yeni.’ 

‘And rewards!’

‘Rewards?’ Nisimalotë considered.  ‘Perhaps.  But you would never be able to settle into being ordinary.  And – things being as they are – most of the … the changing to fit in would be for you to do.’  She finished her tea and went to inspect her loaves.  It was one thing letting Elerrina unburden herself: she found that she was reluctant to add to her worries.  But, she sighed, someone had to say these things – and with Taryatur refusing to tolerate as much as a dance between the two of them, and Linevendë preferring to stress her husband’s point of view rather than see if there was another, someone had to ensure that Elerrina was given the full picture to consider.  ‘And what of him?’ she asked.  ‘What if his family – his people – refuse to accept you?  They are not fond of the Noldor – what if they cast him out?  Would he find a place among us where he could be happy?  Would he – and you – be left to wander to the ends of the Blessed Realm in search of a home?  Would you be willing to agree to a course of action that made that come to pass?’

Elerrina stilled.  ‘I thought you could see beyond prejudice,’ she accused her sister-in-law.  ‘You, at least, seemed to understand.’

‘I do understand.’  Nisimalotë sighed.  ‘And I understand that this is not as simple as it was for Camentur and me.  He is a prince, Elerrina.  He has responsibilities beyond his own happiness.’  She brooded for a moment.  ‘Perhaps, when his atar comes…’

‘It will be even worse.’  Elerrina choked back the tremor that wanted to overcome her voice. 

‘That is always a possibility,’ Nisimalotë ceded, ‘but it is not inevitable.’  She moved the proved dough into the oven.  ‘You are both behaving with restraint – and striving to be responsible.  Perhaps Legolas’s atar will see that – perhaps he will be willing to bend enough to come to know you before making any decisions.’

Elerrina drew circles on the floured table with the tip of her finger.  ‘We have both said that we can be no more than friends.’  She sounded tired and sad.

‘Oh, my sister!’ Nisimalotë exclaimed.  ‘No, no, I fear that is not so.  If there is one thing you can never be, it is friends.’

***

Elrond lowered himself to sit silently beside the dejected elf, his robes folding around his gleaming boots.  A fresh night breeze stirred the leaves to imitate the whispering of a gathering of Noldor matrons when faced with a particularly delectable scandal and Ithil’s cool light dimmed the stars. 

‘You have been sent to offer consolation?’  Legolas raised his head from his inspection of the grass at his feet and attempted a smile.

‘No.’  It was not strictly true.  Celebrían had seen Elerrina turn away, seen Legolas frozen in place, watched the colour fade from his face, observed his withdrawal – and told Elrond to do what he could.  But consolation?   No, neither of them considered that to be what he could provide.

Legolas ran stiff fingers through his hair as if raking his scalp would release the pressure.  ‘It was never going to work,’ he said.  ‘It is not as if it comes as a surprise.  It is just … just the final straw.’  He drew a deep breath and held it before expelling it explosively.  ‘Nothing is going well,’ he said.  ‘This task is so far beyond my capabilities that it is ridiculous – I am a warrior, a killer of orcs and spiders – a pair of hands and a bow.  What in that suggests that I am fit for a task that would stretch the capabilities of Gil-galad?’

‘He often thought the same.’  Elrond smiled as Legolas lifted his head to stare at him.  ‘He was far younger than you are now when he was presented with the burden of the crown – and those who did not think him as the enemy believed him foolish and naïve.  And then, before he had time to grow comfortably into the role, the Valar’s host arrived.  Eönwë.  Finarfin.  Elves among them who had come into existence at Cuiviénen and others who had made the Great Journey – among others, of course. And Gil-galad, scarce full-grown and standing in Fingolfin’s shoes.’ He shook his head reminiscently.  ‘He was not always the king of the Last Alliance.’

‘Is that meant to make me feel better?’ 

‘Not particularly.’  Elrond looked up at the sky.  ‘We fill the role that has been given us, I think.  And do the best we can.  It is not always enough – but as long as it all we can give…’  He looked at Legolas.  ‘What is the problem?’ he asked.

Legolas linked his fingers across his forehead and used his thumbs to massage his temples.  ‘I had thought that we were winning over the average Noldo – that they no longer saw the Silvan as a threat, but as a group that just preferred a different way of life.  We had established cautious trade, tentative friendships, careful sharing of goods and skills.’  He leaned back.  ‘But, over the last months, too many of these arrangements have gone awry – and each time we are not just back where we began, but some way short of it.  If this goes on much longer, we will be worse off than if I had never allowed myself to become involved in the whole process.’

‘To whose benefit?’ Elrond lowered his chin and looked at his young friend.  He waited patiently for Legolas to mull over his words.

‘It is not obvious.’  Legolas seemed more detached.  ‘But then, it would not be, would it?  Sometimes the breakdown seems caused by the Noldor, while, at other times, it is some piece of folly from the Wood Elves.  It is only the result that is consistent.’

‘Have you mapped the incidents?’ Elrond smiled and shook his head.  ‘You have been too close, my friend.  Step back and look at the whole picture.  Perhaps something will show that you did not expect.’  He stood up and extended a hand to the prince.  ‘Come,’ he suggested.  ‘We have better things to do than dance.’

Legolas’s face tightened as he remembered the rejection that had sent him from the hall.  ‘I cannot blame her,’ he said. 

‘Matters are not always what they seem,’ Elrond said sympathetically.  ‘Perhaps you need to talk to each other – without interference.’

‘Perhaps,’ Legolas agreed.  ‘And perhaps her message is already clear enough.’

Elrond snorted.  ‘I doubt that,’ he said.  ‘You did not see her face as she turned away from you.  There is more to whatever she said than might seem.’  He raised an elegant eyebrow.  ‘A ballroom is not a good place to make decisions that might change your life.  Talk to her.’

Legolas drew a deep breath.  ‘I will,’ he said.

Determination

The halyards slapped against the gleaming masts and the hulls bobbed up and down teasingly on the ruffled water.  Espalas sighed and looked wistfully at the white crests on the waves beyond the harbour.

Galadriel’s eyes reflected the sparkling sea as she allowed her amusement to show.  ‘It is very kind of you to ferry us from Alqualondë, cousin,’ she said.

‘Oh, it was nothing.’  Espalas waved a hand dismissively.  ‘It gave me the opportunity of giving Rámainen a run.’  He looked at her cynically.  ‘And it gave you the chance to get away from Andatar without having to argue your case.’

Galadriel raised an innocent eyebrow, but clearly enjoyed her cousin’s suspicion.  ‘You are not as foolish as you like to seem,’ she commented.

‘Some things,’ Espalas said dramatically, ‘are simply not possible.’

Elerrina giggled. 

The tall Teler winked at her.  ‘You want to watch yourself with my cousin,’ he said with mock confidentiality.  ‘She is dangerous to know – and even more dangerous to cross.  Sensible people keep a safe distance.’

‘Then I cannot be very sensible, Lord Espalas,’ she said.

‘Enough!’  Galadriel looked down her nose haughtily.  ‘I will not have you leading Elerrina astray, cousin.’  She glanced at her attendant.  ‘He is remarkably impudent, you will find – and thinks that charm and an engaging smile are enough to gain him whatever he wants.’

‘I would not go that far – cousin,’ he said.  A slight edge sharpened his mocking tone.

Elerrina looked at him from the corner of her eye.  He had welcomed them easily and made no attempt to resist Galadriel’s request to carry them across to Tol Eressëa, despite Olwë’s firm suggestion that they should wait – whether for better weather or for a carefully chosen escort she had not been sure.  It would seem, though, that there were depths beneath the sunny surface where the currents ran strong and dark.

‘Do you really need me here?’ he complained, the mask firmly back in place.  ‘There seems little purpose to my escort, when you know perfectly well where you are going.’

‘It would be discourteous not to announce your arrival,’ Galadriel insisted.  ‘You may do your best to ignore it, but you are Olwë’s grandson – and the lords who call the Lonely Isle home would be offended were you not to greet them.’

‘Bossy,’ Espalas muttered defiantly.  ‘You always were – and your husband has done nothing to squash the habit.’

The urge to giggle froze within Elerrina.  Being the Lady’s cousin might offer some protection, but this elf gave the impression of being irredeemably reckless.  She glanced cautiously at Galadriel whose smile had faded.

‘I shall have a word or two with him when he lands,’ the Teler continued, ignoring her clear displeasure.  ‘He needs to learn a trick or two – and I could tell him some things about Artanis Finarfiniel that will take the wind from your sails.  Just you wait, cousin – and bear in mind that offending me would not be a good idea.’

The tension eased from Galadriel’s figure.  ‘There are so many more and so much worse stories to tell of you, Espalas.  You cannot take the high ground!’

‘The difference being that everyone knows me for what I am,’ he grinned.  ‘I have no urge to conceal my follies.  You, on the other hand, would offer me a great deal to keep some of my tales from that Sinda’s ears.  Fortunately, he is not here yet – and you have time to negotiate my silence.’

Galadriel stopped and turned towards him, hands on hips.   His loosely twisted braid of silver hair swung to one side as he tilted his head and returned her stare, like two cats determining which controlled the territory.

‘Tell my lord whatever you choose,’ Galadriel instructed him.  ‘You can say nothing worse than he has heard of me before.’  Her smile was dangerous.  ‘And you might find that he appreciates but little any attempt to denigrate me.’

Espalas laughed.  ‘Even I am not such a fool as that!  I remember him well enough from the debris of Angband to know that he is protective of his lady – understandably so, for he must have taken on half the population of Endórë in your defence – but it is not insulting to tell an elf of his wife’s childhood mischief.  And you and I, cousin, provided many tales for the gossips of Alqualondë to enjoy.’   

‘We did, did we not?’ Galadriel’s eyes grew vague as she looked back over the millennia in between to the two elflings on the white shore.  ‘They were good days.’

‘Unless you were on the receiving end of some of our – er – clever ideas,’ Espalas hedged.  ‘Then, perhaps, they were not so amusing.’  He looked with aversion to the arched entrance to the building before them.  ‘Are you sure you want me to attend you?  You will have more people jumping to your bidding if I am not there.’

His cousin slipped her hand through his arm, effectively holding him prisoner.  ‘You can escape soon enough,’ she pronounced, ‘but first you have to endure the tedium of being a king’s grandson.’

Elerrina watched them with amusement as she followed them into the building.  Espalas might complain rather more vocally than most, she thought, but he was another of Lady Galadriel’s tools in whatever schemes she had in mind – and helpless to resist her.  Whether he realised it or not.

***

The sound of the loom and the rhythm of the movements soothed Linevendë.  It was a relief to take refuge in her workroom and close out the worries of the outside world.  The pattern she was creating co-operated as the weaving of real life would not and she was able to lose herself in the simple pleasure of turning thread into something both beautiful and useful.

Unfortunately, there were times – and this seemed to be one of them – when keeping her hands busy only permitted her mind to wander more freely, allowing her far too much time to think about matters she would rather like to escape for a while.

Matters like – what was she going to do?

She had always prided herself on her children.  Camentur had been a worry for a while – what ellon was not? – and she had been relieved when he had settled into Lord Finrod’s service and found favour with the High King’s firstborn.  Then, when he had found himself drawn to Nisimalotë – a delightful elleth, but one whose parents were sticklers for correct behaviour – she had worried that her son would not be considered good enough for their daughter.  Finally that had settled itself and she had begun to look forward to the day when the two of them would have elflings of their own and provide her with grandchildren to love. 

Elerrina, though – Elerrina had never given them a moment’s anxiety, not from the moment that she had come to make her family complete.  Not until now.  Linevendë’s busy hands slowed.  Their daughter was so forlorn.  She did her best to conceal it and pretend that everything was fine, but…  Taryatur might deceive himself into believing that his beloved daughter had dismissed the Wood Elf from her mind and was dividing her time happily between her craft and her attendance on the High King’s daughter – but Elerrina’s pale face and shadowed eyes wrenched at her mother’s heart and every time she saw the elleth, her daughter seemed somehow – less.  And home – which should have been her sanctuary – had become unendurable, being, as it was, the place where the competing demands of heart and family tore at her the most.

The door opened. 

Linevendë looked up.  Taryatur appeared tentative, as if he was not sure of his welcome.

‘I find it hard to forgive him what he has done to her,’ she said, her eyes grey as wet slate.

Her husband did not pretend to misunderstand.  ‘He is not doing it on purpose,’ he said, reluctant to give the Wood Elf that much credit, but too honest to deny what was obvious.

‘On purpose or not, I do not see any happy endings to this story.’

Taryatur crossed to her swiftly, crouching before her chair and looking up at her intently, his eyes storm-dark.  ‘The worst will pass,’ he said intently.  ‘If only the ellon would take himself off – or find himself one of his own kind.  She would get over him.’

‘Oh, my love…’  She touched her finger tips to his cheek and combed them through his hair.   He could not see that his own blinkered reaction to an affair that was not – as yet, at least – anything more that a powerful attraction was doing as much as anything to pin them all to this … this wheel gathering momentum as it rolled downhill.  ‘I am afraid – very much afraid – that it is too late for that.’  She sighed.  ‘It is not as if he is not drawn to her.  Were he not, perhaps the spark of interest would have faded, but …’ She leaned forward to kiss him gently on the forehead.  ‘Nothing would have stopped me yearning for you, my heart.  I would have waited until the end of days for you, had you not returned to me – and counted the time well spent.’

‘He is not right for her,’ Taryatur said stubbornly.

‘I think we must allow her to decide that,’ Linevendë told him wearily.  ‘Or lose her, one way or another.’

‘And he cannot choose to give himself to her.’  Her husband took another tack.  ‘He is not free to offer himself against his people’s wish.’

Linevendë smiled slightly, but remained silent.

‘She would be miserable amidst a forest full of heedless Wood Elves – and long for the ordered life of the Noldor.’

A slight shake of her head suggested that Linevendë was not altogether in agreement, but she made no attempt to argue the point.  ‘I am afraid that she will leave us anyway,’ she said.  ‘She is spending so little time at home – it is as if attendance on Lady Galadriel provides distraction from her unhappiness that she cannot find at home or in her workshop.’  She smiled bitterly.  ‘We are having our daughter taken from us, but without gaining the son we should be able to welcome to our hearth.’

Taryatur groaned and bowed his head to weigh heavy in her clasp.  ‘Why did he have to sail?’ he complained.  ‘Could he not have remained east of the sea until the end of Arda?’

‘Or at least until Elerrina had found a husband more to our liking,’ Linevendë sighed.  She slid her hands under his jaw and raised his face so that their eyes met.  ‘We must show Elerrina that we are willing to accept him,’ she insisted.  ‘Welcome him into our home – with all courtesy, my love.  If she will have no other, then we must accept her choice, for if we do not, then we will lose her for ever.’

Her husband brooded over her warning.  ‘What have we done to deserve this?’ he asked.

‘I cannot tell.’  Linevendë smiled faintly.  ‘All I know is that I would rather embrace the Wood Elf than push my daughter away.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ he agreed.  ‘And, if someone has to make her miserable, let it not be her parents.’

‘That is one way to look at it.’  Linevendë’s smile shone forgivingly on the disgruntled elf.  Taryatur was trying – and that was all she could ask.  ‘We will support her through this as we have through many other moments of her life – it is our duty as well as our pleasure.  And, perhaps,’ she added softly, ‘doing our duty will offer its own reward.’

***

Haldir straightened his aching back.  He failed to understand why farmers put themselves through so much tedious labour.  Would they not be happier harvesting the forest’s bounty rather than slaving in the heat of the day to gather the dry grass before the arrival of the storm clouds building up in the distance?  Although better haying, he decided resentfully, than the gathering of root crops – the prospect of which made him feel almost glad that he was likely to be summoned to present himself in Tirion before they were ready to be harvested.

An elleth with an untidy braid of dark brown under a shady hat offered him a dipper of water from the buckets hanging from the yoke she carried.  It was sun-warmed and tasted of the dusty day, but it was very welcome.  She was pretty, he thought, assessing her automatically.  Pretty, but nothing special.  He smiled.  ‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling engagingly.  The ellon working some way beyond them raised his head to scowl in his direction. 

This suggestion of Galadriel’s that the Galadhrim should offer their labour in return for some of the products of the farmers’ harvest had eased some of the tension between neighbours, but it had not disposed of the distrust entirely.  Haldir turned his smile to the young elf.  There was no point in stirring up ill-feeling unnecessarily.

‘My amil has food cooking,’ the elleth told him.  ‘When this last field is finished and the hay in the barn, we will eat.’  She looked up at the darkening sky.  ‘We might have to crowd into the root shed,’ she said, ‘but Atar and my uncles will be very glad to get this abundance safely under cover – a good hay harvest can make all the difference to a farmer.’  She smiled broadly at the tall elf.  ‘My amil is a good cook,’ she said.  ‘My brothers caught fish and rabbits and the garden has offered up the first crops of the season.  It will be a banquet!’

‘I look forward to it,’ he said easily.  ‘Hard work makes you hungry.’

She smiled and glanced over her shoulder at her admirer.  ‘There will be music,’ she said, ‘and singing – but we tend not to dance all night after the haying.  There is too much to do in the morning.  We save that for the autumn, when the harvest is gathered in and the land is preparing to rest.’

‘We, too, like to feast in the autumn,’ he admitted, ‘in appreciation of the forest’s generosity.  There is something very satisfying about knowing that the stores are full and we need not dread winter’s lean days. Although we also enjoy celebrating the winter solstice, too – and the summer – and the spring would not be complete without a festival to rejoice in the return of green and growing things.’

‘Harma!  Water over here, please.  We are all thirsty.’  One of the older farmers summoned the elleth and she bobbed her head at Haldir before scurrying off with her heavy burden.  The elf looked coolly at the Galadhel – they were not, it seemed, at each other’s throats, but daughters were still off-limits.   It was just as well that he had no real interest in these maidens of the Noldor – the elf’s suspicions were all in his own imagination.  However, Haldir noted, he should bear in mind that it might be as well to ensure that those who worked with these farmers were, by and large, already wed.  Or, he mused, at the very least, that the small parties consisted of ellyn who had their eye on the elleth they wished to court.  There was no point in working up needless ill-feeling.

Haldir smiled blandly at the elf and returned to his task.  If this was the last field, then the sooner it was finished, the sooner he could return to the forest.  A month or so beyond the reach of anyone who wished to demand his attention or set him some uncongenial task would suit him down to the ground – and, with the Lady absent from her usual haunts, he might even get it.  If he was lucky.

***

‘She does not look much like a Noldo.’ 

‘She is, though.  Undoubtedly.  A copper-haired Noldo with connections that would drive Thranduil wild.’

Nathroniel smiled.  ‘I would not say copper,’ she considered.  ‘The colour of a hazelnut shell, perhaps.  Or a winter beech.’

‘It is in the terminology, you think?’  Galadriel considered.  ‘Yet hiding behind words something that is in plain sight only hands a weapon to those who would be most likely to use it.’

‘H’mm.’  Nathroniel pushed a wisp of dark hair from her face as they continued their stroll along the cliff-top path.  ‘Some would oppose any choice the ellon made – short of it being their own daughter – so we need not consider them.  There are those who would accept political necessity.  He would be sacrificing himself for the good of his people.’

‘That will not work.’  Galadriel smiled slightly.  ‘She has connections, but her family is not important enough to make this an alliance between kindreds.  And being a pawn in a political game would not make Elerrina welcome.’  She glanced at her companion.  ‘Your word bears great weight among the Silvan folk,’ she said.  ‘If you were seen to take her to your heart…’

‘She would need to learn our ways – and be seen to embrace them,’ Nathroniel mused.  ‘Become, perhaps, more of a Wood Elf than one born among us.’

‘Although that can turn both sides against you.’ 

‘Do I hear the sound of experience talking there?’ Nathroniel said lightly.  ‘If there was anyone I would think well able to walk such a ropeway…’ She let her voice trail away.

‘And, of course, I grew up with an understanding of the difficulty – in a way,’ Galadriel pointed out.  ‘My own naneth – and my adar’s – both left the kindred into which they were born when they chose to marry.’

Nathroniel inclined her head.  ‘There are few situations that have not been faced before – somewhere, at least.  It does not necessarily make it any easier if you are at its centre.’

‘Anyway, this is all rather premature.’ Galadriel’s smile widened.  ‘We can hardly appear to be educating the elleth to be a suitable match for a Wood Elf prince when he has not spoken.’

‘Please!’ Nathroniel looked pained.  ‘However blinkered ellyn might be, there is not an elleth among us who cannot see that he is sick with longing – it can only be a matter of time.’

‘What is more, I do not think she would be willing to co-operate with us if she thought that that was what we were doing.  She is still struggling to be loyal to her family and put their wishes before her own heart.’

‘She is open to new experience, though.’  Nathroniel was thoughtful.  ‘And practical – the Silvan dislike haughty ladies who are afraid to get their hands dirty.  Our artisans say that she knows her craft well and is clearly skilled.’

‘If there were more artisans among the Silvan, that might make more of an impact.’

Nathroniel nodded slightly in acknowledgement, but did not comment.  The two stopped at the headland and gazed down at the apparent innocence of the hyacinth ocean. 

‘And this matter is the sole reason for your visit, Lady Galadriel?’   

Galadriel smiled, but refused to defend herself from the suggestion of interference.

‘It seems remarkable that Finarfin’s daughter – Melian’s protégée – Celeborn’s wife – should take so much interest in the happiness of a Wood Elf.  If not, perhaps, to infuriate his adar – and impose her choice on his people.’

Galadriel turned to her and seemed to grow, allowing, for once her age and power to shine from her eyes and surround her like a cloak.  ‘You think I am so shallow?’ she asked.

‘Shallow?  You?’  Nathroniel laughed, unimpressed by the display.  ‘You are no more shallow than are the Sundering Seas.  You might be championing this for your own purposes.’

With a long sigh, Galadriel allowed her indignation to fade.  ‘No more purpose than an affection for both of those who are being hurt by this.  And, perhaps, from a memory of Doriath, long ago.’

‘It is almost impossible to keep apart two elves whom the Powers mean to be together.’  Nathroniel smiled wryly.  ‘As you should remember from Doriath, long ago.’  She kept her eyes averted, watching the crawling sea that kept them bound here in the west.  ‘You may do them no favours by appearing to take their side.’

Galadriel waved a hand.  ‘I am here to see old friends,’ she said.  ‘What more natural than that I should bring an attendant?  It is not as if Legolas is even on the island.’  The breeze swirled around them, pulling at their gowns and hair, before leaving them to chase inland.  ‘We will doubtless be gone before he returns.’  She sighed.  ‘It would not be fair on either of them to put them in the position of meeting unexpectedly.  Not as things are.’  She looked at the Silvan elf.  ‘All I want is for Elerrina to be seen as herself rather than as a symbol.’

‘I will ensure,’ Nathroniel said slowly, ‘that she – in your company – meets those who might be helpful, so that some, at least, might be disposed in her favour.  I doubt there is much more that can be done.  In the end, it is up to them.’

A wistful expression shadowed Galadriel’s face as she looked towards the eastern horizon.  ‘It will not be easy for either of them,’ she said.  ‘But it will be worth every difficulty along the way.’

Nathroniel took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.  ‘He will come,’ she insisted.  ‘He might take his time – he was never one to be told – but he will come.’

***

‘Tol Eressëa?’  Finrod’s eyebrows expressed his surprise.  ‘What is she doing on Tol Eressëa?’ 

Camentur refrained from replying.  Interfering, he thought, was probably not the best response to give the High King’s son.  Moreover, a moment’s thought would be enough to inform Finrod of his sister’s motives. 

The dark golden brows raised still further, then Finrod dismissed the thought.  ‘Have you had further approaches?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my lord.’  Camentur found it difficult to conceal his distaste.  ‘There appear to be several who think that my family would be only too happy to behave with impetuous dishonesty.  My atar is furious.’

Finrod tried to conceal his grin.  Taryatur was, more often than not, the cause of his own difficulties – why, after all, would anyone expect him to reject an opportunity to disgrace the Wood Elf prince whom he seemed to hold in such dislike?  It was rather like using a hammer on your own thumb in preference to striking a nail.  ‘And?’ he enquired.

‘I have expressed a wish to hear more,’ Camentur said reluctantly.  ‘Atar would be as disgusted with me as he is with them.’  He looked at Finrod.  ‘It will undoubtedly ruin my friendship with Legolas – and possibly with my wife and sister.’

A mischievous grin brightened Finrod’s face.  ‘You are too honest for politics, my friend,’ he said.  ‘No-one achieves power without being able to play one side off against the other.’

‘I am a bureaucrat, Lord Finrod,’ Camentur pointed out.  ‘Not a politician.’

‘That just means you can be devious for both sides at the same time – and justify it.’

‘I wish I could see how to justify this.’

Finrod looked surprised.  ‘Knowledge, Camentur, knowledge.  There is more than power in knowledge – there is safety, too.  It is better by far to know to what lengths people are prepared to go – to let them play their games just as long as they are harmless, but step in hard before they get out of hand.  At the moment…’ he shrugged, ‘it is just talk – empty noise – but some of the noisemakers have more on their minds.  I want to know who is dangerous and who is not.  Who is behind it – and who is to be trailed before us like a goat for the wolves to scent.’  He looked at his assistant sympathetically.  ‘Your part is small – it just gives us somewhere to start,’ he said.  ‘I doubt your family will ever know – if you would prefer them to remain ignorant of it.’

Camentur’s eyes dropped to the table in front of him.  ‘It is wrong,’ he muttered.  ‘I feel there is something – dirty – in tolerating the machinations of these tricksters.  It seems like encouraging them.’

‘Our duty is to strive constantly for the good of all.’  Finrod spoke seriously.  ‘What we do now offers protection to those who are unaware of what is happening beyond their sight.  Not just Legolas, or you, or me, but all those elves, green and grey, Noldor and Teleri and Vanyar, who are not in a position to defend themselves.  A farmer sets guard dogs for a reason – someone needs to watch the sheep, my friend, to keep the wolves at bay.  Sometimes it takes us where we do not want to go – but we go there anyway.’  The assurance of his voice drew his assistant’s gaze to settle on his face.  Finrod gleamed with sincerity.  ‘There is more to ruling than sitting on a throne, you know.  The envious see that – the fine clothes and the fawning sycophants – but to keep your people safe, you must be prepared to walk the shadows whilst keeping them from contaminating you.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘It is not easy – hard work and unappreciated – but it is necessary.’

And it was that dedication, Camentur thought, more than anything, more even than the demands of Nisimalotë’s atar, that had drawn him to offer his service to this particular grandson of Finwë.  However easy and gentle he seemed on the surface, Finrod Finarfinion was an elf who would knowingly sacrifice himself for a greater good, to fulfil a promise or defend a right.  Honest, true, determined, honourable.

He sighed and accepted the inevitable.  ‘I will do what I must, my lord,’ he said.

***

Legolas leaned against the ridged bark of the stately willow and allowed her to shield him from the ever-present closeness of too many people wandering the gardens of Tirion.  Inside the green canopy he could almost imagine himself at home by the Forest River – or on the banks of the Anduin.  For a moment, anyway, he could just be himself.  He breathed in the damp greenness and focused on the song of the tree in an attempt to exclude the irritatingly happy sound of elves making music together on a warm evening while Anor lingered in the sky as if reluctant to surrender to night.

When would his adar come, he wondered?  Did the Greenwood still hold his heart to the point where he would sacrifice himself to its care and leave his son to dwell among strangers until the world was renewed?  Or would he decide at last to take ship and arrive only to discover what a mess his son was making of this long-drawn-out attempt to navigate his way through the shoals of power? 

He turned and sprang into the branches.  Forget what lichen could do to formal robes – he needed to get away, and, when surrounded by Noldor, there was no better way to do that than to go up.  The tree rustled slightly as if welcoming him and guided him to a comfortable nest among the leaves.  Below him, the buzz of conversation and laughter diminished to a bearable hum and he settled back to watch the gradual appearance of the stars.

A slight clearing of the throat made him reach instinctively for his knives – only to find, of course, that he was unarmed.  Weaponry of any kind – sharper, at least, than the tongue – was decidedly frowned upon at social events organised by the Noldor, and he had long given up carrying anything more deadly than a brooch pin.

Litheredh hid a grin.  ‘I did not mean to make you jump, my lord,’ he said gravely.  ‘I assumed you knew someone was here.’

The glare he received suggested that, if Legolas had been unaware of his presence, he did not intend to admit to it.

‘Of course I knew you were there.’

The Silvan elf confined himself to replying with a slight incline of his head, but his smile widened a little. 

‘What are you doing up here, anyway?’ Legolas asked.  ‘You are supposed to be circulating – and making friends.’

‘That Calissë,’ Litheredh told him succinctly.  ‘She is just too friendly – and far too inquisitive.’

Legolas grinned.  ‘You are too polite to her – she thinks you are charming.’  His smile faded and he rested his head against the tree.  ‘Still, it is good to see that someone is making progress – of a sort.’

An indignant snort made him smile again.  ‘Finding out things that are no business of hers is a game to her – nothing more.  And one that could be dangerous.’  Litheredh hesitated and looked at the weary elf now stretched out along the branch.  ‘You are in danger of wearing yourself out, my lord – you need to take better care of yourself.’

‘You sound like Nathroniel.’  Legolas raised his head and looked at his friend.  ‘She was scolding me when I was last on the Lonely Isle.’  He yawned.  ‘Sometimes I think she still sees me as being very little wiser than I was as an elfling.’

‘Probably,’ Litheredh agreed.  ‘She could always make Aran Thranduil take a step back and hold up his hands – I should doubt she finds you much of a challenge.’

Legolas abandoned the topic and returned his attention to the patch of star-studded blue above them.  At least he could relax in the green elf’s company, secure in the knowledge that the two of them shared the same hopes and worked for the same outcomes.  But Litheredh was closer to the ground, nearer to the roots of the problems that faced his people.  What was a matter of theoretical debate in the counsels of the great was reality to those who lived the traditional forest life.  They suffered, while those who could make changes sat in their elegant chambers and deliberated.  Finrod – well – he took the long view and refused to rush matters, wanting to see what developed, saying – with some justice – that you could not fight phantoms and that not until potential enemies moved against you could you counter them, but still…  Was it really fair to leave in ignorance those who might have to face the schemes of these petty-minded plotters?

He propped himself up on one elbow.  ‘I am told,’ he said carefully, ‘that, while we have managed to disperse much of the doubt felt among the ordinary elves, there is a – a coalescence of animosity among some.  It is not proving easy to pin down who is responsible, but it might be wise to…’  He hesitated, not quite sure where to take his carefully worded advice.

‘I know.’  Litheredh took pity on him.  ‘Some of it is nothing but stupidity – but there are some aspects to the undertones that just – do not feel right.  Lord Finrod is, I think, more aware than most of what is going on.’

‘If, when I am elsewhere, you need to speak to someone you can trust,’ Legolas suggested, ‘Finrod would be a good choice.’

‘And he would, of course, offer someone like me immediate and private access,’ Litheredh murmured.

‘Go to Camentur.’  Legolas smiled.  ‘He might be a little wary of Wood Elves, but he is as straight as a yard of pump water.  He would get you to see Finrod.’

Litheredh glanced at him.  ‘You should go to Tol Eressëa for a while,’ he suggested.  ‘You need a rest from your responsibilities – and that is about as close as you can get to going home.  For the moment, at least.  Go and spend some time in your dwarf-built tower and let Nathroniel nag you.  You will return refreshed and in better condition to deal with those who would oppose you.’

‘Do I look so frail?’  Legolas asked indignantly.

‘Worse, my lord,’ Litheredh said solemnly.  ‘When you are driven to hiding in trees to get away from a certain scowling Noldo, I know things must be bad.’

Legolas looked slightly sheepish.  ‘Thranduil would be unimpressed,’ he admitted.  ‘I suspect he would join Nathroniel in calling such behaviour childish.’

‘Childish, perhaps,’ Litheredh grinned, ‘but understandable, I think.  And I am sure that Aran Thranduil would be accusing you of it from his position in the same tree.’  He laughed.  ‘I know some very old stories…’  He shook his head.  ‘I would be willing to share them with you – if you were interested.’

A spark of interest brightened Legolas’s thin face.  ‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘if you have nothing better to do with the evening, I am sure I could find time to listen.’

Litheredh congratulated himself quietly on making the prince look more like himself.  ‘Remember, though, that these tales are best not repeated,’ he warned.  ‘At least, not in your adar’s hearing.’

The tree rustled in response to the burst of laughter.  ‘He would need very good hearing!’ his son pointed out.

‘As little gets past him as past Lord Finrod,’ Litheredh said, ‘but I will take the chance if you will.’

‘One day,’ Legolas reflected, ‘not too long from now, I hope to see them confront each other – nearly as much as I want to witness King Finarfin’s confrontation with Lord Celeborn.’

The green elf shook his head.  ‘You have too much of a taste for danger, my lord,’ he said.  ‘You do not know when to keep your head down.’

‘Why go down,’ Legolas said contentedly, ‘when you can scale the heights?’

***

Wild music stirred the senses and the stars appeared to join the dance.  Elerrina laughed as she spun in the secure hold of a dark-haired ellon.  This was in no way comparable to the sedate balls enjoyed by the Noldor.  This was heady stuff, emotional, highly-charged, dizzying. 

Ithil gleamed on the wide clearing, cool and silver, warmed by the glow of cooking fires around which elves took time to eat and refill their goblets with sweet mead before returning to the dance.

The ellon released her hand and the next in the chain grasped her to continue the pattern.  She knew him instantly, even before the strong fingers closed round hers, and faltered, missing her step.  They stepped to one side as the exuberant dance continued without them.  The sound of raucous celebration faded into the distance as if nothing existed beyond the pair of them.

Legolas raised his free hand involuntarily and touched her cheek, his fingers trailing back to brush through her hair, his eyes intently fixed on her face.  Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.  He was glad of it – speech would have broken the spell, reminded them both of their duty, brought them back from this magical moonspun moment to the real world.

His touch made her light-headed.  It was almost as if she was walking in dreams, where the impossible became as natural as a sun-filled day.  She stepped forward with an unselfconsciousness she would never have dared at any other time, so that nothing divided them but a couple of layers of fine-woven cloth and a breath of air.

She mirrored his gesture and her fingertips brushed his mouth, feather-light, curious, as if she had yearned to do this for so long that her actions were quite involuntary.  His lips curled in a smile beneath her touch.  So delicate an intimacy and yet it made him burn.  Burn to the point where reason and reserve and the demands of political good sense vaporised.  He brought his mouth to hers and, holding her to him as if he could never bear to let her go, he kissed her.

The dancing elves encircled them as they clung together, so deeply lost in their capitulation to the call of their fëar that they were entirely unaware of the wild enthusiasm of the revellers and their giddy approval.

‘I cannot be happy without you,’ Legolas murmured distractedly as they paused momentarily for breath, only for Elerrina to tangle her fingers in his hair and pull him closer to resume their kissing.  This was not wise, he knew, but just at the moment, he did not care.  He had longed for this, believed it to be unattainable, resigned himself to duty – and he was not going to reject this delight merely because it was tantamount to declaring himself before the eyes of his people.

He knew the moment she recovered awareness of the world beyond them.

Elerrina groaned and buried her face in Legolas’s shoulder.  ‘What have we done?’ she asked.  ‘Please tell me we are not in the middle of a glade full of over-exhilarated Wood Elves.’

‘I cannot.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘Do you mind?’

‘Creating a scandal that will be talked of for centuries to come?  Of course not,’ she declared.  ‘I have always longed to be a public disgrace.’

He laughed lightly.  Somehow, the reaction of those watching them seemed unimportant – at least while she was still in his arms.  ‘I wish to make you my wife, Elerrina,’ he said.  ‘Will you allow me to court you?’

‘I cannot,’ she moaned.  ‘You cannot.  No matter what we feel, this is impossible.’

‘If it were not impossible,’ he asked softly, ‘would you consent?’

She leaned back and studied his face before pressing her lips to his in a heartfelt impulse.  ‘In a moment,’ she said, calm certainty in her voice.

‘Then,’ he said, unaware that the pair of them glowed with a clear light that spoke volumes to those observing them, ‘there is nothing for it.  We must make possible the impossible.’ 

Reaching

She was no longer alone.  Not bound, thank the Valar.  Not one with the Wood Elf – but he was in her and with her and his presence gave her a solidity and assurance that had eroded so gradually that he had not even realised how changed she had become.  He should, he supposed, be grateful.  Should be. 

Taryatur glared at the Wood Elf – a scorching glare that should have had him flinching – but the fair-haired product of a corrupt realm endured it without apparent distress.  He, too, the Noldo realised, shone with a new confidence.

‘Atar,’ Elerrina said coaxingly.  She threw a despairing glance towards her amil as Taryatur ignored her, but Linevendë shook her head in resignation.  The elleth turned her attention back to the angry elf.  ‘Atar,’ she said again.  ‘It is not as if we meant it to happen as it did.  You cannot blame Legolas.’

He moved just enough to include her in his line of vision.  ‘Can I not?’ he asked, his tone making perfectly plain that he could and would.

‘We have tried, Atar.’  Elerrina’s voice shook so imperceptibly that only those tuned to her happiness would have heard it.  Linevendë shifted as if to come to her support, but, before she could move, Legolas closed his hand around her daughter’s.  Taryatur stared at them forbiddingly.  ‘We have tried for so long – but it was no good.  We were only pretending to be as we were.’

‘You know what that is like, my love.’  Linevendë spoke so softly and intimately that Elerrina barely registered her voice.  The elleth’s eyes focused on her atar’s face pleadingly, asking for an understanding he did not wish to offer. 

Taryatur closed his eyes.  He wanted to be angry.  He wanted to explode and send the opportunist away with a flea in his ear – to forbid him ever to come anywhere near his family – his daughter – again. To make things as they once were.  He wanted to – but his wife’s warning held him.  They would lose her if they forced her to choose.  And, in the end, it was more important for them to retain Elerrina’s love and trust than to have the brief satisfaction of giving the Wood Elf a piece of his mind.

‘Child,’ he said, and a wealth of love and shared memory rang in the single word, ‘you do not make things easy on yourself.’

Elerrina dropped Legolas’s hand and stepped into her atar’s arms, resting her head on his shoulder and holding him so tightly that it was a moment or two before he realised that she was weeping.  He brought one hand up to stroke her bright hair and rubbed his cheek against the top of her head soothingly.  ‘For someone who has just made a choice that should bring her great joy, my daughter,’ he said gently, ‘you do not seem very happy.’  He regarded Legolas intently, much an elf might watch a snake, tolerating its presence but not trusting its intent.

‘I want you to be happy for me,’ Elerrina told him.

‘That might be asking a little too much – just at the moment,’ Taryatur admitted.  ‘I am sure that I will come to be happy for you – as your chosen one proves to me that he is deserving of his good fortune.’

Legolas remained straight-faced, but Taryatur suspected he was holding back a rather sardonic laugh – in the full understanding that the Sundering Seas might freeze over before his beloved’s atar was willing to see him as anything more than a usurper of Elerrina’s affections.  There was, after all, no reason why he should expect to receive anything more than a suspicious tolerance – and that only as long as he made Elerrina as happy as a queen. 

‘But however much I want to see you full of joy,’ Taryatur said – and he was surprisingly reluctant to be the one to bring some reality to the situation, ‘I cannot consent to a betrothal.  Not yet.’

Elerrina raised her head to gaze at him indignantly. 

Her atar put a gentle finger to her lips.  ‘This is not just family to family, child,’ he said.  ‘Although, even then, I would want you to spend longer learning about each other before you committed yourselves.’  He looked at her gravely until she gave a slight nod.  ‘But it is more than that – Legolas has no kin here to advise him and to whom he can go for consent, so he will just have to listen to my words.’  Taryatur turned towards the Wood Elf.  ‘You are more than an individual,’ he said.  ‘You are your atar’s representative and the voice of your people – you cannot put yourself before their needs.  They will not accept your choice of bride.’

His words were clearly no surprise to either of them.

‘Some will,’ Legolas told him.  ‘But you are right – there are many who will not.  And we have already agreed that we cannot move in this to please ourselves.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘It will doubtless gratify you that it is likely to be a long time before this can be resolved as it should be.  But I do ask,’ he said, holding the older elf’s eyes resolutely, ‘that you give your consent to my courting your daughter – in the full knowledge that I wish to make her my wife.’

Taryatur could feel his daughter in his arms and sense his wife holding her breath beyond him, but his attention was focused on the fair-haired elf in front of him.  He wished he had the power to change events, to turn back time, to make things turn out differently – but he could not.   His tongue felt stiff in his mouth, as if reluctant to shape the words he had to say, but it was no good.  He had to speak – and his wife and daughter expected him to do the right thing.  Whatever he wanted, in this he had no choice.   ‘I do so consent.’

***

It was, for once, a relief to leave the forest and surround himself with the walls and gardens of Tirion.  Although he had no doubt that the Noldor were as scandalised by the matter as anyone, at least none among them were likely to demand his opinion on the matter.  Litheredh sat back, turning the stem of his pewter goblet between his fingers.  It had not been an easy time.  News of the – he smiled wryly to himself – the Tol Eressëa Incident had spread like wildfire and damping it down had proved harder work than defeating an army of orcs.  Even now, he was sure, resentment was doubtless seething somewhere, ready to break out in a fresh patch of flames that would require dousing with a little common sense.

There were times when he was inclined to agree that the Silvan folk were their own worst enemies.

It had taken his wife’s clear eye to make him see that it was not so much the elleth herself, nor even her ancestry, as the fear that treating with the Noldor had eroded their prince’s nature and lessened his bond with the roots of the forest to make him one of them.  He had scoffed, but the more he thought about it…

To get what they needed, it had seemed wisest to play the game of politics from the seat of power – but to do that, you had to be part of the establishment.  Then, once you were on the inside…  Litheredh took a sip of the deep red wine.  Had the prince lost his connection with his people?  Did the games of lords and princes now matter more to him than the people who looked up to him as his adar’s son?

He shook his head imperceptibly.  He did not believe it.  Legolas was the same elf he had ever been.  His adar’s straightforward honesty, softened by his naneth’s tact.  He was, of course, a prince – at home among the great, but he was one lacking in the arrogance to make him believe that that was all that mattered.  He had spent too many centuries serving in the blood-soaked mud of a protracted war to lose his grasp on reality so easily.

‘Another?’ The innkeeper slid a tray across the table in front of him.  A jug of wine, with a second goblet and a plate of rather exotic-looking finger food.

‘I did not order any of that.’  Litheredh kept his voice expressionless.

The innkeeper shrugged.  ‘I have to refresh myself some time,’ he said philosophically.  ‘And the other tables are busy.  Perhaps you would like to try a few – I have brought more than I need.’

Litheredh raised an eyebrow.  If he was not mistaken, there were free tables in plenty – and the elf had never before shown any desire to take a rest during the middle of the day.  Curiosity stirred, diverting his attention from his brooding.  ‘You are more than welcome to share my table,’ he said.

The innkeeper nodded – and kept nodding, as if the movement removed the need to explain what brought him.  He raised the jug and offered it.  Litheredh held his goblet out and allowed it to be refilled. 

‘Try one of these,’ the innkeeper suggested, indicating an innocuous-looking strip of some red fruit on the plate before him.

Litheredh looked suspiciously at the offering, but picked it up and took a cautious bite.  ‘Valar!’  The exclamation was forced from him as the chunk bit back.  He grabbed his goblet and gulped down a large mouthful.  ‘What is that?’

‘Some things are like that,’ the innkeeper observed, his eyes on those passing the tables.   ‘They look familiar and harmless, but…’  He let his voice trail away.  ‘While other things…’  He pointed at a pink, curled, worm-like object and Litheredh obediently took one.  ‘They are strange to us – but sweet and wholesome.’  He stared at the Wood Elf hopefully, as if willing him to understand.

Litheredh frowned. 

The innkeeper sighed.  ‘I must get back to work,’ he said.  He leant close enough to point at some juicy-looking green strips.  ‘You might want to be careful with those, too.  Not quite what they seem.’

‘Thank you.’  The Silvan elf’s gaze was impassive.  There was no point attempting here and now to extract more than hints – he could return at some time when there were fewer eyes on them – but, if he was reading the message right, he needed to look among his own people rather than seek enemies among the Noldor.  Something, he had to admit, that had never occurred to him.  Why, after all, would a Wood Elf want to make difficulties for his own people?  Perhaps, he thought, he was as guilty of making assumptions as anyone – and he needed to open his mind to a wider range of possibilities.

As the innkeeper disappeared through the doorway, Litheredh picked up one of the green strips and tested it carefully.  It was, as he had suspected, just as spitefully fiery as the other.  Not what it seemed at all.  Unfortunately, he could hardly go to Legolas or anyone else with no more than a piece of – he inspected the plate in front of him – deceptive vegetable as evidence for suspicions.  He would need to find something more.

***

Camentur settled quietly beside the blond elf.

A guarded glance was the only reaction.  Legolas continued to twiddle a smooth hazel twig, weaving it expertly between his fingers.

‘You are not unwelcome to all Elerrina’s kin.’  Camentur did not look at the Wood Elf.  ‘There are some – many, possibly – who are willing to be happy for you both.’

‘You are among them?’  Legolas’s voice showed a strain to which he refused to admit in front of Taryatur.

‘My wife would certainly institute a ruthless – er – kin-shunning if I were to suggest anything else.’  Camentur grinned.  ‘She has decided in your favour.’

‘And you accept her wisdom?’

‘Trust me,’ Elerrina’s brother said, ‘a sensible elf always accepts his wife’s wisdom.  It might be worth bearing that in mind for the future.’

‘The very far distant future,’ Legolas remarked.

‘Time will pass quickly enough.’ Camentur looked sideways.  ‘At least Atar has consented to your courtship, so you will be – er – welcomed to his house.’

An involuntary grin brightened Legolas’s face.  ‘Welcomed might be a bit of an exaggeration,’ he said.

‘And Elerrina is happy.’

‘She seems to have spent quite a lot of the little time we have been able to spend together in tears.’

‘I have never understood why ellyth weep when they are joyful.’

‘Do they?’  Legolas rubbed a finger over the bridge of his nose.  ‘It seems to me a bizarre way to react.  I was rather afraid that she was regretting the impulse that led her to yield to emotions she has resisted so doggedly.’

‘Are you regretting it?’

‘No!’  Legolas’s response was immediate and heartfelt.  ‘No,’ he repeated more quietly.  ‘Not for a minute.’

‘It is a shame,’ Camentur sighed, ‘that it was not just the two of you and a vast forest all to yourselves – where you could enjoy the moment.  I will bet it was not long before the world crashed back in on your … your brief idyll.’

‘It was probably not the wisest place to choose to make such a definite statement.’ Legolas could not help the rueful amusement.  ‘Half the Wood Elves of Tol Eressëa looking on – and they would have had to be far more drunk than they were to mistake my intent.  I do not believe your sister stopped blushing for the remainder of her visit.’ 

Camentur grinned.  ‘My little sister has always turned her nose up a little at those who behave … unconventionally.  It is poetic justice that she would pick a moment like this to let the reins loose!  And I, for one, will never let her forget it!’ 

Eyes narrowed, Legolas stared at the Noldo intimidatingly, but his friend’s smile only widened.  Camentur shook his head.  ‘You cannot scare me,’ he declared.  ‘Elerrina has been my sister for a great many more years than she has been your – er – heart’s desire.  You can try to shield her from the rest of the world, but I demand my right to torment her.’ 

‘I have never had a sister,’ Legolas admitted, ‘but I warn you – if you upset her…’

‘If I upset her,’ her brother said dryly, ‘I can expect to find my boots full of slugs and ground pepper in my tooth powder.  You might not wish to believe this, but Elerrina can be dangerous to cross!’

Legolas smiled again as a vision of Elerrina filled his mind.

‘You need to get past this mindless stage pretty quickly.’  Camentur watched him cynically.  ‘Or your political opponents will simply need to mention her name to distract you from whatever trick they are trying to pull.’

The long fingers stilled, and Legolas inspected them as if he had not seen them before.  ‘I wish I could see my way through to the end of this.’  He sighed.  ‘No matter how patiently we wait, we are not going to win many friends.’

‘Perhaps, when your atar comes…’

An expression of doubt shadowed Legolas’s face.  The likelihood of his adar’s arrival – something for which he had yearned over centuries now – improving his situation was, he rather thought, slight.  Quite the contrary, really.  ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

***

Legolas collected a small amount of the molten glass on the end of the pipe and rolled it against the metal plate as Elerrina had shown him.

‘Be careful as you blow,’ she warned.  ‘To get the bubble to the size you want, you can reheat the glass again and again, then roll it to control the shape – before using the shears to cut it free.’

He attempted to follow her instructions, but was left gazing at a misshapen blob that bore no resemblance to … anything much.  It would clearly be an advantage to him in this to have at least one extra pair of arms – and an additional head might be useful.

A swift grin crossed the elf’s flushed face.  ‘I have no talent for this,’ he said.  ‘But, as I fail so abysmally to make anything worth the effort, I am ever more impressed by your skill.’

Elerrina returned his smile.  ‘You are doing better than I expected,’ she claimed.

‘But only because you expected me to be a total incompetent with tools of any kind.’  He inspected the cooling glass.  ‘Do you mind if I abandon this?’ he asked, depositing it in a bucket of sand at his feet.  ‘I promise to sit back and admire whatever you make with a better appreciation of the skill that went into creating it.’  He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched like a cat.  ‘You would have been right, too – until Gimli took me in hand.  He found it appalling that I depended on the services of smiths I did not know to repair my weapons – and appeared to think that I had failed to pass some initiation into adulthood.  I tried to explain it was a cultural difference between Wood Elves and others, but he refused to listen.’

‘And so you let him harangue you into learning something alien to you,’ Elerrina said softly.

Legolas’s smile was softly reminiscent.  ‘Oh well…’  He watched the elleth tidy away the evidence of his inexpert attempts at glass-making.  ‘He was right in a way – you often cannot stop in the middle of a campaign to seek out a blacksmith.  And you need to be able to trust to your weapons – a smith accustomed to fitting horseshoes and repairing ploughs is not best suited to working on tools you rely on to keep you alive.’

Elerrina stilled, then straightened up slowly to examine his face.  He seemed different suddenly, lost in a past that she did not understand.  Was this what her atar had meant?  But surely – short of wedding one you had known from birth, one who had shared every experience – everyone had to learn about the one intended to be her bonded lover?

‘Do you miss it?’ she said.

His eyes focused on her guarded face.  ‘The campaigning? No,’ he conceded.  ‘The friends – and places of my youth and adulthood?  I will always miss them.’  He reached out to touch her arm gently and slid his hand down to hold her little finger.  ‘The great beech by the Forest River – my adar’s Stronghold – the voices of Lasgalen’s trees – Ithilien – the sight of Anor setting from Henneth Annûn – the grass singing across the plains of Rohan, the ancient forest of Fangorn. Even Gimli’s caves. I shall never see them again.  The elves from whom the sea divides me, those who have passed into Námo’s care – I can hope to be reunited with them – but other friends … their absence will leave a hole in my heart until the end of days.’

Elerrina raised her hand to touch his cheek.

He smiled.  ‘But there are compensations,’ he said softly.  ‘New friends – a life in a world that has not seen shadow since before Anor rose.  You.’

It was as if a blanket cocooned them, shutting them off from their surroundings and dimming their awareness of anything except each other.  They scarcely moved, scarcely touched each other – it was unnecessary.  The simple presence of the other warmed as it wove them more deeply together.  Legolas lowered his head slowly to touch his lips to Elerrina’s, half afraid to shatter the mood.  She returned the gentle caress gravely before tangling her fingers in his hair and drawing him closer.

‘I will not break,’ she murmured, as their kiss deepened and they lost themselves in each other, flickers of flame warming them and burning away the barriers between them until, reluctantly, they separated, impelled by their compelling need to breathe. 

‘I might,’ he told her, with a half-laugh.  ‘I am under a great deal of strain!  I am not sure how long I can endure the … the limitations put upon us.’

Elerrina placed a final kiss at the corner of Legolas’s mouth and drew back with a sigh.  ‘Perhaps we should try to avoid being alone,’ she suggested.  ‘Chaperoned, we would have to conduct ourselves with greater reserve.’

‘I would rather struggle with my desire to kiss you senseless,’ he admitted, ‘while having you to myself.’  He linked his fingers with hers and ran his thumb over the pads of hard skin, finding himself strangely touched by this evidence that she was more than an adornment of Finarfin’s court. 

A blush coloured Elerrina’s face.  ‘I, too,’ she confessed.  ‘But neither would I wish to let my parents down.  Atar has not yet consented to a betrothal.’

And he would do everything he could to avoid permitting it, Legolas thought, for all his apparent – and unexpected – reasonableness.  He sighed and released the resentment.  As would his own adar, he reminded himself.   ‘Then let us take a walk,’ he suggested.  ‘In full view of anyone who cares to watch – we will simply walk together and talk.’

Elerrina smiled at him.  ‘Atar wants us to understand each other,’ she said.  ‘Talking would be a good thing to do.’

He raised her hand and turned it over to kiss her palm.  ‘Then that is what we will do,’ he declared.  ‘Walk with me, my lady.’

***

Give a group of ellyn a ball and an open space, Galadriel thought with amusement, and they were like a litter of puppies.  It seemed not to matter how old they were – or how sensible – they were unable to resist the urge to compete.  In fact, if she was not much mistaken, her atar, the wise and stately High King of the Noldor, was itching to join in.

Eärwen bent her head to murmur in her husband’s ear, causing him to lean his head back and share with her a smile of such intimate affection that Galadriel had to look away.  She was glad that her parents had each other: she was.  She had feared, when Finarfin resolved to return from the march and seek the Valar’s pardon, that he might receive that, but would never obtain her amil’s forgiveness for the actions of the Noldor in Alqualondë.  Not until she met Finarfin at the head of the Valar’s host had that concern been eased – and, when she had arrived on the white shore to see her parents together, their love for each other had helped comfort her and give her hope that she would be able to endure the uncertain wait until her husband chose to sail.

Her daughter’s hand rested on hers.  ‘Poor Elrond,’ Celebrían said gleefully.  ‘He has no wish to take part in my uncles’ games – but is far too courteous to tell them so.’

‘Should we rescue him, do you think?’ 

Celebrían grinned wickedly – her adar’s smile – and shook her head.  ‘Not yet,’ she said.  ‘It will do him good to play.  We can save him if they start getting too boisterous.’

‘You under-estimate him, my daughter.’  Galadriel placed her other hand on top of Celebrían’s.  ‘Elrond keeps his playful side under firm control – but your sons inherited their trouble-making characteristics fairly from both parents!’ 

‘Naneth!’ Celebrían protested, widening her eyes in apparent innocence. 

Galadriel laughed.  ‘And you know it, child.’

Elrond leapt and snatched the ball out of the air, buzzing it back towards Angrod, who grabbed it and hurled it straight into Orodreth’s face.  ‘Unfair!’ he protested, picking it up and lobbing it high into the sun.  Aegnor narrowed his eyes against the light, focusing on the small black pellet dropping towards him and catching it easily before spinning it back towards his oldest brother.

‘It is good to see Elrond happy,’ Celebrían said softly.  ‘I thought, at one time, that he would not be able to forgive himself for events that were no fault of his – my poor love bears the weight of the world on his shoulders.’ 

Galadriel watched her son-in-law, her eyes compassionate.  ‘He is a more than worthy heir to all the lines that went into producing him,’ she said, ‘and touched with more greatness than any other elf born to Ennor since Anor rose – but his first wounds came to him when he was too young and cut too deep.  He has always taken too much responsibility on himself.’  She shifted her gaze onto her daughter.  ‘You were good for him – you and your children.’ 

‘And it will not be long, I feel, until Adar and our sons come to bring our family back together – as much as will be possible before Arda’s end.’   

‘Elrond will grieve again for Arwen’s absence – and for the grandchildren he will never know.’

‘We both will.’  For a brief moment, a much older, more sombre elleth looked out of Celebrían’s eyes, before she pushed back the shadows and grinned mischievously at her naneth.  ‘I cannot wait to see how Andatar reacts when Adar shows his face at last.  I think he has been planning this meeting since the end of the War of Wrath.’

‘I think your adar will hold his own,’ Galadriel mused.  ‘Atar might be surprised.’

‘I am, I confess, a little worried about Thranduil’s arrival.’  Celebrían propped herself up on one elbow.  ‘If he found it difficult to tolerate you as his cousin’s wife, I dread to think how he will react to the idea of Elerrina as a daughter.’

Galadriel shrugged.  ‘He might surprise you.  He is good at throwing expectations out of kilter.’

Her daughter laughed.  ‘You make it sound as if you like him!’ she said.

‘I respect him,’ Galadriel told her.  ‘He is certainly worthy of my esteem.  He held the Greenwood for an age against a horde of enemies and refused to give in.  And I do not dislike him – but it is hard to have much affection for someone who goes out of his way to be insulting at the least provocation.’

‘Yet you think he might disconcert everyone by accepting a Noldo as his son’s wife?’

‘He is a loving adar,’ her naneth said.  ‘He would go far before he would alienate his son – and he accepts Legolas’s judgment.’  She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms round them.  ‘I would not attempt to guess his reaction in advance – but I would not necessarily assume it to be negative.’  She smiled slowly.  ‘And I would not put it past him to make a point of surprising all those who are giving Legolas such a difficult time.’

***

Haldir did his best to blend in with the leaves, encouraging the tree to disregard his presence.  The small group of elves had built up a fire on the rocks beside the stream and the older elleth had efficiently prepared fillets of fish and skewered them on green sticks to cook, before turning her attention to the roots collected by the youngest of her companions.  Wood Elves, clearly, Haldir thought, but no-one he recognised – and not intending to stay.  He ran an experienced eye over the large packs placed to one side of the open space.  Nobody felt the need to seek anything from them – all the gear they were using had been to hand, and the elves had organised themselves with the absolute minimum of discussion, like warriors on a long patrol.  They were armed, too – and with more than a bow for hunting and a long knife or two.  Yet their blades were wrapped and strapped on their packs – clearly honoured as relics of another time, but not in use.  That, more than anything, told him that this party was more than a group from some nearby village taking pleasure in wandering through a bright summer of plenty.  They had something else in mind.

He had been trailing them for some days now – keeping sufficient distance not to be noticed, but remaining close enough to observe – and there appeared to be some direction to the group’s progress.

West.

Not consistently – they seemed to have a desire to remain unseen, and would give a wide berth to any area where the trees spoke of elves.  They would, too, veer northwards if there appeared to be anything in their way; a steep drop to a trickling stream, a thickly-clustered hillside of brambles, a spire of rock rising from the forest floor – but the general trend of their journey drew them ever further into the mountains, heading towards the spot where Anor disappeared at the evening’s end, until now they were reaching the eastern margins of the dense woodland, where green fingers reached into the gaps between the peaks.

Yet, despite their caution and despite their wish to remain unnoticed, they did not seem to have observed him as he followed them.  And that, in itself, was suspicious.  Wood Elves who carried weapons were, almost by definition, warriors – and for warriors to fail to perceive a possible enemy was a short cut to an early death. 

Either they knew he was here and did not care – or they were unaware of his presence.  And, in either case, the main question he was asking himself was why. 

The smell of the cooking fish made his mouth water.  His desire to remain hidden had left him with nothing more to eat than the trail food he had packed for emergencies and there was no way that could be compared to the pleasure of eating the forest’s seasonal bounty.  He tightened his stomach.  He had gone far longer than this without eating, he scolded himself.  It would do him no harm to watch and wait a while longer. 

The forest’s song muted and changed as day turned into night and the garden of stars flowered above the canopy.  Bats flew, their high-pitched cries acting to seek out the fat-bodied moths.  The whisper of an owl’s soft feathers quieted the smaller creatures as the silent hunter passed over, only for them to resume their search for food as soon as she had departed.

The group of travellers allowed their fire to die down until even the embers had faded and they settled to sleep in a silence that suggested despair or exhaustion – or perhaps some bewilderment.  Haldir frowned.  He had journeyed with warriors heading into battle, with parties of injured seeking safety, on trips to see kin, to escort his lord in formal splendour, to seek the ship to bear them all west – even, at times, for the sheer joy of seeing more of the world than his own small corner.  Yet, never had he travelled as if he was walking in his sleep.  Never had he marched without the song of the world around him ringing in his bones and harmonising with the music of his fëa.

Three families, he thought.  Or, perhaps, parents and two grown children, with partners of their own.  Four youngsters – too old to be called elflings, in their own minds at least, but too young to have struck out on their own. 

He looked up at the crescent that was all Ithil deigned to show in the sky and wondered briefly what it would be like to sail above the world, watching all that went on below, yet unable to influence it.  Not for him.  He preferred to keep his feet on the ground – and his heart in the forest.

Dawn came early – and with it the travellers rose and took up their packs again, breaking their fast quickly on cold fish and camp bread, before refilling their water skins and moving with certainty to follow a narrow gully where the trees petered out to leave nothing but a few scrubby bushes and bare rock.

Haldir watched with frustration.  Without trees to conceal him, he would have to wait until his targets were beyond his sight and trust to his skill to keep as close as he could.  It would not be difficult – not unless the gully opened out to offer a dozen different paths – but he wanted to watch the people rather than their path.

He climbed.  He reminded himself every few minutes that he was burdened by no more than a change of clothes and enough food to eke out his hunting – he hated to think what it must be like to clamber over these rocks with half his household on his back.  At the same time, he was grateful that his quarry was so burdened, for, without that, he suspected that no displaced rocks or occasional footprints would have remained to guide him.

The wind gusted teasingly about him, pulling at his hair and finding its way beneath his clothes.  He was grateful for it.  Although it dried his mouth, it also cooled the sweat trickling down his back and unstuck his hair from the back of his neck.  It also saved him when, too absorbed in the effort of reaching the top of one stretch of path, he came close to walking into the middle of the group he had been avoiding so carefully.

‘We are nearly there.’

The breeze carried the words to him and Haldir stopped abruptly, raising his eyes from the uneven rocks to check that the words were not meant for him. 

‘It sings.’  The light voice of one of the younger ellyn marvelled.

Haldir looked up.  A wide ledge led up above the path.  If he were to follow that, he might be able to see them without being seen.  He moved cautiously, as if scouting the movements of a large orc patrol – but these elves seemed oblivious to him and, he reminded himself, were unlikely to worry if he stood up and simply asked them where they were going.

A sob almost halted him.  ‘Beautiful,’ a female voice choked. ‘Beautiful – I cannot believe it.  So many centuries we have been seeking our home … and it has been here all the time.’

Two of the younger elves started to move, slowly at first and then, as if pushed by the weight of their packs, their pace increased until they were almost running down the steep slope that led to the far side of the mountains.

‘Wait!’ the oldest elf called commandingly.  ‘We must go together.’

‘Hurry, Daeradar.’  One of the advance party turned, an excited grin on her face.  ‘There is nothing to hold us back now!’ 

As Haldir watched, unable to follow further and remain unseen, the group descended the open hillside towards the line of dark pines stretching up to welcome them.  He blinked as a soft shimmer appeared to surround them, like mist on a summer morning, hazy and fading quickly into the brightness of the sun, and, when he looked again, they had gone.

***

It was surprising, Legolas thought, how easy it was to shrug on his adar’s mantle of authority – if it seemed necessary.  He had wondered, as a youth, if anyone would ever consider him a true scion of his daeradar’s house, but he almost felt himself growing in stature as he faced down the recklessly stupid elves who dared sneer at his taste in ellyth – as if he had chosen deliberately to affront them, without any thought for his heritage.

It was surprisingly satisfying to watch the fools cringe and struggle to find some way of convincing him that they had not really meant what he thought they had meant – whilst knowing full well that their loose tongues had probably cost them any hope of achieving the position they thought they deserved. 

He had dismissed them in the end – with a hauteur that would have silenced Thranduil’s most obstructive councillors.

‘I am reminded of the old saying about oaks and their acorns,’ Litheredh made little attempt to conceal his grin.  ‘They did not expect to see Oropher break out of his grandson’s reasonable shell.’

‘Was my response excessive?’  A momentary qualm shook Legolas’s confidence.

‘Not at all,’ his friend replied promptly.  ‘I would say that, if anything, you are often too willing to see the other person’s point of view – it has led the nit-witted to think that you can be pushed into doing as they wish.’  He smiled appreciatively.  ‘You may, as an elfling, occasionally have thought that your adar was rather high-handed, but it strikes me that the longer a leader has to listen to fools, the less tolerant he will become.’

‘Adar used to say,’ Legolas said thoughtfully, ‘that to rule is to serve – and I am sure that he meant it, but …’

‘He did not mean that a ruler had to do as he was told!’ Litheredh concluded.  He grinned.  ‘Can you imagine it?  Aran Thranduil complying with the instructions of a group of opinionated bigots and running himself ragged to carry out their demands!’

‘Sometimes it proves necessary to follow a course of action with which you do not necessarily agree fully,’ Legolas mused, ‘because it is the best option available.  But I feel that it is wrong to do something with which you definitely disagree, just because others think you should.’  He drew a deep breath.  ‘I am sure there are many who are just as angry about the situation – but did they really think I would change my mind just because they invoked my adar’s name?  Or that I would take kindly to their insults just because they hid them under a blanket of concern?  It seems to me that the Noldor are being a great deal more reasonable than the Silvan!’

Litheredh pursed his lips.  ‘You cannot say that,’ he objected.  ‘It matters less to the Noldor.  Who you wed is of great significance to the elves of Lasgalen – you must expect them to watch and gossip and wonder if a Noldo could possibly fill your naneth’s role.’

Legolas winced.  ‘I wonder if Elerrina realises quite what to expect,’ he said.

‘If she does not, I am sure someone will soon tell her.’  Litheredh hesitated.  ‘It might be better coming from someone who is on her side.  Lady Galadriel, perhaps.  Or Nathroniel.’

‘I should talk to her myself.’

‘You should, of course.’  Litheredh rubbed his nose.  ‘But I doubt you have much idea what is involved in running your adar’s household.  And you would not want to frighten her off.’

‘I wonder if Nathroniel and Idhren would be willing to come to Tirion,’ Legolas considered.  ‘I cannot see Taryatur being very willing to allow Elerrina to visit the Isle.  And Nathroniel would have a better understanding than Lady Galadriel of what she would need to know.’

‘While Lady Galadriel would undoubtedly be in a better position to exact co-operation from Elerrina’s parents.’

‘True enough.’  Legolas ran a hand over his hair.  ‘Perhaps both of them would be prepared to help.’  He sighed.  ‘There is so much more to consider than simply loving her.  So much more to ask of her.’

Litheredh tilted his head to one side.  ‘Do you think she is not up to the task?’

The heir of the House of Oropher surged to the surface again before Legolas realised that his friend’s question was aimed at him rather than his beloved.  He paused briefly to subdue the dragon he had not realised lurked within him.  ‘She can do it,’ he said with certainty.  ‘And, for some reason I fail to fathom, she is willing to do whatever it takes.’ 

‘Then that is all right,’ Litheredh said comfortably. 

Legolas relaxed.  It was still not going to be easy, but he thought he had learned that being his adar’s heir was not a popularity contest.  He would do his best – but, in the end, this decision was his.  He required only Elerrina’s willingness and the consent of their parents – and, like it or not, everyone else would just have to come to terms with his choice of bride.  He drew a deep breath.  It was not impossible after all – simply difficult.  He had dealt with the difficult before and succeeded against all the odds.  And he would again.

Reunited

He roused with Ithil’s light in his eyes, unsure suddenly where he was and why.  He blinked and frowned, pushing fair hair back from his brow.  The wind was rocking his bed as he rested, but the song was wrong.  He could no longer hear the forest.  A surge of panic started in his belly, but he suppressed it ruthlessly.

Of course he could not hear it.  He was on a boat in the middle of Ulmo’s treacherous ocean, far from the trees of home – and getting further away with every minute that passed.

He forced himself to his feet in a convulsive movement, kicking away the blanket that had wrapped round his feet.  The last thing he needed was to feel confined.

Celeborn watched him approach the ship’s bows, inclining his head slightly in silent greeting.

‘You are sure we are going in the right direction?’  Thranduil watched the white crests curl on the grey waves and listened to the creak of the sails.

His cousin shrugged.  ‘We are heading west.  I believe that will be enough.’

‘You are happy to leave finding the Straight Path to chance?’

‘There is little chance involved, if you ask me.’  Celeborn gave a slight sniff and turned to look back to watch Anor rising behind the horizon that hid the lands of their birth.  ‘Either the Valar will let us find it – or they will not.’

‘You do not sound very concerned either way.’

‘For all I am aware that our time had come – and that it was sail or fade – I still feel that I have betrayed my home.’ 

Celeborn looked very tired, Thranduil realised, and very distant – as no elf should look.  He smiled wryly at the thought that he doubtless looked no better.  ‘Where is Glorfindel?’

‘Watching over my grandsons.’  Celeborn closed his eyes.  ‘My lady will be most displeased if I fail to return them to their parents unharmed.’

A wave of petulant irritation washed over the former King of Lasgalen.  ‘She is old enough to know that you cannot make the world work as you want it,’ he snapped.  ‘If she had wanted to run Elladan and Elrohir’s lives for them, she should have stayed and kept the strings in her own hands.’

Celeborn lifted an eyebrow curiously.  ‘She has long known that she is not omnipotent – nor does she want to be,’ he said mildly.  ‘And she could not remain – do not hold that against her, for I certainly do not.’

Thranduil rested his elbows on the rail and buried his head in his hands, holding rather tighter than he needed to, as if he needed the pressure on his scalp to convince him that he was not falling apart.  ‘My apologies,’ he said.  He concentrated on the sensation of the salty air in his lungs and the sight of wisps of mist rising from the waves.  ‘Do you wonder what awaits us there?’ he asked.  ‘Any stories we have of the lands beyond the sea are so old that they surely have little but a base of truth.  We are travelling on the strength of rumour – and hope.’

‘Some might say that that describes life.’  Celeborn smiled slightly.  ‘You go to find your son – and in time, you hope, your wife.  I know that I will meet my wife and daughter – that, if I am lucky, they will be healed and happy.  And, one day, I might be reunited with many who found their way west to the care of Mandos.’

Thranduil pinched the bridge of his nose.  ‘And if it is not so?  What then, cousin?’

‘We will cross that bridge when we reach it,’ Celeborn said calmly.  He smiled wryly.  ‘It may be that we are so ecstatic to be in the presence of the Valar that nothing else will matter to us.’

‘You do not believe that.’  Thranduil dropped his hand to stare at his cousin.  ‘Any more than I do.’

‘Let us first look forward to the reunions on which we can depend.’  Celeborn turned to the west.  ‘We will deal with anything else later.’

Thranduil sighed.  ‘I suppose that is all we can do,’ he admitted.

Silently, they watched the unchanging horizon across the bobbing waves until Anor had crossed the sky, dropping low enough to polish a silver path across the water.  ‘I hope they are there to greet us,’ Thranduil said finally.  ‘I quite forgot to send a message ahead to say I was coming.’

Celeborn grinned.  ‘Oddly enough, so did I.  I only hope my wife overlooks my discourtesy.’

The sails flapped briefly as the wind dropped and changed direction.  The white fabric began to glow as if giving back Anor’s light and the wind’s song took on another level of meaning as the new breeze bellied them out and pushed the vessel forward.  Together they watched as their gleaming grey ship embarked on the final stage of their journey.

‘It is too late to change our minds now,’ Thranduil observed.

The look on his cousin’s face was almost one of relief.  The time for debate was over and the point of no return had been passed.  ‘We will just have to make the best of it,’ he said.

***

Evening was the best time of day in the forest, Legolas thought absently, as he walked at Haldir’s side.  Of course, he also tended to think that about the early morning as he was watching Anor rise.  And, now he came to think about it, when the dark trees rustled in a velvet night beneath a star-studded sky.  Then, there was little that could beat a sleepy, sun-kissed day, when the wise elf took his ease in the dappled shade.  In fact, perhaps he would just be better admitting that he longed to settle somewhere among trees and forget the stresses and strains of trying to fill a role that still did not come naturally to him.

‘It still seems odd,’ he said absently.  ‘The numbers are increasing, you say?’

‘I have asked those I trust to keep track of it,’ Haldir assured him.  ‘There are definitely more each year who pack up and disappear quietly into the forest.  Generally,’ he remarked thoughtfully, ‘those who feel they have nothing further for which to wait.  They seem to start hearing a different song – a song that draws them.’

‘And you think they cross the mountains?’

‘I am sure of it.’  Haldir hesitated.  ‘I am fairly sure Lord Finrod knows what is happening, too.’

Legolas looked at him.

‘He says nothing, of course,’ the Galadhel added.  ‘But then, he would not.’

‘But Lady Galadriel?’

‘I have spoken to her.’  Haldir looked mildly confused.  ‘She smiled – and seemed to think that it was a good thing.  Both that grey and green elves are seeking new homes and that her brother knows and condones it.’

They emerged from the trees into a glade where the light angled through broad leaves to reflect from water that tumbled between moss-covered rocks, seeking its way to the clear pool where fish swam.

Legolas stood watching the sight, feeling oddly detached. 

‘I sometimes wonder what pulled me further west,’ Haldir said thoughtfully.  ‘There is too much pine forest and even that becomes sparse as the mountains get higher – I am really much happier among deciduous trees.  This,’ he indicated the glade, ‘would make a good home.’

The lack of response turned his attention to his companion.  He frowned.  He could have sworn that, when they set out, Legolas had appeared normal, but now…  Memory stirred of his own reaction when his brothers had finally decided to take ship.  It seemed that his response had not been unique.  ‘Legolas?’ he demanded.  ‘Legolas?’

The blond elf blinked.  He felt strangely absent – almost as if he was existing in two places at the same time.  Somewhere that combined the greenness of the forest with … ‘Adar?’ he said.  ‘Can it be that Adar is on his way?’

Haldir smiled.  ‘If my limited experience is anything by which to judge,’ he agreed.  ‘It would seem that this is not a good moment for talking.  You need to find your horse, Thranduilion, and get yourself to the sea.’

‘How long?’ Legolas was clearly starting to panic. 

The Galadhel’s grin widened.  This was not a situation for which you planned.  It always seemed to be chancing fate to decide how you would respond when your heart told you that your kin were on their way – just in case the moment never came.

‘As long as it takes, my friend,’ Haldir said cheerfully.  ‘Get what you need and take yourself to the quayside – I am pretty sure that you cannot be late for this event.’

Legolas gazed at him impassively for a moment.  ‘You will not look so smug in a moment,’ he said.  ‘If I am to go now, I need someone to take charge here in my absence – and you have just volunteered.’

***

Galadriel opened her eyes, breathless with anticipation, but not quite sure why.  The night was tranquil and she could hear nothing different.  The white curtains were billowing like sails at her window and the scent of jasmine was cut with the fragrance of … was that salt breezes? 

She paused just long enough to grab a silken robe and wrap it round her.  No need to shock her son-in-law, after all – although….

Her door opened and her daughter stood there, barefoot, her long hair – so like his – unbound and her nightgown unlaced.

For all the urgency between them, neither could bring herself to move.  Neither spoke – it was unnecessary.  The knowledge hung there, before Celebrían turned swiftly to leave.

‘Quick!’ she said.  ‘We must reach the harbour before the ship arrives!’

‘It is too far!’ Galadriel sounded anguished, like someone pierced by a blade after battle had ended.  ‘We will never make it in time!’

‘The ships do not land until they are ready.’  Elrond had already rushed himself into his clothes – rather haphazardly, Galadriel noted.  Only complete distraction would let Celebrían permit him to leave the house like that.

‘It will take us days…’  Galadriel looked round the room.  So much time, she thought – and now it could be counted in minutes.  What must she do?  What did she need?

‘We will be waiting on the dock,’ Elrond declared firmly.  ‘If we go now, there will be time enough.  Get what you need – we will leave as soon as you are ready.’

Her hands were shaking.  She should have thought of this before, Galadriel reproved herself.  If she had kept a bag packed, then…  But what if he had not come, chosen not to trust himself to a future in an alien world?  How could she have borne century after century seeing evidence of her lost hope? 

In the end, she grabbed a few items at random – a change of clothes, a night-robe, her hairbrush – after all, what else did she need?  He was coming, and that was enough.

It was not until they were mounted, until they were riding towards the sea that had, for so long, kept her and her lord apart that she realised she had not thought to put shoes on her feet – but nothing that petty would send her back.  What, after all, did it matter?

‘They are both coming…’ Ithil made the tears of relief on Celebrían’s face shine.  ‘Both of them.  And Adar, too.’

Elrond reached for her, but they were riding too swiftly to make contact.  He dropped his hand, urging his horse to greater speed.  ‘Both,’ he agreed and his smile brightened the night.

The stars sang their high and distant song and Ithil sailed on regardless across the cloudless sky.  Their horses moved, sure-footed across the shadowed grass, avoiding traps such as rabbit holes and fallen tree-limbs with sure instinct, and the distracted party covered the ground far more quickly than logic told them they should.

‘Legolas,’ Galadriel said suddenly.  ‘Will he know…?’

‘If Thranduil has sailed.’  Elrond sobered.  ‘He may have chosen…’

‘He will sail.’  Galadriel spoke with confidence.  ‘He is obstinate – not stupid.’

‘He would not be the only one to choose to devote himself to Ennor, regardless of the cost.’

‘His son is here – and his wife dwells with Námo.  He will come.’

‘Legolas has less distance to travel than we do, I think,’ Celebrían said, leaning forward as if that would speed her journey. ‘He was not, at any rate, in Tirion. I hope he recognises the call.  He has had no need to meet a ship before.’

‘He will be there,’ Elrond said.  ‘If he is needed, he will be there.  The Valar will see to it.’

They rode on in silence, minds tuned to catching the first intimation that their loved ones approached the white shores of the Blessed Realm where they would, at last, be reunited with those who loved them, but, as far as they could sense, nothing had changed.  The grey ship followed the Straight Path steadily, making its transition from Ennor-bound vessel to ship of light upon a different sea.

Celebrían gasped as she felt again, in the very depths of her fëa, the tenuous thread that bound her to her sons, but Galadriel swayed on her horse as she heard the song the absence of which had left her, she felt, no more than half alive.

Elrond leaned over and took the reins, asking her horse to stop, jumping down just in time to gather the indomitable Elda in his arms as she slipped from her saddle.

‘It has all been too much for her,’ he said, closing his fingers round her wrist to check her pounding heart.  ‘We must wait.’

Celebrían’s mare danced as she sensed her rider’s impatience, but the naneth’s anxiety gave way to a daughter’s worry and, with one glance towards the sea, she dismounted to join Elrond beside her naneth.  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked.

‘It is nothing.’  Galadriel licked her lips and forced herself to speak calmly.  ‘It was just the shock.  Let us go on – I know now that he is coming.’

‘Oh.’ Her daughter looked at Elrond and smiled.  ‘It is nothing to worry about,’ she said.  ‘I do not know how you reacted as your ship approached – but I could hardly keep to my feet.  It was like … like being filled with a sea of flame … like coming alive in a matter of moments.  Naneth will be all right.  We will travel more slowly while she grows accustomed to the sensation.’

Elrond stared at her.  ‘To me, it was a return of joy,’ he said softly, ‘a warmth that soaked through me – a sensation so delightful that I could not stop laughing.’

‘Really?’  Celebrían helped her naneth sit up.  ‘The sea might make the difference, perhaps,’ she judged.  ‘I just know that nobody was surprised that I felt as if I was about to explode.’  She glanced at him.  ‘Do you have any miruvor?  That might help.’

Her husband took out a small flask and silently handed it to his wife’s naneth.  Galadriel took a mouthful and returned it. 

‘Let us get moving,’ she demanded.  ‘We must be waiting on the quayside.’

Elrond examined her intently.  A flush of colour was warming her pale face and she seemed to be regaining her balance.  Despite her tone, a soft smile was hovering over her mouth – and her unbound hair blew wildly about her face. 

‘We will take the time we need,’ he decided, raising an eyebrow to subdue his wife’s unspoken protest.  ‘Better to arrive safely than fall along the way.’

***

Camentur kept his arm round his sister.

‘We should not be here,’ she whispered, her eyes fixed on the white sails growing slowly larger as the ship made its way to port.

‘Legolas went out of his way to invite you to come.’  Camentur kept his voice down.  ‘He did not have to do that – and he did not have to battle Atar for his consent.  He wants you at his side, little sister.’

‘Then he is the only one.’

He could not blame her for being nervous, her brother thought.  This was a – very public place to be called upon to meet the elf who was not known for his calm reasonableness.   Camentur hoped that his potential brother-in-law knew what he was doing.  Elerrina would not take rejection here and now particularly well – and he could not blame her.  He had tried to suggest that the pair of them should stand back and welcome the new arrivals later, once they had had the chance to adjust, but Legolas had assumed that vulnerable look that turned his sister to mush and she had promised that she would stand by his side.

It was possible to distinguish the lines of the ship now – two-masted, with a triangular jib, the sails blazing white and the pale wood gleaming – but it was still too far distant to make out anybody on board.

Camentur glanced at Lady Galadriel and her daughter.  It was the first time that he had ever been present at the arrival of a ship from across the sea – and would probably be the only time, too, given that it must have been a century or more since the last vessel arrived – but it seemed that those waiting had no doubt at all of who was on board.  Galadriel stood as if she was carved from white marble, but her eyes never left the ship and she radiated tension.  Her daughter, on the other hand, could not keep still.  She moved from foot to foot edgily as if waiting for the signal to start a race.  Elrond hid the strain rather better, but it did not take much empathy to feel the emotion suppressed beneath his impassive exterior.

And Legolas was so keyed up that he was shaking.  With Camentur’s arm round his sister and both her hands clasping the Wood Elf’s, he could feel a tension that had the elf quivering with excitement.  It was as if only his sister’s touch prevented him from taking off like a bird intent on flying out to circle the masts of the approaching vessel.  Camentur grinned.  It would be quite interesting to see what happened if Elerrina let go – he would not be surprised at all if his friend ended up in the water.

The vessel grew larger with infuriating slowness.

There were cries of excitement from the quayside and cliffs when the figures on board became distinguishable – and further cries when they were identifiable.  Along the dock, an elleth dropped to her knees and began to sob hysterically – Camentur was unsure whether with joy or despair – but no-one moved to her support, transfixed as they were by the growing grey ship.

There were dozens crowding the rail, looking west to the shining shores and the white towers, to the verdant forests and the towering cliffs, searching among the faces of those waiting, hoping to see the faces of loved ones who had feared they would never come. 

He could only imagine what it must have been like in former times, when the ships carried hundreds of those seeking sanctuary.  When ships landed regularly with their cargoes of elves hoping for a better life in the safety of the Blessed Realm.  When the white ships returned with the armies of the Host – so many that they had to wait in the bay until there was space enough to unload.  To his children, he thought, this would be nothing more than legend – and he was suddenly very glad that he was here to witness this arrival.

Legolas stilled.  ‘He is at the prow,’ he said.  He sounded reassured, as if he had not altogether trusted the sensations that ran through him, as if only the sight of his adar was enough to convince him that his wait was over.

The elf was tall, Camentur noted – and he carried himself with authority.  If the space around him was anything to go by, his fellow travellers equated respect with distance and refused to crowd around him, giving him the chance of an unhindered view of the land awaiting him.

‘I do not see Adar.’  Lady Celebrían sounded worried, even as Elrond smiled at the sight of two dark-haired elves, standing with a tall golden-haired figure behind them, one hand on a shoulder of each.

‘He is below.’  Galadriel sounded as serene and distant as someone drifting along a misty dream path.  ‘He has no wish to make a spectacle of himself.’  

Considering the length of their wait, the vessel’s arrival passed in a hectic rush.  The crew reefed the sails, until only a sliver of canvas remained, yet the bow continued to cut through the waves on its way to meeting its destination.  Some of the passengers scattered to haul on ropes or pull on large oars that churned the water.  The pace of the ship slowed until it was no more than creeping towards the dock.

The blond elf, however, made no move, balancing easily at the bow and completely ignoring the activity behind him, his eyes fixed on his son, standing equally still now on the shore.

Heavy ropes were thrown, snaking from the vessel, the first contact between this ship of Ennor and the Blessed Realm.  Eager elves caught them expertly and wound them round solid mooring bollards, keen to bring these voyagers home at last.  Reluctantly, so reluctantly, her timbers creaking, water swirling round her hull, the vessel stopped alongside and time stood still.

For several moments no-one moved.  Those on the ship gazed down at the tall elves waiting for them and felt … shabby.  Tired.  Reluctant, perhaps to cut their final ties with the world they had left. 

Then, before the mariners could run a gangplank between ship and shore, the blond elf leapt.  Neatly and without any indication of his intention, he sprang across the intervening gap of dark water to land lightly on the wooden dock and stalk with single-minded determination towards his son.

Legolas dropped Elerrina’s hand and stepped forward into the arms of one he had feared never to meet again.

‘Welcome, Adar,’ he said.

Thranduil held him with the same hungry relief with which he had clasped him on his return from the perils of the Pelennor, of the Black Gate – a warrior’s grip that contained more than a little of an adar’s dread of what might have happened.  But he felt so thin.  Legolas felt a fear stir in him.  His adar had – of course – driven himself to the edge of endurance and beyond.   His spirit, though, was undaunted.

He released his son and turned to the elleth behind him, tense in her brother’s comforting hold.  Thranduil gazed at her briefly, his sharp eyes seeing far more than should have been possible, then placed a slender hand on either side of her head and bent to kiss her forehead.

‘My daughter,’ he said.

***

Taryatur stared at his son incredulously.  ‘Just like that?’ he asked.

‘Just like that,’ his son confirmed.  ‘No questions, nothing.  He simply put his arm round Elerrina and placed her hand in his son’s.  Instant acceptance – and the crowd roared their approval.’

Camentur had very rarely heard his atar swear – it was not the sort of thing Taryatur did.  He was reasonable and controlled – a little domineering at times, perhaps, but never profane.  Despite which, his son noted, he seemed to have stored somewhere in his memory a remarkably extensive vocabulary.

‘I was counting on his being just as reluctant to countenance this … and rather more vocal,’ Taryatur declared.  ‘It just goes to show – you should never rely on one of them for anything!’  He held his head, massaging his temples with his thumbs.  ‘And he has completely wrong-footed us with just that one simple gesture.’  He looked up sharply.  ‘Did he realise Elerrina was a Noldo?’

‘I do not know.’  Camentur smiled slightly.  ‘But it scarcely matters.  He can hardly go back on it now.’

‘I would like to think he did not realise,’ Taryatur said broodingly.  ‘I would like to think it came as a big – and very unwelcome – shock.’

‘It may well have done, Atar,’ Camentur agreed, ‘but he is certainly not going to let us know that – and I doubt he would reveal displeasure even to Legolas.’  He hesitated.  ‘He was genuinely delighted to be reunited with his son.’

Taryatur smiled with a hint of real warmth.  ‘Well – what would you expect?’ he asked.  He looked at his own son.  They had never been torn apart – never had to fear that war or death or destiny – or an unforgiving sea – would separate them.  Of course the exiled king was glad to see his son.  Glad enough, probably, to deal with a Noldo daughter-in-law and consider it small penance – but her atar wanted her to be a treasure rather than a duty. 

‘Will you consent to a betrothal now?’  Camentur did not look at his atar and spoke as if the question was only of minor importance.

‘Has he put you up to asking?’ Taryatur tried to keep the resentment out of his voice.

‘Legolas?  No.’  Camentur sounded genuinely surprised.  ‘I think he is too distracted, just now, to think beyond the next few weeks.  These new arrivals…  I do not know, of course, how it used to be, but I am assured that people used to arrive full of joy and disembark with excitement to loud reunions – and sing and dance and feast…’  He sighed.  ‘Many still remain on board ship,’ he said.  ‘The healers say they are too exhausted to endure stepping ashore – they need to rest and eat and breathe the air of the Blessed Realm for a while before they are strong enough to set foot on land.  Lord Elrond has taken his sons to a pavilion by the beach where they can begin to recover.  Lord Glorfindel seems to be the least affected, but even he only remained briefly at the welcoming festival.’  He shook his head.  ‘Lord Thranduil was there – but I think he endured on obstinacy alone until Olórin arrived and demanded his company.  Lady Galadriel’s husband simply refused to emerge until the crowds had gone – and she then took him off for a private reunion away from the eyes of others.’

Taryatur looked thoughtful.  ‘There were those who returned like that from the War of Wrath,’ he mused.  ‘Some who could not endure the power of the Blessed Realm.  I know elves who remained for centuries on the Lonely Isle with the Exiles, because they felt too fragile to bear the purity of the white shores.’

Camentur drew a wary breath.  ‘I left Elerrina in Lady Galadriel’s care,’ he said.  ‘She asked that my sister remain with them.’

The explosion that Camentur had expected did not arrive.  ‘And I am sure that with her husband in need of care, she will find a great deal of attention to spare to chaperone my daughter,’ Taryatur said dryly.  ‘I imagine Elerrina will spend all her time in the company of the Wood Elf.’

‘And his atar,’ his son reminded him.  ‘And, doubtless, half the Wood Elves within a week’s travel of them.’

Taryatur sighed.  ‘I suppose it is for the best,’ he said unenthusiastically.  ‘If Thranduil is seen to accept her, it makes it harder for his people to object.  And, if she has to settle for the Wood Elf, I want her to have every chance of happiness.’

Camentur did not reply.  He had, he rather thought, been more fortunate than he had expected in his atar’s reaction to the situation as it was.  To hope for anything more wholehearted would be pushing his luck too far.

***

The differences between the assorted groups of green elves, Litheredh realised, he had always looked on as no more than … quirks.  Peculiarities of place or time, left over from a period when centuries would pass without one group wandering in the way of another.  Different forests, after all, bred different trees – why should the people who dwelt therein not change to tune themselves to the world around them?  But, even since he had started to follow Thranduil’s son in his quest to bind the forests’ peoples into a force to be – well – at least considered, he had always seen them, he realised as groups. 

Since his curiosity had been aroused about the – the loyalty of some of those who been born under the trees, he had been looking at them differently – and he had been intrigued by what he had found.  Not just Wood Elves – but some who awaited Lenwë and paid little attention to the activities of the later born, others who grieved bitterly for the dead of Dagorlad and shrugged off the struggles of the Third Age as an irrelevance,yet more who were indifferent to the trials of the Golden Wood – or wanderers who cared more for trees than those who dwelt among them.  There were so many different needs, different desires, that it was no wonder he had not noticed it before – each green elf was almost a group on his own.

There were a few whose reaction to his interest had set warning calls ringing in his mind – but, mostly, any green elves who decided they did not like what was happening around them elected for an uncomplicated solution.  They were simply not there.  They faded into the trees much as a breeze dies down – and removed themselves from the situation.  Garrulous foresters, old warriors, observant matrons – they could all tell him of those who did not like the Noldor, did not trust their leaders, did not wish to follow conventions.  But those of whom they spoke had one thing in common – they were not to be found.  Not alone, not grouped together in a seething of malcontents – just not there.

Oh yes, there were small clusters of those who could tell him what Legolas was doing wrong – but they had no better answers, and, when challenged, would shrug off the suggestion that perhaps they should involve themselves in changing matters in ways more to their liking.  They enjoyed complaining, he decided in the end, but were far too settled to want to do anything to change their comfortable lives.

But then, those who really wanted trouble were unlikely to present themselves for questioning.

After all, if he wanted to cause serious damage, Litheredh reflected, he would want to get close – and that required a use of different weapons.  A smile, perhaps, and a conciliatory tongue.  The ability to pass unregarded, so that, by the time you began to suspect something was wrong, you could already feel the prick of the knife between your shoulder blades.

And that, he had not found.

But he would keep looking.

***

The water wove its way between the moss-covered rocks, tumbling in small streams or swirling in unexpected pools to the broad stream below.  Above it, dragonflies hovered and occasional fish broke the surface.

Legolas and Elerrina stood side by side on the wooden bridge, their hands on the rail, little fingers touching, a contact so slight as to be unnoticeable to any watching them, yet enough to have them both tingling.

Legolas moved his finger into the tiniest caress, and Elerrina turned to look at him.

‘You are worried,’ she said.

He curved his finger over to link with hers.  ‘Nathroniel says he was like this when my naneth was killed,’ he said.  ‘Surviving on pure energy – and held by my need and his duty to the Wood.’  He swallowed.  ‘But the forest gave him strength and helped him endure. She is concerned, I think.  And – I would not have him take ship to lose him now.’  He listened to the soothing sound of the water and forced himself to relax.  ‘Glorfindel,’ he said, an admiration and respect in his voice for the hero of legend that made him sound remarkably young – much to Elerrina’s delight, ‘says time among the trees of the Blessed Realm will be enough to give him ease, but … it frightens me,’ he admitted.

‘You have never seen him weak.’ Elerrina moved her hand to cover his.  ‘You expect him to be indomitable, as he was when you were a child.’  She paused.  ‘Perhaps Aulë’s halls,’ she suggested.  ‘The forests where Yavanna revealed herself to you – do you not think that the trees there might sing powerfully enough to begin to heal the wounds that drain him?’

Legolas sighed.  ‘I need you by my side,’ he said.  ‘I never even thought of that.’

Elerrina leaned closer to him, her arm pressing against his.  ‘I am by your side,’ she informed him.

‘I want you closer still,’ he murmured, almost unable to resist the urge to raise his hand to touch her face, to turn her, to bend and press his lips…  He drew himself back.  ‘I know not how much longer I can endure this … this need for circumspection,’ he said with some difficulty.  ‘Having you near almost overwhelms me.’

She looked away, concentrating on the glinting light on the water, focusing on getting her breathing under control.  ‘You are not alone,’ she admitted.

‘It is not only your atar who would be … most displeased if we bonded without due ceremony,’ Legolas said, glancing sideways at her.  ‘Thranduil has warned me to – er – exercise care.  And Nathroniel has told me straight that self-control is mandatory.’

Elerrina giggled.  ‘Camentur said that he did not wish to cause a political incident by being forced to take punitive action – and that, if I was truly concerned about you, I must not let matters get out of hand.’

Legolas made no attempt to hold back his laughter.  ‘He could not!’ he declared.  ‘Camentur is many things – but he is no trained fighter.  I would wipe the floor with him!  With one hand tied behind my back!’

It was a moment before he realised that his comment had not gone down well with his beloved.  Elerrina inspected him intently, clearly unimpressed by the idea that he could trounce her brother with very little effort.

‘Not that I would, of course,’ he said, attempting to recover ground he had clearly lost.

‘My atar…’ Elerrina said slowly, then paused as if reluctant to continue.  ‘My atar said that one of the things that most concerned him about the elves of Endórë was that they saw violence as a solution rather than as a last resort.’

The amusement faded from Legolas’s face like water draining from a glass.  ‘That is not true,’ he said.  He gazed at her intently.  If she had spent too much time listening to her atar’s prejudices, it was a wonder that she was prepared to risk a relationship with him at all.  ‘You cannot argue with orcs – and wargs and spiders will not wait for you to attempt peaceable solutions.  Experience has taught the elves of Ennor that there are times when they must act first in their own defence.  That does not make them wedded to the idea of violence.  All elves long to live in harmony with the song of Arda – it is just that we do not always get what we want.’  He ran his fingers back and forward along the rail.  ‘I was not threatening your brother,’ he said diffidently.  ‘The training field – it is a game as much as preparation for war.  A competition.  We come away with aching muscles and a few bruises, if we are unlucky – but we spar for entertainment.’

‘It is an ellyn thing,’ Elerrina agreed easily enough.  ‘Even here – where there has been no enemy to fight since the death of the Trees – ellyn still hone skills they will never use.’  She dismissed the oddity with a shake of her head.  ‘It is not that – I know you would not hurt my brother … but …’ She shook her head again, not sure how to put her thoughts into words without increasing the tension she could feel in the elf beside her.

‘Elerrina.’ 

She turned to face him as he spoke, looking at him with a trust that released some of his concern.  Instinctively, she placed her hand in his.

He hesitated.  He really had not expected to find himself in the middle of a discussion on the effects of war – but, if he wanted Elerrina to understand, he had to try to put into words what he felt. ‘Taryatur,’ he said, and then paused again.  ‘Your atar came to Ennor a long while ago, even as elves measure time, in response to the Valar’s call.  It was a courageous act – very courageous – and many of those who sailed east had no idea of what to expect.’  He took comfort in the warmth of her hand.  ‘They were confronted by horrors they had never expected – I have read of the War of Wrath, and my adar has told me more of its effects on those who fought.  Horror was piled on horror until many brave elves broke under the strain.’  He sighed.  ‘Many of those who returned to Aman – many of those elves of Ennor who sailed with them – suffered.’  He used his free hand to stroke his beloved’s cheek gently and slipped his fingers beneath her chin to ensure that she was looking at him.  ‘But Ennor is not Angband,’ he said sincerely.  ‘Any more than Aman is Taniquetil.  I grew up in a beleaguered forest – but I was surrounded by the love of my kin and the beauty of Yavanna’s creation.  I learned to fight evil to protect that which is good – what is wrong in that?’

Elerrina moved slightly to press a kiss on his wrist.  ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘but I think my atar’s point is that it comes with a cost.’

‘Everything comes with a cost,’ Legolas said sadly.  ‘But there are times when you have no choice but to pay.’

Elerrina watched him.  He was so open, she thought.  So honest.  How could her atar not see the honourable elf beneath the image he had created?  Legolas would never hurt her – he would sacrifice himself willingly to keep her from harm.  And now, on top of the pressure her atar put on him, overshadowing even the political pressures of seeking the best for his people, he had his atar’s state of health to worry him.  ‘Your atar – your adar will be all right,’ she said.   ‘He has you – that will be enough to hold him.  And, as he gets better, he will see what needs to be done.’

A singularly beautiful smiled brightened Legolas’s face.  ‘He has me,’ he agreed.  ‘And, as long as I have you, I can deal with anything that comes.’

She melted.  How could she not?  Their hold on each other, the silk of skin on skin, the warmth of sharing their touch, all were almost irrelevant to the feeling of belonging that wrapped them and held them together.  They stood, lost in each other, silent, not even kissing.

The light was fading when Legolas cleared his throat and forced himself to speak.  ‘I hope they do not make us wait too much longer for their consent,’ he said.

‘Long or short,’ she murmured.  ‘In the end it makes no odds.  We have each other.’

Beginnings

Linevendë could not stop smiling.  She did not think she could remember a time when she had ever felt quite this happy.  Not, at least, since the long distant day when she and Taryatur had felt the fëa of their unborn daughter announce its presence.

Her son looked at her slightly uncomfortably and her delight exploded almost as if stars were dancing before her eyes.  Did he prefer to think her ignorant of the activities in which he and Nisimalotë had been indulging?  How did he think that he had himself been begotten?  There was something charmingly naïve about ellyn – a touch of the elfling they never seemed to outgrow.

‘Oh, Nisimalotë!’ she said.  ‘I am so pleased.  You have such joy ahead of you.’

A flush softened her daughter-in-law’s pale face and her hand strayed involuntarily to her belly as if to caress the child within.  ‘He will not join us for some while,’ she said, ‘but we wanted to let you know straight away.’

‘A son!’ Linevendë marvelled.  She smiled mischievously at her own son.  ‘The stories I could tell you about dealing with a small ellon!  You will certainly not be able to complain of boredom over the next years.’  Camentur looked rather sheepish and she took pity on him.  ‘Your atar will be so happy.’

‘Where is he?’ Camentur looked round, almost as if he expected his atar to pop out from some corner.

Linevendë sighed, the brightness of her face dimming somewhat.  ‘He had a meeting arranged,’ she said vaguely.  ‘He will be very sorry not to have been here.’

Something about the way she spoke drew her son’s attention.  His dark eyebrows lifted enquiringly, but his amil ignored his question.  Taryatur was – most of the time – a transparent and painfully honest elf and if he was attempting concealment there could only be one reason. 

Camentur sighed.  ‘I do not know why he refuses to resign himself to the inevitable,’ he said.  ‘He is not going to get any of them to change their minds – and it is not as if Elerrina is not old enough to make her own decisions.’

His amil smiled wryly and her eyes turned to her daughter-in-law’s midriff.  ‘I think you will find out soon enough why he continues to fight, my son,’ she informed him.  ‘Parenthood is not easy.  You do the best you can, but you make mistakes – and you cannot protect your children from the world around them, no matter how hard you try.  Your atar knows perfectly well that you are both full grown – but he still wants to shield you both from harm.’

Nisimalotë laughed at her husband’s grimace.  ‘You should see your face!’  Her hand rested protectively over the tiny elfling within her.  ‘I think I understand,’ she said.  ‘Since I first felt him within me, I have been overcome with such feelings of love that it is almost incapacitating.  I have seen my sisters carry their babies to term, but I had no idea that the emotional side of pregnancy was so overwhelming.’ 

‘Ellyn do not realise it fully,’ Linevendë said.  ‘Not until his child rests in his arms does an ellon really begin to understand the intensity of that bond.  Despite his closeness – despite the essential part he plays in strengthening his wife – his focus does not shift to his child until he sees the little one.’  Her smile brightened until it shone and she turned it affectionately on her son.  ‘You will see,’ she promised.  ‘And you will never be the same again.’

Perhaps, Linevendë thought, this was just what Taryatur needed.  Perhaps the news of this new arrival, the first of a new generation, would help resign him to surrendering their daughter to a husband.  Perhaps this baby would offer him a way of stepping back from his determined opposition to what had become an unavoidable marriage.  She held in a sigh.  It was unlikely that he would give way easily – if she had learned one thing about her husband over their millennia together, it was that he never knew when to abandon a forlorn hope – but, if they had to dance at their daughter’s wedding – and they would – they needed to accept the inevitable with an appearance of grace and welcome the Wood Elf into their family.  She, at least, was determined not be cut off from her daughter by the shadows of a bitter family dispute.

She cut off the thoughts.  This was not the moment for introspection.  ‘Oh, my children,’ she beamed.  ‘This is such good news.’

***

‘I believe,’ Elladan said, lifting heavy lids as if peeling apart his eyelashes was almost too much for him, ‘that among the collection of goods Daeradar sent ahead to the ship was a hefty package of books and letters for you.  From Eldarion, amongst others.’

‘Your naneth gave them to me.’  Legolas sat cross-legged, slender and strong, gleaming in the rays of light that penetrated the canopy.

The twins, on the other hand, disappeared into the shade, absorbing the brightness, almost invisible in the patches of dappled light.  Even his adar, Legolas thought fleetingly, was not this faded.  He could not help but wonder if even Elrond’s power would be enough to pull the twins back from the edge.

‘I find it hard to imagine Eldarion in old age,’ he said.

‘I find it harder now to see him as a child.’  Elrohir sounded as weary as a stirring of air on a hot day.  ‘I find it hard to remember a time when my sister’s heirs remembered their heritage.’

‘Over two centuries have passed – nearer three, perhaps – since Eldarion passed beyond the world’s circles,’ Elladan said.  ‘I imagine it is his grandson’s grandson who now sits on Estel’s throne.’  He pushed himself to sit up, supporting himself on his elbow.  ‘We would not know – the world of men no longer wishes to believe in the existence of elves and we have not seen the Tower of Ecthelion in many decades.’

‘You are here now,’ Legolas told him gently.  ‘Among your kin.’

‘What need has anyone of us here?’ Elrohir sighed.  ‘What is the point of existing for ever in this cosseted realm?’

Legolas looked at him sympathetically.  Well he remembered the lethargy that had left him almost incapacitated on arrival, a helplessness that had worried Gimli almost as much as his fool elf’s enduring rejection of the sea’s call until his own terms were met.  The dwarf had strained every sinew to provoke his friend into responding – somehow.  Anyhow.  To anything.  He had been assured that the weakness would pass, and it had – but Legolas knew better than to pass on that piece of wisdom.  It had, after all, almost made him determine not to comply.  Possibly the only thing that had stopped him surrendering had been that he simply could not be bothered to put in the effort.  That and the fact that Gimli would never have forgiven him – and would probably have pursued him right into the Halls of Waiting to give his friend a piece of his mind.

‘Well,’ he said consideringly.  ‘Admittedly there are no orcs to slay.’

‘Nobody needs us.  The land itself knows us not.’

‘The land is vast.’  Legolas glanced west.  ‘Snow-capped mountains, measureless plains roamed by wild horses, deep forests that have never even heard the sound of elven voices, inland seas, networks of caverns that gleam brighter than Aglarond, rivers too broad even for elves to see the far side – there are places to explore here each one of which could occupy a curious elf for a century or more.  And the people!  There are legends living here, my friends!  Elves of whom you learned in the schoolroom.  Elves who knew your grandparents as elflings.  Elves who woke in the starlit dark of Cuiviénen – and elves who would never have been born at all, but for the shield we raised between them and Sauron.’

A pale echo of Elladan’s boisterous grin reflected Anor’s light.  ‘You are trying to make it sound like an adventure,’ he accused Legolas.

‘A beginning, rather than an end,’ Elrohir added.

Legolas shrugged.  ‘It is both,’ he told them.  ‘But already you have your naneth – and Lord Elrond and a raft of family you never knew.  And the mountains will still be there when you are ready to climb them.’

‘How long did it take you?’ Elrohir asked.  ‘To feel at home?’

‘I would not go so far as to say it feels like home,’ Legolas admitted, meeting his friend’s intent eyes.  He had not, himself, wanted to be told that this land could replace in his heart the forest of his birth.  ‘Not yet. There will always be part of me that is bound to the Greenwood.  But I have work to do, work that needs to be done – and I am content.’  He looked at the Elrondionnath.  ‘And once you have slept this off,’ he said, as if their exhaustion was no more than a hangover, ‘you will throw yourselves headlong into whatever comes – until you have the poor unfortunate locals wondering what they did to deserve you.’

Elladan’s smile brightened noticeably.  ‘They probably deserve us not,’ he commented, ‘but we will reward them with the – er – sunshine of our presence anyway.’

‘Once we have chased the clouds away,’ Elrohir said lazily.

‘Your naneth shines,’ Legolas observed.  ‘I have never seen her so happy.’

The twins looked more focused, he thought.  As if the thought of Celebrían grounded them somewhat.  They had, after all, missed her desperately – and done their best to slay every orc east of the sea in revenge for her wounding.

‘It is good to see her restored,’ Elladan said.  ‘And Adar – I have not seen him so frivolous since before …’ He stopped, and then smiled carefully.  ‘I had not realised just how much I had missed them.’

‘Your naneth, I believe,’ Legolas said solemnly, ‘has been casting her eyes critically over the vast number of maidens who clutter up her Daeradar’s court in search of suitable prospects for you.’

Elrohir groaned.  ‘That is one of Naneth’s hobbies I could do without,’ he complained.  ‘Those vast plains and towering mountains sound more attractive by the moment.’

‘That was the other reason we spent so much time in the field,’ Elladan added.  ‘I find I have a sneaking desire to seek out my own bride when the time comes – and I have no wish to be pushed into any elleth’s arms just yet.’

Legolas laughed.  ‘Then you need to recover enough to keep constantly on the move,’ he suggested.  ‘If you refuse to stand still, they will be unable to catch you.’

‘Maybe,’ Elrohir’s grey eyes took on a brief sparkle.  ‘You have offered the best reason yet to … to throw off this weary acceptance of whatever comes our way.  We will have to see what we can do.’

‘Good,’ Legolas declared.  ‘I, for one, will be very glad to see you more like yourselves.’  He grinned.  ‘Seeing you loafing around, like old warriors on a winter’s night complaining about how nothing is as good as it used to be, just seems wrong.’ 

He caught the quick glance that told him the twins were planning an attack, but he made no attempt to avoid them.  They needed this, he thought, more than he needed his dignity.  He even let them pin him down before squirming away and leaping into the protective branches of the solid oak.  ‘Out of condition!’ he teased them.  ‘It will take more than that to get the better of me.’

Elladan grinned.  ‘Then we must get back in condition,’ he said.  ‘We have predatory ellyth to avoid – and Wood Elves to torment.  We cannot afford to let ourselves go!’

He flicked a brown and shrivelled acorn to hit his friend’s shoulder.  ‘No rush,’ he said.  ‘Take the time you need.’

***

Thranduil was pale, Taryatur thought critically.  Pale and tired-looking, somehow disheartened – and not altogether present.  Not what he expected of the King of the Greenwood.  He did not know why … yes, he did.  Fixed firmly in his mind there was always that image of a pale-haired, grey-eyed, supercilious, aggravating Sinda – one who was determined to think of himself as the voice of the green elves.  The elf who despised the host brought by the Valar to crush Morgoth and relieve Endórë of his dark presence.  The elf who had done his best to make Taryatur’s memories of those last months east of the sea as miserable as the first.

Taryatur had always done his best to ignore reports of the events in those marred lands, but no intelligent elf could have remained entirely ignorant of the rise of Sauron and his part in the downfall of the Númenoreans  and the destruction of the Isle of Gift – and not even the most blinkered inhabitant of the Blessed Realm could have missed the bending of the world.  And no more could he have failed to hear the pained reports of the Last Alliance, when men and elves had again made a stand against evil.  He knew of Oropher’s end, even if he never spoke of it, and he knew of the circumstances under which Thranduil had taken his atar’s throne – and he had felt sorry for his suffering.  But that did not mean he wanted him as family.

‘Wine?’ Thranduil asked, his hand hovering over the decanter.  One of his make, Taryatur noted.  One of his best, too.  The Wood Elf had taste – unless, of course, it had been a gift from Elerrina.

‘I thank you, but no,’ he said politely.

Thranduil’s smile twisted slightly, as if he was resisting an urge to remark that the drink had not been poisoned, but he said nothing, pouring a small quantity into his own glass and taking a sip.  ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ he said politely.  ‘I would have paid you a formal visit – but, as I am sure you know, I have not yet recovered from the stresses of the journey.’

A wave of Taryatur’s hand dismissed the apology.  ‘It is no matter who visits whom,’ he said.  ‘It is more a matter of what is said.’

‘I understand,’ Thranduil frowned slightly at the liquid in his glass, ‘that you have not given your consent to a betrothal.’

Taryatur’s eyes narrowed.  ‘In the absence of any older kin – and considering the tensions between our peoples – it did not seem appropriate,’ he said.  He sat stiffly, holding himself as if any relaxation would be taken as a sign of weakness.

‘Kingship…’ Thranduil smiled almost disarmingly, ‘is a matter of service – but it is not a condition that requires slavish subjection to the prejudices of those ruled.  My son’s choice of bride is just that – his choice.’

Eyebrows shooting up to meet his hair, Taryatur growled, ‘And my opinion?’

‘Should be taken into account – as should mine.  But…’ Thranduil raised an admonitory finger, ‘the decision is still theirs.’

This elf, Taryatur thought fleetingly, was not somebody who would take well to contradiction.  He might claim to accept his son’s choice – but he was unlikely to endure it without debate if he thought it was wrong.  It might be as well, one way or another, that he was not at the height of his strength.  He had accepted the inevitable – and how could he not come to love Elerrina once he knew her?  By the time he was fighting fit, perhaps he would have taken his son’s prospective bride to his heart.

‘It seems to me,’ Thranduil went on, ‘that your daughter is a good match for my son.  I have given my consent.  I am happy to welcome Elerrina to my house.’

Her atar scowled.  As if his decision was the only thing that mattered!  ‘They do not know each other well enough,’ he declared.  ‘I have agreed to their courtship – I am not yet prepared to go further.’  He set his jaw.

‘Then we must provide them with opportunities to further their understanding of each other.’  Thranduil’s tone left no doubt that he was issuing a royal edict.

The Noldo felt his hackles rising.  He was not – and had no intention of being – in any way subject to this king’s will.  ‘I will give my consent when I am fully convinced that my daughter knows the entirety of that to which she is committing herself,’ he said. ‘Good and bad.  And not until then!’

Thranduil lifted a cool eyebrow.  ‘Surely not,’ he said.  ‘You would not wish them to know each other that well before the ceremonies.’

A wave of colour flushed Taryatur’s face, but he ignored the innuendo.  ‘And you cannot move me on this!’  He prodded an accusing finger in Thranduil’s direction.  ‘The last thing I want is to have my daughter regretting her choice from now until the world ends.  I have seen sorrow that profound and the suffering that comes with it – and I will not let Elerrina walk that path.’

Suddenly the fair-haired king’s face relaxed into an unexpected sympathy.  ‘I am sure we both agree on that,’ he said.  ‘We will give them time and opportunity to learn each other’s weaknesses as well as their strengths – so that they can be happy together.  And then,’ he said with an iron determination that was no less obvious for being concealed beneath a mask of concern, ‘we will celebrate in style.’

***

Nisimalotë ran a disapproving finger over the blob of coloured glass that sat in front of her sister-in-law’s mirror. 

‘I do not know why you keep that thing,’ she said.  ‘It is truly hideous.’

She looked up to catch sight in the mirror of Elerrina’s soft smile.

‘Oh,’ she said, and laughed.  ‘Some people treasure the oddest things!’  She turned round, her hand resting on the chair back as her swollen belly put her slightly off-balance.  ‘Does he know you have that?’

‘Of course not.’  Elerrina caressed the rough surface.  ‘He would be embarrassed.’

‘Other lovers might write poetry, or weave songs about your beauty,’ Nisimalotë commented.  ‘Some spend years creating a master-work just to gift their lady – yet you treasure a lump of distorted glass.’

Elerrina sniffed.  ‘It is one thing to show off your talents to try to impress – and quite another to attempt something in which you have no training whatsoever.  He was willing to try to find pleasure in something I enjoy and accept the value of my skills.’

‘He is not perfect, you know,’ Nisimalotë said conversationally.  ‘Do not expect it – you will only be disappointed.’  She lowered herself to sit on the rocking chair Elerrina kept in front of her window and heaved a sigh of relief as she smoothed her hands over her bulge.

‘What has Camentur been doing now to upset you?’  Elerrina sounded amused.  Her brother had been flapping round his wife like a pigeon at a seed store, until Nisimalotë had grown weary of the constant attention.

‘Nothing!’ Her sister-in-law waved her hand dismissively.  ‘We are twining our lives ever closer in sharing these precious days with our son.’  She lapsed into a dreamy silence as she communed briefly with the sleeping child within her.  ‘But,’ she said, ‘if you think it will be perfect, you will be proved wrong.  The rest of the world does not go away and leave you in bliss together.’

‘If I ever thought love was like that,’ Elerrina said dryly, ‘I have had long enough to learn my error.’  

‘True enough,’ Nisimalotë agreed.  ‘But all the pressures on you come from outside – while you stand together.  What you will learn – once you are finally wed – is that your beloved remains himself and all those little quirks that seemed so charming in a lover can be very irritating in a husband.’

Elerrina smiled.  ‘It will be – pleasant – to get the opportunity to learn that for myself,’ she said.  ‘And I am sure he will find me just as challenging.’

‘You are certainly obstinate enough,’ her sister-in-law nodded.  ‘You would have to be to have endured so long with so little encouragement!’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh – it is a compliment … in a way.  It might make it easier for you to settle in your husband’s household – with your husband’s atar.’

‘Is that what this conversation is about?’ Elerrina asked.  ‘You seemed happy enough to encourage me to keep hoping for a happy outcome to this most uncomfortable situation – I cannot believe that you have changed your mind now, just when it seems that Atar’s objections have been confounded and it might be possible to coax him into agreeing to a betrothal.’  She met Nisimalotë’s eyes.  ‘Lord Thranduil seems very welcoming,’ she said.  ‘Very accepting – he has not once questioned his son’s choice.  He has treated me since that first moment as if he is already my atar by marriage.’

‘And he has asked nothing of you?’

‘Nothing more than that I love his son.’  Elerrina spoke firmly.  ‘He seemed to think that was all that was required.’

Nisimalotë turned enough to inspect her sister-in-law.  ‘I suppose he is right,’ she said finally.

***

The silver light would have been so peaceful – had it not been for the broad lawn full of elegantly-clothed Noldor, seizing the opportunity to converse in their clear and very audible voices to those they had not seen for … well, it could have been as much as hours.  Attendants circulated, proffering plates of prettily-arranged snacks or tall glasses of cool wine.  Ellyn conversed in low voices, making it seem as if the business they conducted was of shattering importance, while slender maidens paraded in an attempt to attract the attention of whichever ellon had caught their eye.  The jewel-encrusted robes of the great showed them slightly apart from the hoi-polloi, protected by their aides from the importunities of those outside the centre of power.

Litheredh looked speculatively at the Galadhel.  He and Haldir had come to know each other fairly well over the last years – both out of place in a city of the Noldor, their similarities had been more obvious to them than their differences.

‘So,’ he said, ‘your lord has finally chosen to settle here.’

‘Temporarily, I am sure,’ Haldir said, raising his chin just enough to look down his nose.

‘Temporarily, of course,’ Litheredh agreed mildly.  ‘I am sure that no true lord of trees could be content here for any length of time.’  He suppressed a smile at Haldir’s suspicious look. 

‘It is not a bad place for him at the moment,’ Haldir conceded.  ‘Lord Elrond is both wise and skilled – and it seems to me that my lord, as well as yours, has need of his care.’

Litheredh focused his attention on the elegantly minimal leaf litter beneath the long-fingered leaves of the maple.  ‘I find it hard to believe that Lasgalen has … has lost its heart,’ he said.  ‘When I left it to seek a life beyond the pains of Ennor, the saplings were pushing through the ashes and the emptiness left by the voices of the missing trees was being filled with music of new growth – it was simply a song in which I felt I no longer had a part.’

‘You should have seen the Golden Wood.’  Haldir sounded non-committal, as if allowing his feelings to surface would reveal too much.  ‘It withered as though a bitter wind had passed over it and the sudden advent of too many years had worn it down.’

Many stories had been told about the abandonment of Lothlórien – many of them, Litheredh was sure, highly unlikely to have much basis in truth.  He glanced quickly at the Galadhel.  ‘But that was because the Lady’s power failed – or so I heard.’

A look of exhaustion passed fleetingly over Haldir’s face.  ‘My lord did not wish the Wood to be guarded so fiercely,’ he said, ‘but the Lady is not one to be denied.  She wished to hold it safe – a place of refuge for Elvenkind.  And in the end, it burned all the faster – not with flame, as did the Greenwood, not at its heart, but it burned anyway.’

‘You would have stayed!’  Litheredh could not conceal his surprise at the insight.

‘But there was nothing for which to remain.’  Haldir looked east, not seeing the wooded slopes, not even visualising the intervening leagues of impassable ocean, but picturing instead tall grey trunks beneath golden crowns and hearing the voices of trees that had been silenced.  ‘That is why they chose to sail,’ he murmured.  ‘The woods of Ennor sing no more for the elves who walk among them.’

‘It is no wonder, then, that they look worn beyond endurance.’  Litheredh spoke almost for himself alone.

‘We will find it again.’  Haldir spoke abruptly.  ‘We will find ourselves again in forests that call to us.’  He turned to look straight at the green elf.  ‘That is what waits beyond the mountains, I am sure of it.’

Litheredh frowned.

‘I have heard them.’  Haldir said softly, as if he was afraid of being overheard.  ‘Distantly, like bells in the early morning sounding from afar.  That is why so many slip west – quietly and unwatched.  They have heard the call … and they do not intend to have their quest forbidden by any.’  His voice grew even quieter.  ‘That is where we must go, too.’  He glanced sideways, quickly and defensively.  ‘There are watchers on the passes,’ he warned.  ‘Watchers who report to Finarfin’s son.  They stop no-one – not those heading west, nor me and those I send to keep an eye on what is happening.  But, if these Noldor claim ignorance of what is beyond the mountains, their words are not true.’    

‘Their knowledge might be as limited as yours.’  Litheredh spoke slowly.

‘Then why would they not share it?’

‘For the same reason you have not?’  Litheredh shook his head.  ‘They might be reluctant to reveal something for which they have no explanation.’  He looked sharply at the Galadhel.  ‘You have heard the forests – yet you do not share the yearning to reach them?’

Haldir shrugged.  ‘It is not yet time,’ he said.  ‘They are not calling to me.’

‘Perhaps, having waited so long for your lord,’ Litheredh grinned, ‘you are not about to leave until he is ready.’

A slow smile brightened Haldir’s face.  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed.  ‘And perhaps the same thing applies to you and yours.  What are a few years now, when we can look forward to the long ages to come?  Ages when we will be free of all this … this chatter!’

Litheredh laughed.  ‘Wood Elves chatter, too, I find,’ he protested.  ‘But the chief joy in being surrounded by them is that I will no longer have to watch every word I say.’

‘I shall take pleasure in being rude to every single person I meet,’ Haldir sighed, ‘simply to compensate myself for having had to be perpetually courteous and charming for so long.  As long as the Lady is distracted by caring for my lord I should get away with it.’

‘Lord Haldir!’  An impatient voice made him stiffen.  ‘Despite your earlier promise, you have not yet asked me to dance!’

Litheredh took a moment to savour the look of long-suffering that crossed Haldir’s face until he blanked it out and turned to the slight elleth.

‘Lady Calissë,’ he said, bowing slightly.  ‘Thank you for reminding me!  Would you indeed give me so much pleasure?’ 

His eyes met his friend’s over the dark head, and the Galadhel cast his up expressively.  Litheredh smiled.  Here, he thought, was yet another reason to be deeply grateful that he was married – and married, moreover, to a very patient wife who tolerated his excursion into politics with remarkable serenity.  He inclined his head to the elleth and withdrew circumspectly before he found himself promising to take part in one of these sedate dances.  Time to let Haldir get on with it – he could think of other ways to pass what remained of the night.  The maple, he felt, called.  That, and the stars and a sky turned to black velvet by Ithil’s rays.  He would rest high above the throng, where none but a Wood Elf would look for him, and think about Haldir’s words.

***

‘It is good to see you in Tirion.’ 

Finrod managed to sound perfectly sincere, too, Thranduil thought.  Legolas had said the Finarfin’s firstborn had charm, and he was proving to be right in this as well.  He glanced over at his son.  Legolas had grown, he decided fleetingly.  He slotted comfortably into this hotbed of political manoeuvring that was the city of the Noldor – and dealt easily with those to whom it was home.  Yet he was also at home among the other kindreds – while maintaining a comfortable relationship with some very edgy Wood Elves.  Thranduil would never have expected his warrior son to mature quite so effortlessly into the leader of such a widely-spread group – although he should have known that he would not only manage that, but would then step gracefully back, without any apparent resentment, and resume his position as the king’s heir, offering his adar unconditional love and support.

‘It is good to be here,’ he replied politely.

Finrod grinned, as if he could see an edge of mockery beneath the simple reply.  ‘If only it were that simple,’ he acknowledged.

Of course, the Noldo’s return to his adar’s kingdom had come by way of the dungeons of Angband and a sojourn in the Halls of Waiting, Thranduil mused.  And that was bound to make a difference.  The streets of Tirion probably housed more of those who had bled for Ennor than of those who had shed the blood of kin.  Far more.  He sighed.  Enough problems had been perpetuated by harping on a past that could not be changed.  It was time to look forward.

‘It will be good,’ he amended.  ‘Eventually.’  The deep red of the wine threw a bright glow on his pale fingers and his translucent flesh reflected Anor’s warmth.  ‘It is already better than it was.’

He had been heartened beyond belief by the warmth of the welcome he had received as he stepped onto the white shores.  It would seem that those of his people who had preceded him to the Blessed Realm had desired his presence among them to the point where their enthusiasm had almost silenced his longing to hear the trees of the Greenwood.  Almost.  And almost convinced him that he had been right to put the needs of the living above the needs of the fading forest.

Then, of course, there had been the bright song of his most beloved son, wrapping round him and offering him a closeness he had missed over the last centuries – and, bound up in the music of their son’s fëa, her song, clearer and more alive than he had heard it since that appalling day…

‘I am to have a new daughter,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and begin the process of building a family to whom these lands are home.’

‘It is simple pleasures like that,’ Finrod acknowledged, ‘that make a home out of a place to live.’  He smiled.  ‘My wife, my children – it is their presence that keeps me content.’

‘Yes,’ Thranduil said doubtfully.

‘And, in time, you will find a home here – one that will not replace the Greenwood, any more than that replaced Doriath in your heart, but that will provide you and your people with what you need.’

***

Nisimalotë relaxed into the cushioned chair and inhaled the fragrance of the honeysuckle twining over its carefully arranged supports.  The breeze stirred the long horns of pale flowers as if blessing her.  She smiled and accepted the bundled little creature in his long robe, with a tuft of silky dark hair setting off his tiny ears.

‘He is beautiful, Nisimalotë.’  Legolas sounded properly admiring. 

He had clearly been trained in the proper response to babies, Nisimalotë thought idly, and he managed to sound as if he meant it – which was more than her sister’s husband had managed.  He did not convince her, however.  She was fairly sure that if she risked putting Súrion in his arms – which she would not – he would stiffen as if he was afraid that any movement would break the infant and the poor little ellon would start crying in self-defence.

Elerrina settled next to her, armed with the huge quantity of things that seemed necessary to keep a small child comfortable and content for any length of time.  She kept Nisimalotë between her and Legolas – and she sat so that he was not in her direct line of vision.

‘Are you any closer to persuading Atar to consent to your marriage?’ she asked in exasperation.  Just at the moment, she had found, she could get away with saying a great many things that tact would usually prohibit.  She might even – if she felt bold enough – try her wiles on Taryatur.  He had stood between these two for more than a century – and still did not appear to have realised that he had already lost the game.

Neither replied to what was really little more than a rhetorical question.  Of course he had not agreed.  There had been no explosions of rage sufficient to blow off the roof, the sky had not turned green and it had not rained frogs. 

They did not even sit next to each other any more, Nisimalotë thought pityingly.  Elerrina’s atar might think that was a good sign – that their passion might be wearing thin – but, if he only asked, Nisimalotë could tell him differently.  Fire consumed them – so much so that they were afraid to touch each other, afraid to look at each other, afraid to speak of anything beyond the mundane.  If Taryatur was not careful, an inadvertent glance would be enough to bring them together – as irresistible as the tide striking the rocks – and they would consummate their passion there and then.  In truth, they might be better doing so – at least their bridges would then have been burned and they would be able to concentrate on living together, instead of existing in the vain hope of pleasing others.

Súrion stirred, pursing his little lips as though dreaming of food.  Nisimalotë was overwhelmed by a wave of love for him.  She would do anything to shield him.  Anything.  Stand between him and a Balrog, if that was what was asked of her.  Did this uncontainable surge of protectiveness never fade?  Was this desire to guard her child from all harm the same reason that Taryatur found it so hard to accept that it was time to let Elerrina go?  If so, she hoped she was never so defensive of Súrion that she would stop him doing what was right for him.   She touched the soft skin of his cheek with her fingertip.   Fortunately, all he truly required of her at the moment was her milk. That and her constant attendance.

‘Is he awake?’ Camentur bustled through the open windows, unable to get home quickly enough to see this wonderful creature who had come to spend his life with them.

‘Not yet.’ 

Over her head, Elerrina’s greenish-grey eyes noted Legolas’s softly reminiscent smile.  Perhaps the lack of elflings in late Third Age Endórë did not mean, as she had thought it might, that Legolas was inexperienced with little ones. 

‘Was your friend Gimli an atar?’ she asked.  She had not thought him to have been married, but the customs of other races were something she did not claim to understand.

Legolas laughed.  ‘No,’ he said.  ‘But Elessar and Arwen Undómiel had children – several of them.  And Faramir and Éowyn – and her brother and Lothíriel – and many of those I knew among men.’

‘Children of men,’ Nisimalotë said, slightly disapprovingly.  ‘Surely they cannot be compared?’

It took Legolas several minutes to reply, so that Nisimalotë had looked up enquiringly before he spoke.  ‘No naneth thinks any other child is comparable to her own,’ he said with painful politeness, ‘but, in truth, I see little difference.  Once the scars of war began to heal, there were elflings again in the woods of Ithilien.  Not many, but some, and I watched them grow.  The children of men mature to adulthood more swiftly, but they are no less worthy of love.’ 

‘Nobody means to upset you,’ Camentur intervened.  ‘We do not know.  How can we? You are talking about races we have never seen – outside books and stories.  If we ask questions that are stupid, I am sorry – but you will have to take them in the spirit they are meant.  We wish to learn.’

Nisimalotë watched the Wood Elf’s guarded face before moving her eyes to observe her sister-in-law.  Elerrina, too, looked … shuttered.  As if she would not say what was on her mind – too anxious to walk a careful rope over a drop that might claim her any moment to risk speech. 

‘Truly,’ Nisimalotë agreed.  ‘I have never seen as much as a drawing of a man – my atar would never let me read stories of the War of Wrath.  He did not think the knowledge suitable for a lady!’

‘Lady Celebrían has pictures of her grandchildren,’ Elerrina said softly.  ‘And their children – I am sure she would be pleased to show you images of the children of men.’

Nisimalotë blinked.  ‘I forget,’ she said, ‘that the High King’s granddaughter’s grandchildren were born men.’

‘Eldarion looked very like Súrion,’ Legolas told her.  ‘Small and dark-haired, with eyes as grey as Lord Elrond’s.  His ears were more rounded and his skin a little more flushed with colour – but he was just as perfect – and just as loved.’

She would make the ultimate effort to be conciliatory, Nisimalotë thought.  ‘Would you like to hold him?’ she asked.

***

Legolas brushed her hair back and bent his head to touch a very gentle kiss to her neck.  He sighed and drew back.

Her fingers stopped him, tangling in his hair, tensing in her reluctance to release him and she leaned closer to press her lips to his, to lose herself in the sweetness of this brief contact.  His clasp on her tightened and the banked fire within them began to break free.  Their kiss deepened, became hungry, fed on the offered fuel, began to flame…  They broke apart, breathing heavily, hastily forcing their barriers back in place.

‘I will not be ruled by my body’s claims of need,’ Elerrina said hoarsely.

‘Nor I.’ Legolas stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek briefly in apology.  ‘I am the master of my passions.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘Although it becomes ever more difficult to convince myself of that.’

‘What if my atar never agrees?’ Elerrina sounded despairing.  ‘I do not wish to bond without his blessing.’

‘It might be the only way.’  Legolas could understand her reluctance – he had passed enough nights gazing at the stars and wondering how Thranduil would react to his Noldo love, and had been relieved beyond measure when his adar had accepted her without question – but, on the other hand, they could not be expected to wait for ever.  The tentative intimacies of early love were no longer enough for them – both he and Elerrina wanted more.  They had waited – and courted – for so long that their fëar only awaited a spark to heat them into the white-hot alloy that was elven bonding.  And keeping their contact cool enough to prevent spontaneous combustion was … becoming a problem.

He yearned for her when they were apart – was distracted by the thought of her soft skin, her beech leaf hair, the sound of her voice.  He could feel her in his arms, warm and pliant – but no sooner were they in each other’s company than the reality of their need overcame them, and they spent their few hours together with as much space between them as they could manage, unable to deal with their reactions in any more satisfactory way.

‘I will speak to my amil,’ Elerrina promised.  ‘If anyone can persuade Atar…’

‘I do not feel she is much more enthusiastic than he is.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Elerrina allowed, ‘although I think that is largely because she dislikes seeing Atar upset.  But it is true that he will listen to her more than he will to anyone else.’

Legolas reached out to her again.  To be so close was an irresistible temptation.  ‘We will just hold each other,’ he said.  ‘No kissing.’

Elerrina hesitated for no more than a breath.  ‘It will not make any difference,’ she warned.  The tip of her tongue moistened her lips and Legolas closed his eyes rather than watch. ‘We will still want more than we can have.’  She stepped close enough to feel the warmth that radiated from him, breathing deeply to store the fragrance that was special to him, placing careful hands on his chest and resting her head on his shoulder.

‘We can be strong,’ he murmured, rubbing his cheek against her hair, as he enfolded her in his arms.  ‘We will not give in.  Not this day.’

Her body trembled against his as she laughed.  ‘You make it sound like a battle!’

‘A vow,’ he suggested.  ‘A vow sounds better – I would not battle you, my lady.’ He combed his fingers through her hair.  ‘For you, undoubtedly.  With you by my side, perhaps.’  He took time to breathe steadily.  Holding her felt so right.  He did not want ever to let her go.  ‘And victory approaches – whether your atar bends or breaks, my heart, our wait cannot endure much longer.’

Elerrina leaned back to look at him.  ‘Soon,’ she promised.  ‘If I have to go to the High King to ask him to override my atar’s demands, I will.  We have waited long enough.’

Communion

‘I have not been hiding anything!’ Finrod said emphatically.  ‘Had you asked me, I would have told you precisely what I knew – which is very little.’

His sister’s eyes bored into him, sharp as steel.  ‘You knew that there were lands to the west of the Pelori – and that Wood Elves were seeking to find a way across the mountains.’

He threw up his hands.  ‘You knew that much yourself!’ he snapped.  ‘And did you see any reason to inform me of what your Galadhel had found?’

‘Please…’  Celeborn kept his voice low and pleasant, but both combatants turned toward him.  ‘There is no point in squabbling.’

He looked better, Finrod thought.  More the kind of elf who could hold his imperious little sister’s attention than the shadow who had first stepped ashore.

Celeborn smiled.  ‘I take it you know little more than we do,’ he said.

‘Of what is happening now?’  Finrod tapped his fingers on the table’s cool surface.  ‘I know what I have been permitted to learn – and I suspect we are about the same.  Of what was…’ He frowned.  ‘While I suspect that the forests were always there, I know that the passes were not.’  He flicked a glance at Galadriel.  ‘You know how much time we spent spreading our wings across the lands of Aman.  Angrod climbed anything climbable, Celegorm rode with Oromë wherever there was anything to hunt, I wandered in search of adventure, Aegnor attempted to find the source of any river deep enough to support his canoe, Maglor was drawn to any new song … do you not think it odd that we never found this place beyond the mountains?’

‘Are you saying it was not there?’ Galadriel asked.

‘Not to be found,’ he amended.

‘Then you agree with Bórdain,’ Celeborn smiled.  ‘This place is intended for us.  A home for those of Ennor, here beyond the sea.’

‘What does Atar think?’ enquired Galadriel practically.  ‘If he thinks that these lands are his, then there could be a problem.’

Finrod grinned.  ‘Atar has enough to do with the Noldor who acknowledge him as king.  Although I am sure he would agree with my feeling that lands are not in themselves a problem, since they rarely demand anything of him.’

‘Very funny.’ His sister looked at him speculatively.  ‘Have you already sounded him out on the subject?’

‘What makes you think that I might have done that?’  Finrod raised an innocent eyebrow.  ‘It is none of my concern.’

‘Of course not,’ Galadriel agreed, honey-sweet.  She paused, ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

Finrod tilted his head at her and looked repressive.  She remained unmoved.  

Celeborn laughed.  ‘I had forgotten,’ he said, ‘what you were like.  You have been apart for far too long.’

‘And now I get the impression that my little sister wants to put a mountain range between us,’ Finrod complained.

‘It would give you an excuse to travel,’ she told him.

‘Who needs an excuse?’

‘Someone whose atar could keep his nose pinned to a desk for the next age!’

Finrod laughed and surrendered.  ‘He raised his eyebrows – just so…’ He demonstrated a look that made Galadriel nod, ‘and said it would need thought – and extensive discussion.  He refused to take the responsibility for making a judgment that would affect other sovereign kings, he said, without the direction of the Powers.’  He paused.  ‘I think that meant ‘yes’,’ he said.  ‘Although, perhaps, not yet.’  He grinned.  ‘He also added that I was to tell you enough to keep you off his back,’ he informed his sister.  ‘He said he did not need that on top of everything else.’

Galadriel smiled and came over to give her brother a kiss.  ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I will give him a few weeks to work out the details before I say anything.’

‘A few weeks?’ Celeborn shook his head.  ‘Generous of you, my lady.’

‘And then,’ she added calmly, ‘I will tell him what else we want.’

***

The banks of the river were crowded with families enjoying the spring sunshine, blankets spread like flags across the fresh sprouts of green grass, pinned down with baskets of food and full wine skins as their owners chased and played with joyful elflings, happy to escape the tedium of the rainy days indoors.

‘There they are,’ Elerrina said, shielding her eyes and pointing to the higher ground beyond the point where the swollen stream bullied its way down the rocky chute to join the deeper river.

‘How do you know?’  Legolas narrowed his eyes, but, although he could see plenty of elves on the broad banks, he could not pick out any particular family.

‘We always go up there, of course.’  Elerrina smiled at him saucily.  She had enjoyed her protracted visit to Tol Eressëa in the company of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían, certainly she had, but she had missed the delicious torment of Legolas’s company.   Even freedom from the pressure that always seemed to bear down on her in Tirion – or, to be truthful, anywhere when her parents were present – had not been worth the pain of being separated.  Seeing Legolas again warmed her.  ‘I waited so that I could show you the way.’

‘There is no proof that Nisimalotë will have chosen to settle in that exact same spot this time,’ he observed.

‘Wait and see.’

The path was narrow and steep and required a surprising amount of agility.  ‘They will not have brought a baby up here!’ Legolas took Elerrina’s elbow and relieved her of the basket she was carrying.  ‘They might drop him!’

‘He is not such a baby any more.’  Elerrina smiled at him and skipped easily up a jagged rock.  ‘He will have insisted on clambering up here on his own!  He is very adventurous – and as determined as his atar.’

The view from the top, Legolas thought, was more than worth the climb.  The stream tumbled down, pushed from side to side around great slabs and over smaller impediments, while the ordered fields of Tirion’s market gardens and leafing orchards stretched away on the far side.

‘I forget how hilly Tirion is,’ he observed.  ‘Somehow, my memory always flattens it – and dulls the colours.’

‘I never think of Alqualondë,’ she admitted, ‘without feeling the hot summer sun and screwing my eyes up against the blazing scarlet of the flowers against the white walls.’  She reached out to take back her basket.

‘Allow me,’ he said amiably.

‘Ellyn do not carry baskets,’ she warned him, shaking her head at him.

‘I will if I choose.’

She led him across the short grass, pausing only to take off her shoes and wriggle her toes in the springy turf.  She sighed – as if she, just as much as the boisterous elflings, was relishing the freshness of the bright day.

‘Here!’  A tall elleth stood and waved in their direction.

‘It is your amil,’ Legolas hissed.

Elerrina grinned at him.  ‘Of course,’ she said.  ‘It is a family picnic.  Would you not expect her to be here?’

‘And your atar?’

‘I would have thought so.’

Legolas assumed his most reproachful look.  ‘You could have warned me.’

‘You cannot avoid each other at all times,’ she said heartlessly.  ‘And this is as good a place for you to meet as any.  As close as we can manage to neutral ground.’

He had donned his diplomatic face by the time they approached the blue blanket, and smiled warmly at Nisimalotë and her husband’s amil.  ‘No Camentur?’ he asked, as he spread a green blanket beside the first and waited for Elerrina to settle herself.  ‘And is Taryatur not with you, Lady Linevendë?’

‘They will join us later,’ Linevendë said in her low voice.  ‘They were unable to get away as early as they had hoped.’

Taryatur had not wanted to spend any more time that he had to in the presence of the Wood Elf, Legolas translated silently, and Camentur was trying to convince his atar that he needed to put in an appearance.

‘And Súrion has decided to take an afternoon nap,’ Nisimalotë said with a shake of her head, ‘so you will have to be satisfied with our company!’

‘He has grown so big!’ Elerrina declared, inspecting the elfling, who lay sprawled at the edge of the blanket, covered with a soft shawl and clutching a piece of well-chewed cloth.

‘It is hard to keep up with him,’ his mother sighed.  ‘You missed seeing his first steps – and now he runs all over the place.  Only the other day, I was only just in time to keep him out of your workshop – there is no knowing what he will get it into his head to do next.’

Legolas laughed.  ‘I remember Arwen saying the same about Eldarion – only she was able to blame all his worst traits on his adar!  While Elladan and Elrohir nodded and cheered her on.  It is not always an advantage to be surrounded by those who have known you from infancy.’

Nisimalotë giggled.  ‘I have no difficulty in blaming Súrion’s mischief on his atar – not with his amil around to remind him of all the things he did when he was his son’s age!’

‘I have always understood that to be one of the chief pleasures of being an Andamil,’ Linevendë said solemnly as she offered Legolas a glass of wine. ‘That, and not having to clear up behind your grandchildren.’

Legolas grinned.  He had a feeling that he could get on with Elerrina’s naneth – in the absence of Taryatur, that was.  She had a sense of humour that appealed to him – and her devotion to her family was not a bad thing.  He was glad that Elerrina had grown up with a naneth like her to balance her adar’s prejudices.

‘Have something to eat,’ Nisimalotë suggested.  ‘We have brought far more than we need – and I really do not want to have to carry everything back down that path.  It is bad enough getting up here!’

Legolas was regretfully turning down Linevendë’s offer of a third slice of honey-cake when Nisimalotë turned to her bundled-up elfling to rouse him before he had over-indulged in sleep to the point where he would refuse to go to bed until the night was half-spent.  She lifted the basket she had spread with a cloth to keep the sun out of his face and let out a small tight screech of incredulous terror.

‘Where is he?’ Elerrina said sharply.  ‘He cannot have gone far!’

‘Breathe, Nisimalotë,’ Linevendë commanded.  ‘Elerrina is right – he cannot have gone far.  Someone would have noticed an elfling his age on his own.’ 

She dropped the wineskin she was holding, and Legolas stared, transfixed, at the puddle of red spreading across the bright blue cloth and his nostrils flared at the sharp vinegary smell. Time stretched and flexed, the actions of seconds seeming to take hours.

‘The stream,’ Nisimalotë whimpered.

‘I will take the stream,’ Legolas said decisively.  ‘Spread out – he should not be hard to find.’

‘I will come with you.’  Elerrina’s spread hand silenced his protest.  ‘It is the most dangerous place he could go – two pairs of eyes will be better than one.  Amil – you go back down the path.  He might have decided to go and look for his atar.  Nisimalotë – veer towards the trees – and tell everybody you pass.  The more people looking for him the better.’

Legolas had already moved.  This was not the best place for an elfling to be wandering unsupervised.  There were far too many dangers for a child barely old enough to be walking – none of which he would know to avoid. 

Elerrina bunched up her skirts and ran after the Wood Elf, ignoring the odd looks she received as she raked the area for the sight of a small child.  Even before she had time to reach the bank of the stream, she saw Legolas speed up and head towards a grassy overhang where a clump of trembling blue flowers clung to the very edge of the bank.  Squatting over them, a small ellon, a grimy cloth in his hand, reached out curious fingers.

Legolas stopped far enough back not to frighten the child into retreating.  ‘Come here, Súrion,’ he said coaxingly.  ‘Your amil has some honey-cakes for you.’

‘Flowers!’ the ellon declared, refusing to move until his prize was duly admired.

‘Very pretty flowers,’ Legolas agreed.  ‘Shall we go and tell Ammë about them?’

Súrion stood, but the trailing end of his cloth caught under his foot and the pull it exerted was just enough to tip him off-balance.  He staggered sideways, and, before Elerrina even had time to scream, he had disappeared over the edge into the swollen stream – and Legolas had followed him.

***

The water was cold.  Not as cold as snow-melt in the Forest River, but cold enough – and the child was limp in his arms.  Legolas tried to keep himself turned so that the rocks he could not avoid caught his shoulder rather than his head – and so that his arms could provide enough protection for the elfling’s delicate bones.  He tried to use his feet to direct their passage, but, however attractive the water looked, clearly the picnickers on the bank had never given much thought to the effect of the rocky stream bed on an elven body. 

His head dipped beneath the surface and the force of the rain-swollen water slammed his back against a hidden rock.   He choked on a mouthful of water as he could not contain a gasp.  If he was not much mistaken, that blow had broken his shoulder blade – and he could count himself lucky if he sustained no worse injury.

He hauled himself up, pulling Súrion’s head above the water, trying to gain some footing, but the rocks rolled and slipped beneath him, shoving him into a narrow gully where the water ran too fast for him to have any hope of escaping the current.

He kicked out, pushing himself and his precious burden away from a looming rock.  He could do nothing to get them out of here – it was as much as he could do to try to direct their path. The water was far too powerful to let him escape its clutches – not without the use of both his arms – possibly not even then.  He would have to try to ride it out and hope the current drove him towards the bank while he was still able to do something about it.

The water pushed him playfully, spinning him around and thrusting him against a rough protrusion that tore at his clothing before trapping his foot like a nutcracker and ripping off his boot. 

His arms numb with cold and bruised beyond feeling, he clutched more tightly at the child.  He was not losing this little one for the rocks to rip and torment.  His shin struck an edge that felt like a dwarven axe, and just briefly he saw a bloom of red before the water drove him on.

It was almost a relief when the stream dragged him below the surface and expelled them both to drop like thrown pebbles to the deep pool beneath the waterfall.  They sank, unable to fight the force of the water, until suddenly it spat them out, tired of the game.

He kicked feebly, determined to reach the bank, before letting strong arms pull him and the child from the indifferent pool to leave them dripping and choking on the shore.  He bent his head over the elfling, unable to stop coughing up water despite a pain he knew told of broken ribs, unable to release his hold.

He did not even notice the trembling hands that prised Súrion from his fierce grip.  He did not notice the starburst of pain from an injured wrist, or the blood that turned his fair hair crimson.  All he heard was a single voice, booming with unexpected clarity into the fog that surrounded him.

‘You will be all right,’ Taryatur’s voice assured him shakily.  ‘You will be all right. He lives.  You will both live.’

***

The healer was taking his time.  He was clearly determined not to miss even the most insignificant scratch, Legolas thought wearily, yet he seemed reluctant to address some of the rather more pressing issues.

‘You might,’ he said, ‘have just have achieved the distinction of having been the first healer from whom I have demanded pain relief.  Have you no willow-bark?  No poppy?  In general, healers thrust their evil potions down your throat long before you would consider asking for them.’

‘I cannot dose you until I am certain you have done your head no serious injury,’ the healer informed him somewhat pompously.  ‘Although I see you have some experience of the healing arts.’

‘From the point of view of the victim,’ Legolas said dryly.

Taryatur stood at the end of the bed, his hands clutching the polished wooden rail, staring intently as if that would improve the quality of the healer’s care.  Legolas would have shifted under his gaze – except so much movement was simply too painful.

‘How is Súrion?’ Anything, Legolas thought, to divert his Andatar’s attention.

‘He is surprisingly well,’ the healer pronounced.  ‘Once he brought back the water from his stomach and lungs, he was hard to keep still – bruised, of course, and crying for his amil, but nothing broken.  He is not out of danger – he might yet develop the lung-sickness – but the signs are good.  And with proper care…’

‘Thanks to you,’ Taryatur interrupted.

‘What else could I do?’ Legolas said.  ‘I could not let a child come to harm if I could prevent it.’

Taryatur’s eyes were dark as he studied the blood-stained figure on the bed.  ‘There are many who would have hesitated,’ he said, ‘until it was too late to save him.’

‘If there is one good thing to be said for battle,’ Legolas commented wearily, ‘it is that it teaches you that there are occasions when you do not have time to weigh up the odds.  Sometimes you just have to make a snap judgment and go with it.’

‘I think you had better wait outside!’  The healer sounded outraged.  ‘My patient is in no condition for conversation.’

A faint smile touched Legolas’s pale lips.  ‘I am in no condition for healing, either.’

A bustle of movement outside the window caught Taryatur’s attention.  ‘Camentur rode for Lord Elrond,’ he said.  ‘He has more experience of battle injuries than any healer trained in the Blessed Realm can boast.’

The healer stiffened.  ‘Are you saying you consider my skills inadequate for the task?’ he demanded. 

‘I am sure you are more than competent,’ Taryatur said impatiently, ‘but you are clearly not very swift – as Lord Legolas is still lying there with his wounds not yet dressed.’

The healer inhaled to refute the insult, but before he could get a word out, the door opened, giving Legolas a glimpse of Elerrina hovering outside.  Elrond swept in, accompanied by a dark-haired elleth, her hair in tidy braids.  His eyes swept the room, registering that his patient was fully conscious and apparently aware, before turning to the healer, fixing him with a stare.

‘What have you done so far?’ he asked.

The healer flushed.  ‘Cleaned the wounds,’ he said briefly.  ‘Assessed for head injury.  He has broken ribs, a broken tibia and I suspect he has fractured his ankle.  His wrist – perhaps.  There are several gashes that require sutures.’

‘The child?’

‘Is recovering.’

Elrond looked at him meditatively.  ‘I expect you are anxious to review his condition,’ he suggested.

The healer took a moment to decide whether to be outraged or to accept the offer of a graceful withdrawal.  ‘I would be glad to surrender Lord Legolas to your care,’ he said, ‘in order to check on the child.  The little one should be watched carefully for the next few days.’

Taryatur forced his fingers to release the rail.  ‘I will take you to my grandson,’ he said.  ‘Thank you for coming, Lord Elrond.  I appreciate it.’

Elrond inclined his head as they left, before turning to Legolas and lifting a quizzical eyebrow.

The young healer opened a green case and uncorked a phial, measuring a few drops into a small measure of water.  She glanced at Elrond in silent consultation. His nod confirmed her decision, and she offered the glass to Legolas.

He accepted it.  ‘I am issuing a token protest, Miriwen,’ he said swallowing the concoction.  ‘For the sake of consistency.  There is no need to drug me.’

‘Of course not,’ the elleth said amiably.  ‘You are a warrior and accustomed to pain.  But humour us.  We would so much rather work on you without having to listen to your screams.’

‘Well…’ Legolas’s voice became slower.  ‘If it is for your convenience, I do not mind co-operating – just this once.’

‘Good for you, Thranduilion,’ Elrond said gently.  ‘Now you rest and let us deal with the damage.’

***

‘You must eat.’ Linevendë placed a plate in Taryatur’s unwilling hands.  ‘Even if it is only a bite of cheese and an apple.’  She looked at him anxiously.  ‘Súrion is better – his fever is down and he is becoming grumpy rather than limp.  You cannot have a better sign of recovery than that.’

‘I am going to have to consent,’ Taryatur muttered, ignoring both the plate and his wife’s words.  ‘I cannot in all fairness continue to resist.’  He averted his eyes, staring at the inconsiderately beautiful day outside the window.  ‘He risked his own life to save our grandson – I cannot continue to say that he is unworthy of our daughter’s hand.’

Linevendë reached her hand back and grasped the arm of a chair, dragging it forward so that she could sit where she stood.  ‘No,’ she said simply.

Her husband looked at her briefly in irritation before turning back to the view of the outside world.  ‘He is unworthy,’ he declared.  ‘And I have the same doubts about the scars that long years of war and shadow have left on him.’

‘He has shown that he will offer himself willingly to protect the defenceless,’ Linevendë observed carefully.  ‘He has shown that he is an elf of selfless courage and high principles.  Perhaps this will not turn out as badly as you fear.’  She watched him struggle with the thought.  ‘And it is better to appear to keep some form of control, my love.  You would not be able to hold them apart much longer anyway.  If you consent now,’ she took a deep breath, ‘you make it look like your decision.’

‘I do not want to approach him,’ her husband grumbled.

‘Perhaps that will not be necessary.’  Linevendë considered briefly.  ‘You could offer him any reward of his choice in honour of his courage.  He is not a fool – he would immediately ask your consent, and you would merely have to nod.  He would be the supplicant – and you would be the one to grant his request.’

‘Sophistry,’ Taryatur snorted.

‘Undoubtedly,’ she agreed.  ‘But your words will have let him know that his suit will receive a positive answer – and it is a matter of form that the petition should come from him.’

Taryatur growled.

‘He is awake,’ Linevendë told him, trying to conceal the sparkle in her eyes.  ‘I should get it over with, if I were you.  Perhaps once you have this off your mind, you will be able to eat again.’  She stood decisively and removed the plate from his lap.  ‘You know what you must do – putting off will only make it worse.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Taryatur rose to his feet and straightened his tunic.  He looked at his wife pleadingly as if requesting her to come up with some better solution, but, as she remained unmoved, he sighed and walked towards the door.  He turned briefly as he pulled it to behind him, but she offered him nothing but a slight encouraging smile.

She sat down again rather heavily, keeping her eyes on the door and willing him on, before allowing a slightly hysterical laugh to escape.  He was like a little ellon, she thought, summoned to an unpleasant interview with his atar as a result of some serious misconduct and looking to his amil to save him.  Only she would not – this interview was long overdue.  She closed her eyes and sighed.  She could not pretend to believe that this would solve all the difficulties, but at least it was a start.

***

From the willing shelter of the oak, Litheredh watched the small group of brightly-clad Noldor swig from their wineskins.  He shook his head slightly.  He had always thought of the Blessed Realm – as much as he had ever thought of it – as a good place for the young to grow.  Safe from the threat of spiders and orcs, free of the danger of an encroaching dark, it had seemed a place of bliss.  But, since he had been inveigled into working at Thranduilion’s side, he had come to look at it in a different way.  Perhaps there was something that was too safe, too self-indulgent.  These youngsters had grown expecting everything they wanted to be available to them on demand – and had proved themselves to be demanding indeed – before they then had decided to provide their own excitements to replace those that came from outside. 

Listen to him!  Litheredh grinned.  He must be growing old if he was harping back to the old days and telling anyone who would listen how much better it had been when neighbours stood shoulder to shoulder against a common enemy and shared what little they had.

But there must be a middle way.  He would not want to have these cosseted children experience the pain of battle and the grief of loss – but neither would he choose to raise elflings of his own in this indulged ignorance.  Too much money, he thought, too much time and too little work.  You did not catch those who had to labour for their daily bread indulging in such pointless games.  These were the pampered offspring of powerful houses, ellyn who had nothing to do but live on their ancestral lands and spend their ancestral hoards. 

‘Tarannon!’ one of the youths protested.  ‘Do you not find it disgusting?  For all he claims to be a prince, he is Moriquendi!  One of us should not be allying herself with them!  They will start a line of half-breeds.’

‘Not as bad as the mongrels that are Lady Artanis’s descendants.’  A broader-shouldered ellon curled his lip in disgust.  ‘They are not even half-breed.  Quarter-breed – or less.  The blood of men – here in Aman.  They should never have been allowed to set foot on the blessed shores.’

Litheredh raised an eyebrow.  That was a face he should make a point of remembering.  Although, if its owner repeated that remark too often, he would not guarantee that the nose would continue to look quite as undamaged as it did at present.

‘We can do something about it – if we devote ourselves to the cause.’ 

The green elf’s eyes lingered on the last speaker.  Deceptive, he was.  Smooth and poisonous.  One who was not straightforward even in scheming – and not what he pretended to be, either.  Faintly familiar, too, even though Litheredh was pretty sure he had never seen the elf before.

‘We will not be able to put a spoke in this match,’ a grumpy voice complained.  ‘Not now her fool atar has consented.’

‘The Wood Elf is welcome to her – she is blood-kin to the Kinslayers, remember, and no right-minded Noldo would want to ally himself with that line, for all Lord Aulë has said to defend them.  It is not that – it is a sign.’  The one named Tarannon drew himself up impressively.  ‘They are many – the land is littered with enclaves of Wood Elves who all look to Thranduil as their king and they are ruthless trained killers.  Once he gets them together, how much more will they take?  We cannot let them have everything their own way!’

Litheredh sighed.  It would seem that this was a hydra that would raise its head every century or so and need suppressing firmly before it got out of hand.  Perhaps the time had come for Finarfin to have another cull of the reckless brats of his ever-present courtiers – the distant outposts of his realm must be in need of more petty bureaucrats just as much as these fools were in need of useful occupation.

He really did not think he could stand listening to any more – and there was little he could do anyway, other than ensure that this particular group was broken up and scattered.  It hardly seemed worth the effort – one head removed only seemed to inspire a hundred more.  He would rather leave them to drink themselves into a stupor – by which time they would have forgotten most of what had been said, and be more concerned with finding a hangover cure than plotting against anything.  He shook his head again.  Blind fools, he thought – but more mouth than action, this lot, and too soft to be dangerous.

***

The silver ring slid over his knuckle easily, clasping his finger as if it was always meant to be there.  He balanced on one foot, using the splinted leg as little as possible.  Thranduil had told him in exasperation that the betrothal would be just as valid whether he were standing, sitting or hanging upside down from the talons of an eagle.  He had laughed, but not yielded.  He was going to exchange rings with Elerrina in the proper and most conventional manner.  Even, he grinned ruefully, if splints, slings and sutures were not exactly standard.  And he had no intention of waiting – Taryatur had given his consent, and Legolas was going to hold him to it.  The ceremony would take place at once, before the Noldo could come up with some excuse for delaying it.

Elerrina slipped her left hand under his elbow, supporting and steadying him, and he grinned joyfully at her.  His betrothed.  One year – a single year – and he would make her his wife. 

He took her right hand in his uninjured one and raised it to his lips, smoothing his thumb over the matching ring on her finger possessively.

‘I will not go away,’ Elerrina said.

His smile widened.   ‘I will hold you that,’ he murmured and her clasp on his fingers tightened.  He could drown in the sea-green of her eyes, he though, sink into them and never emerge.  Gradually his head inclined towards her as they lost themselves in the moment.

‘Not now.’  Thranduil took gentle hold of his son’s arm and guided him firmly back to the padded chair that had been arranged for him.  Amusement warmed his voice, but he kept his tone firm – much as you would when addressing a puppy, he thought in passing.  ‘You need to wait until you are formally bonded to get that close!’  His stomach tensed at the look of dazed contentment on Legolas’s face.  It seemed only a few years ago that the touch of Laerwen’s hand had brought the same mindless look to his face.  It was just as well that betrothals lasted no more than a year – those who had just promised themselves to each other were of no use to anyone until the initial euphoria wore off.

Elerrina swayed slightly and touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, feeling slightly cheated.  Her amil slipped an arm round her waist and embraced her comfortingly, even as the celebration came to life round them.  ‘It is a deeply emotional moment,’ she said softly in her daughter’s ear.  ‘It is best to separate yourselves for a few moments – until you are once more in control.’  She smiled rather sadly.  ‘You will find that you feel slightly – different,’ she said.  ‘Closer to Legolas – more aware of his feelings, even when you are apart.’  She raised a finger when Elerrina showed signs of speaking.  ‘A bond is growing between you – but it is a time of discovery, of learning, of setting foundations.  Do not force it.  A year will pass swiftly enough.’

Standing just within earshot, Camentur leaned closer to Nisimalotë’s ear.  ‘Although that is easier said than done,’ he murmured.

She elbowed him in the ribs, so that he turned to look at her reproachfully.  ‘They have had plenty of practice,’ she said heartlessly.  ‘And Elerrina is more controlled than her brother, that is for sure.’

‘Cruel elleth,’ he accused her.  ‘Heartless.  No matter what I tried, you would not give in.’

She smirked.  ‘It is an elleth’s task – to make you wait!  It is the last thing she owes her family before she joins her husband’s house.’  Her smile changed and became gentler as she looked at Camentur.  ‘Legolas deserves this,’ she said.  ‘I will never be able to thank him enough for our son’s life.’   

Camentur closed his hand round her arm comfortingly.  ‘Never,’ he agreed.

Thranduil kept his hand on his son’s wrist as he propped him up among the forest of cushions.  ‘Do you need some willow-bark?’ he said anxiously.  ‘You should really be in bed.’

‘Maybe later.’  Legolas looked as if he was suffering the effects of a blow to the head.  ‘Just at the moment my whole being is … buzzing.  I am certainly feeling no pain.’

Unlike his betrothed’s adar.  Thranduil looked up to meet the rain-dark eyes of the Noldo with grave understanding before the older elf turned away, his pale face as blank as he could make it.

***

Elerrina riddled the furnace, causing the final embers to flare again to glowing heat, but she had finished for the day and her collection of completed pieces sat waiting for her to examine them for flaws – and to see if they had really turned out as well as she thought they had.

‘May I enter?’  Taryatur hovered in the doorway, casting a long shadow across the floor, but reluctant to step across the threshold.

‘When have you ever had to ask?’ she said affectionately.  ‘You are my atar – no matter what has happened.  No matter what may happen in the future.’

‘Will he let you continue your work with glass?’ Taryatur picked up one of the larger pieces and held it to the light.  ‘Interesting combination of colours.’

‘He?’  Elerrina smiled.  ‘His name is Legolas, Atar.  It is not that hard to say.’

‘Will Legolas be happy for you to spend your time in the workshop?  I do not think Wood Elves are very enthusiastic about such work.’

Elerrina stood up and wound her arms round her atar, kissing his cheek gently.  ‘He is proud of what I do, Atar – just as you are.’ She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled the scents that always spoke to her of comfort and love.  ‘You are not so different, you know.’

He would debate that, Taryatur frowned, stroking his hand over his daughter’s long braid – or would he?  Should he not be proud to show qualities like those that saved his grandson?  He sighed.  ‘He is under the care of Lord Aulë, that is for sure.  And Lady Yavanna takes an interest in his fortune.  I suppose that, if nothing else, should have warned me that he would get his own way.’

A soft giggle made Elerrina’s shoulders shake and he found the sound comforting.  It had been a long time since she had been happy enough to laugh.  ‘He is very determined,’ she admitted, ‘and I have inherited your stubbornness.  You were never going to find it easy to convince us that you were right.’

‘I was never trying to make you unhappy, child.’  It seemed important to try to make her realise that.  ‘All I have ever wanted is what is best for you.’

‘I will not be far away,’ Elerrina consoled him.  ‘It is less than a day’s ride to the house where Legolas and his adar dwell.  Attending Lady Galadriel has taken me further from home for months at a time.’

‘Ah,’ he touched a finger to her nose, ‘but the difference is that you will be hi… Legolas’s wife first and my daughter second.’  He met her enquiring look steadily and sighed.  ‘Which is as it should be.  Life is a road – and we must tread it to the end.’  He rested his cheek on the top of her head and held her close for a long moment before letting her go.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘You amil tells me that he – Legolas – is coming to dine with us … and I believe that she and Nisimalotë wish to make some very important decisions about this important occasion that is looming over us – and we poor fools of ellyn are left with nothing to do but await our instructions.’

‘Oh, Atar!’  Elerrina protested, taking his hand in hers.  ‘It will not be as bad as all that.’

‘Maybe not,’ he replied, with forced cheerfulness.  ‘Maybe not – it remains to be seen – and only looking back will let us know the outcomes.’ 

Resolution

Litheredh glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and Legolas responded with a slight defiant lift of his chin. 

‘I suppose it will offer you plenty of distraction,’ the green elf observed.

‘From what?’

‘From the fact that many of those dogging your footsteps have now abandoned you to curry favour with Aran Thranduil.’

Legolas grinned.  ‘And what will distract my adar from the reality that many are still looking to me to act as a go-between?’

‘I doubt he needs distraction,’ his friend said cheerfully.  ‘I daresay he welcomes the relief.  He knows he can trust you to let him know if anything needs his attention.’

‘And does it?’ Legolas raised an eyebrow.

Litheredh pulled a face.  ‘The usual,’ he said.  ‘There seems to be another surge of feeling against incomers – taking our land and imposing their own strange customs. You know the sort of thing – it seems to come around every few decades before it all settles down again.’ 

‘Courting our maidens?  Has that one come up again?’

‘Well,’ Litheredh smiled.  ‘What do you expect?’  He shrugged.  ‘It will pass – it always seems to pass.’  He stopped for a few moments and considered.  ‘It cuts both ways,’ he said fairly.  ‘Our people are as judgmental about the other kindreds.’

‘Have I missed anything else?’

‘Haldir is of the opinion that the numbers passing over the mountains are increasing.  Enough to be noticeable, he says.  What he did not say is that Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel are in consultation with Lord Finrod.  Of course, we do not know what they are saying, but …’  He left the suggestion for Legolas to finish.

‘Family,’ Legolas said thoughtfully.  ‘It complicates matters as much as it simplifies them.’

‘Aran Thranduil has his own ties, of course.’  Litheredh carefully did not look in Legolas’s direction.  ‘And you are thought to have some – some even more powerful connections.’

Legolas digested the idea.  ‘Not ones that would take kindly to being used for political gain, I would have thought.’

‘Is is politics?’ Litheredh pondered.  ‘Or something more than that?  These lands have not simply appeared out of nowhere – just as the green elves and the grey have started looking for homelands of their own.  Surely there is already a greater power involved than that of the elves?’

A feeling stirred in Legolas that reminded him of the call of the sea – but a feeling that was less hungry, greener, one that strengthened rather than ate at the hearer.  ‘I know not,’ he said.

‘Would it hurt to ask?’

Legolas considered.  To put yourself into the hands of the Powers was not the same thing as demanding their aid – but, on the other hand, he rather felt that they preferred the elves to take the responsibility for ordering their own affairs.  Whilst, of course, at the same time being prepared to hear and comply with whatever messages the Valar wished to impart.

‘I do not think I would do anything without speaking to the King,’ he said.  ‘I am no longer in the position to make those kinds of decisions.’

Litheredh shrugged.  ‘We would not wish to be left behind,’ he said.  ‘Our claims to the forest are at least as strong as anyone else’s – and we would not wish to stand back whilst others seek fulfilment at our expense.’

‘I will think about it,’ Legolas said firmly.  ‘We will consider all the information and do what seems right and necessary.  Believe me when I say that our desires are the same – we all seek a place to call our own.’

***

‘Will it be very different, do you think, being the wife of a Wood Elf?’ Calissë mused, smoothing the fine fabric of her gown over her knee while carefully not looking at Elerrina.

Her friend grinned and turned to inspect her.  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.  ‘Haldir?’

‘That one!’ Calissë sniffed elegantly.  ‘His heart is already claimed, whether he realises it or not.  No-one could be that indifferent to all the elves of Finarfin’s court if he were not waiting for a special one.’  She glanced at Elerrina.  ‘And, before you ask, no – I have not met the one for me.’

Elerrina lay back on the soft turf and admired the pattern of the leaves against the sky.  ‘It will not be so different,’ she said.  ‘Their customs are a little strange – but they are light-hearted and free-spirited and they tend simply to open their eyes wide and shrug at things that seem odd to them…’ She grinned.  ‘And then go on and do whatever they wanted anyway.’

Calissë shook her head.  ‘You will have to deal with that every day,’ she pointed out.  ‘It could be desperately frustrating when you are trying to run the king’s house.’

‘It will be all right as long as I do not try to change anything.’  Elerrina shook her head.  ‘And I am not likely to do that – not until I am sure I know what I am doing.  It is not as if I am accustomed to running a large household – I have merely aided Amil or Nisimalotë.  I am sure that I will be happy to take all the help I can get.  Aewenil – she is Legolas’s housekeeper – and Maenas know what they are doing.  I will learn from them.’ 

She did not need to smile, Calissë thought, looking at her friend.  Her face – her whole being … she was suffused with a happiness that was almost tangible.  ‘How are the arrangements progressing?’

Elerrina briefly managed to look guilty.  ‘My amil is at the point of collapse, but Atar is determined that, if this has to be done, it will be done well – with all the pomp and ceremony that the Noldor can achieve.  I am only thankful that time is running out – surely he cannot think of much more to include … or many more to invite.’

Calissë laughed.  ‘You can count yourself lucky,’ she declared.  ‘The moment the ceremony starts you will be deaf and blind to everything that is going on beyond you and Legolas!  There will be poisoned darts flying around seeking vulnerable targets and one-upmanship enough to offer even the most amiable material for endless gossip.  I will be sure to take notes, so that I can inform you of the most shocking titbits – once you have returned to solid ground.’

‘I am not sure I want to know.’ Elerrina winced at the thought. 

‘I will confine myself to matters that will amuse you,’ Calissë promised.  

‘That does not mean that I will not be aware that many things will have happened that would not amuse me at all.’

‘You cannot take it to heart,’ her friend said seriously.  ‘It is not your fault that your parents – and others who should know better – have chosen to view your choice of husband so … so unimaginatively.’

‘Unimaginatively…’ Elerrina smiled wryly.  ‘I have not heard it put that way before.’

‘You have waited patiently long enough,’ Calissë declared.  ‘Seize your happiness, Elerrina – your atar will get used to the situation.  In time.’

***

‘Speaking as an old married ellon…’ Elladan said.

Legolas looked at him cynically.  His friend had set eyes on an elleth within minutes of beginning his climb out of the pit of depression, and fallen headlong for her – to the delight of both their families.  And Elrohir had not been much better.  He had been glad for them – truly he had – but they could not begin to grasp the torment he and Elerrina had endured.

Elladan grinned understandingly.  ‘It will not be that bad, my friend.   Once she is walking towards you, the worst is over.’

‘But you married Miriwen, Elladan.  Her parents are reasonable elves of Lasgalen, who – oddly – seemed quite glad to welcome you to their family.  Elerrina’s, on the other hand …’ He drew a deep breath.  ‘I have been waiting so long for this and we are on the verge of success.  I cannot control my concern that some disaster will happen at the last moment.’

‘It will not.’  Elrohir sprawled across the rock, enjoying the warmth of Anor’s rays.  ‘The ellyth have invested far too much effort in this to accept any change of plan.  Even Taryatur would not have the nerve to disrupt it now.’

‘We should take you away,’ Elladan suggested. ‘Give you a chance to enjoy your last days of unwed bliss – help you forget the circus that awaits you.’

‘What if something goes wrong behind my back?’

‘It will not.’  Elrohir shook his head.  ‘Do you not trust your adar – and our daernaneth – to keep matters on track?  They are in a very wary alliance with one objective in mind: to get you safely wed.  Adar finds it most entertaining.  The perils of Middle-earth brought about nothing but polite co-operation between them – but this quest to get you joined in matrimony is almost exciting enthusiasm.’

‘Daeradar is cheering them on,’ Elladan remarked.  He yawned and stretched.  ‘He thinks it is long past time they outgrew stalking round each other like two cats.  So we are agreed?  We pack up a few things and head out for the hills.’

‘What does Miriwen say?’  Legolas eyed him.  ‘I cannot see her being too happy about your dereliction.’

‘Ah – now that is where you are wrong,’ Elladan confided.  ‘She told me that if she saw me again in the next week she would be most disappointed in me – my powers of persuasion must surely be enough to take you to the trees for a few days.’

‘Sirithiel?’ Legolas stared at Elrohir.

‘The same.’  Elrohir grinned.  ‘We are truly superfluous at this point, my friend.  As long as we are back – and fully co-operative – with a day or two to spare, they would rather do without us right now.’

‘There are a few things I need to do,’ Legolas said thoughtfully, ‘to clear my desk before the wedding.  If you two are anything by which to judge, I will not be in any condition for business for a while, so it might be as well...’

‘You are pushing your luck,’ Elladan declared.  ‘We are being patient and tolerant – considering your mental incapacity – but you do not want to go too far!’

‘Not too far,’ Legolas agreed with deliberate misunderstanding.  ‘I would not wish to risk any delays in returning.  But there are a few groups I should visit – and a few people I should meet.  If you two want to come along – and act as my keepers, I would not object.’

‘Good of you,’ Elrohir said easily. 

‘We will do that, then,’ Elladan agreed.  ‘That should keep everyone happy.’

***

Celebrían unrolled the pale silk carefully.  ‘I think you are right,’ she told Linevendë.  ‘Elerrina should not wear anything too formal – it would not look right for the occasion.  But these…’ She unfolded the fabric to reveal wire-thin mithril chains studded with faceted diamond drops.  ‘These should be braided in her hair to catch the light – like dewdrops on cobwebs.’

‘Oh!’ Linevendë sighed and extended a careful finger to touch the fine work.  ‘It is beautiful.’

‘I wore something similar when I married,’ Celebrían smiled.  ‘I believe mine was made by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain in Eregion when I was still little more than a child – and I left it for my daughter to wear on her own marriage.  My naneth commissioned it – in memory of this, worn by my andamil at her wedding and intended for my naneth to wear in her turn.’

‘Elerrina cannot wear that!’   Linevendë sat back, shocked.  ‘She is no kin to the Lady Eärwen!’

‘She is not,’ Celebrían agreed, ‘but Legolas is.’  Her eyes gleamed with amusement.  ‘And it will do no-one any harm to remember that.  And then…’  She turned the mithril to reveal a tiny maker’s mark.  ‘There is another reason why it would be entirely appropriate for Elerrina to wear it.’

‘My great-grandfather?’ Linevendë ran her finger over the mark.  ‘I did not know he ever made jewellery.  I have never seen pieces created by his hand.’

‘He stopped, I am told,’ Celebrían said carefully.  ‘He decided that jewellery-making was foolish and over-rated and he would rather concentrate on the creation of more useful items.’

Linevendë released a slow breath and kept her eyes on the unresponsive head-dress. ‘Perhaps Mahtan would prefer it if my daughter were not to wear it.  It might stir memories best left buried.’

‘My andamil seemed to think that it is time to stop hiding from the past.’

‘Your andamil has had her children restored to her.’

The breeze stirred the sheer curtains that were dimming Anor’s rays and the rustle of leaves whispered beyond the window.  Linevendë coloured and pressed her lips together, but refused to apologise.  The past was … past – but that did not mean that those who suffered from its shadow had been able to put it behind them.

‘We can drink the cup of bitterness from now until the end of Arda,’ Celebrían said.  Her usual mien of mischievous joy was muted, but she sounded calm, as if she had learned long since to accept the vagaries of fate, to endure partings she could not mend and enjoy reunions with those who returned when others did not.  ‘Some things take longer than others – but they come in their own time.  My uncles live once again in their atar’s house, but Fingolfin and his children remain with Námo.  Glorfindel returned to walk in Ennor – and rests now in Valmar, while Elwë and Elmo and Galadhon are still in Mandos’s Halls.’  She looked at Linevendë thoughtfully.  ‘It is unlikely that Nerdanel will have her husband restored to her before the end of days,’ she said bluntly.  ‘Her sons … I know not.  One still endures east of the sea and may, eventually, find forgiveness.  Others – some bear less guilt, perhaps, and Námo will decide to permit them to walk again in the lands of their birth.’

‘Easy to say – easy to put responsibility on those few and allow others to deny their own.’  Linevendë looked tired.  ‘Every evil done by the elves cannot rest solely on the shoulders of Nerdanel’s sons.  I knew them,’ she said, ‘when I was young and the Trees lit the land.  Before the world was twisted and shattered by Morgoth’s evil.’

‘I would like to meet her,’ Celebrían said softly.  ‘She must be a remarkable person.’

Linevendë shook her head.  ‘She lives in solitude and silence,’ she returned.  ‘Works in her forge to create beautiful objects and holds herself apart from others.  She will not release herself from her self-imposed exile while she is alone.’

‘Two ages have passed – and more – yet those of the Blessed Realm have much to learn before they can accept the return of Fëanor’s sons.’  Celebrían smiled wryly.  ‘There are those who have enough difficulty tolerating the differences of those who grew to maturity in the marred lands east of the sea.’

‘So you would say that my daughter’s marriage is a small part of creating harmony among the elves?  A harmony that will – some time between now and the end of days – make the elves fit to welcome the return of those yet unforgiven?’

Celebrían ran her fingers over the delicately-wrought mithril, lingering on the shining jewels.  ‘Small steps,’ she said. ‘Each of them seemingly unconnected, yet bound together and leading onwards to greater things.  We are all part of a greater whole, a greater truth.’  She looked up to meet Linevendë’s grey eyes. ‘We might think what we do is unimportant to any save those who love us – but it is not.  We are all responsible for taking the world in which we live and making it what we wish it to be.’

They gazed at each other, unexpectedly aware of the weight of the past, before turning together to regard the jewelled head-dress.  ‘Elerrina will look beautiful wearing that,’ Linevendë remarked. 

‘Elerrina will look beautiful whatever she wears,’ Celebrían said softly. 

***

Elerrina kept her eyes down.  She should be used to the impact of Aulë’s presence.  She had been visiting his court ever since she could remember – with and without her parents, in the company of assorted members of her kin – but she had never felt that his obsidian eyes had been focused on her alone.  She was, after all, only a rather insignificant sprig at the end of her family tree, born long after Aulë had withdrawn much of his interest from the elves who remained near him; too hurt, she always thought, by the use to which his training had been put to want to offer so much of his knowledge to any other eager apprentices.

A spark of fire warmed the gleaming eyes.  ‘A gift,’ Aulë said.  ‘A token for you and the dwarf-friend.’  He looked with understanding from the elleth to her kin, from her parents to her grandparents’ grandparents.  ‘Much as you are welcome here, he, too, has a place in my heart.’   

Elerrina could not hold back a smile.  That was not what her atar would be expecting to hear. 

The Vala reflected her amusement.  ‘There are few among the elves who honour the dwarves and treasure them as friends.  And there are fewer still who would venture to cross the sea in one’s company – to dwell together on the Lonely Isle until this son of Durin accepted the Gift.’    Aulë lifted a gleaming sphere that filled his palm and leaked a cool silver light between his fingers.  ‘The Khazâd treasured a jewel they called the Heart of the Mountain.  Stolen by the dragon Smaug, it was restored through a Halfling’s guile to rest on the breast of Thorin Oakenshield.’  He opened his hand and allowed the glow to fill the hall.  ‘This is not the Arkenstone,’ he said, ‘but it grew at the heart of another mountain, here in the west.’  He considered it carefully.  ‘A great jewel that emerged from its stone bed to wash into the light in the depths of the Great Forest.’  He smiled at Elerrina.  ‘Approach,’ he commanded, ‘and know that this token will sing to you of the land whence it came.’

Regardless of the presence of the Vala, Taryatur frowned.  The favour of the Powers could be as dangerous to those who received it as their disapproval.  And, he was afraid, that Lord Aulë was inferring that this … object was more than a simple ornament.  If there was one thing of which the Noldo was absolutely certain, it was that he did not want the Smith taking too much interest in his daughter’s choice of husband.  Better a simple Wood Elf, after all, than one chosen by the Valar for a greater purpose.

Elerrina curtseyed deeply and received the jewel carefully in both hands, stepping cautiously back into the ranks of her kin.  The light dimmed, as if, removed from the power of the Vala, the jewel had diminished. 

‘My lady,’ Aulë remarked, his deep voice filling the hall with ease, ‘wished to attend the bonding of two who represent both my chosen people and hers…’

The elves froze.  Taryatur closed his eyes in momentary horror.  The honour of being graced by the presence of not one, but two of the Powers could only be countered by the embarrassment – and danger – brought about by so much interest being shown in the event. 

Aulë’s dark eyes creased with laughter. ‘But I convinced her that a more distant approach was more suitable.  We will watch over you from afar,’ he said.  ‘With interest.’

Elerrina curtseyed again.  ‘I am deeply honoured, Lord Aulë,’ she said.  ‘Just as Legolas will be.  I hope we do not disappoint you.’

Linevende inspected Taryatur’s reaction as carefully as she could without actually looking in his direction.  It was not often that he was left without a word to say, but this was most definitely one of those occasions.  Even so, she thought, he would doubtless have thrown himself into battle against Lord Aulë had he thought that his daughter was being forced into this marriage against her will – but she was not.  This was her choice and it always had been.  And at least Taryatur was being left in no doubt that he had never had very much chance of preventing this match.  Perhaps that would help him accept the inevitable with greater grace.  She smiled wryly.  And perhaps it would not.  He would deliver his daughter into the hands of her betrothed, as was his duty – but nobody could make him like the prospect and he would hold to his opinion as long as he could.  Much as she loved him, she could not help but admit that Taryatur was obstinate in the extreme.

From across the wide hall, the Smith’s glow warmed like a forge fire.  ‘I am sure you will not, child,’ he rumbled.  ‘I have confidence that the pair of you will do just as you ought.’

***

Súrion scampered over the grass in pursuit of the ball.

‘I wonder how old he will be before his naneth permits him out of her sight without at least two minders,’ Legolas reflected.

Camentur grinned.  ‘Of age, I should think.  The poor elfling will be the only ellon whose amil insists on holding his hand as he goes off to attend archery classes.’

‘And escorts him on camping expeditions with his friends.’

The elfling ran back towards them, stopping to throw the ball in their direction.  It sailed off at an angle into the bushes and Súrion looked around him in confusion before chasing after it.

‘You cannot blame her,’ Camentur said fairly.  ‘I daresay she will become less protective as his peril – and yours – fades into memory.’  He took the ball from his son and tossed it high in the air.  Súrion tilted his chin to watch it and raced round in circles as it began to fall.  ‘She blames herself – feels that if she had been watching him properly, he would never have been able to put himself in such danger.’

Legolas put out a hand and caught the ball, tossing it gently at the elfling who caught it in both hands.  ‘You cannot stop elflings placing themselves in danger,’ he said philosophically.  ‘It is a characteristic of the breed.  They do things you would never think to prevent – because you would never imagine they could be so foolhardy.’

‘I shall remind you of that,’ his future brother-in-law declared, ‘in years to come when you are tearing out your own hair.’

‘You need not.’  Legolas stretched out to retrieve the ball and send it back towards the elfling.  ‘I am sure my adar will gleefully remind me of every nightmare through which I put him – and they were many and varied.’ 

Camentur inspected his friend carefully.  ‘Your atar is still happy about your choice of bride?’ he asked.  ‘He has not said that it would really have been much more sensible to choose an elleth with whom you shared a past?’

‘My adar chose to wed an elleth who was as unlike those with whom he grew up as it was possible to be.’  Legolas glanced sideways before rolling the ball for the elfling to chase.  ‘Do not make the mistake of thinking that all those who lived east of the sea were the same!  Thranduil was – is, I suppose – Sindar.  Born in Doriath of Sindar parents and kin to Elu Thingol.  My naneth came from an entirely different tradition.  An elleth of the forest – born and raised among the trees she loved, of a kin who never wished to follow Oromë west.’ 

‘Avari?’ Camentur looked slightly taken aback.

Legolas shrugged.  ‘Some would say so.  Others would say that her kin turned aside from the march, unable to divide themselves from the land of their origin – and strong enough to make up their own minds.’  He smiled.  ‘But, I am told, my adar was as strange to her as ever I am to your sister’s kin.’ He shrugged slightly.  ‘And they were happy.  They learned that there is more to a successful union than desire – and that desire makes adapting to a different way of life more … acceptable.’

‘I want my little sister to be happy,’ Camentur stated.

‘As do I.’

‘And I daresay it will be my task to keep an eye on you.’

Legolas grinned as Súrion ran up and flung his arms round his atar’s legs.  Camentur picked him up and stroked back the dark hair as the ellon allowed his head to droop wearily against his atar’s shoulder.  ‘You had best work at your hunting skills, then.  I would not wish you to have to ask a boar to wait for you to ready your arrow – and your sister would be less than pleased if I allowed you to be damaged.’

‘So male friendships are cemented in the woods?’

‘I fear so.’

 Camentur sighed.  ‘For my little sister, I will do even that.’  He looked sideways at the fair-haired elf.  ‘After all, it seems to me that it might be necessary before long to be familiar with a … more rural way of life.’

Dark golden eyebrows raised speculatively, but Legolas chose to say nothing.

‘And it might be as well,’ the Noldo remarked.  He grinned.  ‘Although Atar will be profoundly displeased to have you carry Elerrina off across the mountains.  He is counting on being able to keep a sharp eye on you!’

Legolas smiled non-committally.  ‘Wherever we may be,’ he said, ‘you – and your son – will always be welcome.’

‘And our home is yours.’  Camentur rested his cheek briefly on the child’s untidy head.  ‘We owe you a debt we can never repay.’

Stooping to pick up the brightly coloured ball and return it to its sleepy owner, Legolas flushed.  ‘Where there is love there are no debts,’ he said.  ‘Súrion’s life is enough.’

Camentur was unconvinced.  ‘Nevertheless…’ he said.

‘Then oblige me by saying no more about it,’ his friend said firmly.  ‘And let that be an end to it.’

‘If you say so – my brother.’

***

Once he had seen his son safely married, Thranduil thought, he fancied he would go off to the Lonely Isle and spend some time as far away from the Noldor as he could get.  Perhaps he would even invite his cousin along with him – for surely he could not endure their – her – managing ways much longer.

A sudden pang soured the wine in his mouth.  That was not really the problem, he knew.  Legolas’s naneth should be here.  She had missed so much of her son’s life, missed seeing him grow from bright elfling to audacious adolescent, missed his maturing – from warrior to commander, from elf of the Greenwood to Lord of Ithilien, missed the constancy of his love.  Of course, he reminded himself, she had missed the bad times too – the times when he had dreaded that this time it would be their son who would not return from patrol, that he had taken on one challenge too many – that the Black Lands would devour him as they had his daeradar, that the grinding hunger of the sea would consume him before he was ready to give in to its call.  Yet Legolas scarcely remembered her – to him she was little more than a mythical figure, the elusive Wood Elf of Nathroniel’s tales, the beautiful, gracious queen and loving nana of his. 

It was he, of course, who missed her.

And he had no idea of how long he would have to wait.  He had tried to extract information from Finrod – attempted to get some definitive answers as to why Námo kept some in his halls and released others, why some chose to remain with the Vala rather than accept a new chance at life while others returned – and his only answer had been a shrug.  Yet, if Finrod Felagund knew not – then how should anybody else understand the process?

Perhaps, to Celeborn, Galadriel’s … ever-presence did not seem such a bad thing.  He looked at his cousin critically.  He had never been able to understand quite what his cousin saw in his Exile of a wife – she was beautiful, of course, and strong-willed, but she was also marred by the events that brought her as a suitor to Elu’s court, arrogant and absolutely certain that she knew better than anyone else.  And, he added to the score against her, every elf in Arda was convinced that she ruled her Sinda husband with a rod of steel.  Except, of course, Celeborn himself, who simply laughed at his kin’s offence on his behalf. 

‘You will be glad when this is over.’

Thranduil twitched, glad that his cousin could not read his thoughts.  ‘It seems that every decision leads to a dozen more.’

‘You should be relieved that you are adar to the groom rather than the bride,’ Celeborn assured him.  ‘When Celebrían wed Elrond I was driven almost to insanity by the quest for perfection.  My lady was determined that the day should fulfil every tradition of all our peoples and reflect the joy of the occasion.  Especially, I think, as our own union had been rather …’ he smiled reminiscently, ‘less formal.’

‘I do not recall it,’ Thranduil admitted. ‘I always assumed it took place in Nargothrond.’

His cousin’s smile took on a secretive edge.  ‘Nargothrond?  No.’ 

‘You were not wed in Menegroth!’ Thranduil stared.  ‘I would have remembered.’

‘Not there either,’ Celeborn agreed.  He shook his head.  ‘I am afraid there were few who were content to see us join our lives – yet it was not until after Finrod was lost that we despaired of ever winning consent and took matters into our own hands.’

Thranduil stared, then allowed a grin to tug at his mouth.  ‘I am shocked.’

‘Lúthien told Galadriel that she could wait until the sky turned green, but that she would have to make her own decision in the end.’  Celeborn stretched and inspected the people decorating the wide lawn.  ‘And if anybody understood resolution, it was Lúthien.  After Finrod was slain – I do not believe Galadriel thought it mattered any more.  Her parents were on the other side of the unforgiving sea, three of her brothers were in Námo’s care.  And Orodreth…’ he shook his head, ‘Orodreth would never have consented.  On principle.  In fact,’ he reflected, his gaze roaming over those present to settle on the bride’s exasperated-looking atar, ‘there is a decided resemblance.’  He shook his head as his cousin laughed. ‘We were wed, my friend, according to the traditions of the green elves – with none of this pomp – and I think my wife has always had a hankering for the … the public affirmation of a formal event.’

‘I have never,’ a soft voice said, ‘wanted to have anyone believe that I regretted choosing you.’  Galadriel’s clear eyes held her husband’s.  ‘I would have preferred to declare my love in front of the assembled elves of Arda – so that no-one could pretend to assume otherwise.’

Celeborn flipped an indifferent hand.  ‘Those who matter know perfectly well how matters stand,’ he said, clearly repeating something he had said many times before.  ‘A bond is between two people – no-one else is necessary.  This,’ he looked around him, ‘is for the rest of us.’

‘In witness,’ Thranduil agreed.  ‘It has a point, I suppose.’

‘Are you ready?’

Was that sympathy he saw in her eyes?  Thranduil bristled.  ‘What need is there for me to be ready?’  He raised his chin.  ‘I, too, am no more than a witness.’

‘You are a little more than that, cousin.’  Celeborn spoke softly, and Thranduil could hear experience speaking.  ‘Your link with your son is about to change.  He is to become a husband.  He will not notice the difference, not at first – but you will.’

Thranduil set his jaw.  He knew enough to realise that.  ‘It is as it should be,’ he said steadily.

‘If you need anyone…’

‘Thank you, Celeborn.’  The groom’s adar said with decision.  ‘This is not the time for anyone to worry about me.  I will be fine.’ 

***

A chaffinch trilled its song on a bough above his head. 

Legolas opened his eyes and looked at the bird accusingly.  He could not recall quite how they had ended up in this glade where the flower-studded grass cushioned them and the fragrance of honeysuckle sweetened the air, but he was far too comfortable to appreciate any distraction.

‘Are you inspecting the markings of that one small bird?’  A sweet voice, like honey stirred in jasmine tea, asked in amusement.  ‘Has it, perhaps, aroused your interest?’

For a moment he did not move.  A surge of contentment warmed him and relaxed him and made him want to shout with glee.  He raised his head and looked towards the voice.

‘No, indeed, my lady,’ he said politely.  ‘My interest is stirred by a quite different creature.’

Soft hair of the palest coppery shade framed her face and was braided down her back, and laughing eyes met his.  Elerrina bent forward and touched her lips to his.  ‘And what sort of creature might that be?’ she asked.

‘A wife,’ he said.  ‘My wife.’  He stretched up his hand to run his fingers down her bare arm.

She shivered.

‘Are you cold, my lady?’ A slow smile spread, lighting him like Anor’s rays rising over the horizon.  ‘Let me warm you.’

‘I did not know it would be like this,’ she said.

‘Nor I.’  He drew her down to rest her head on his chest.  Which, he noted with some surprise, was unclothed.  ‘How should I?  How should either of us?  We have nothing with which to compare it.’

The trees whispered above them, like a collection of gossiping matrons carrying on an intimate conversation behind their hands.  Elerrina raised her chin and looked up, her greenish-grey eyes wide with wonder.  ‘I never heard them so clearly before,’ she said.  ‘The song of the woodlands was – contented, but distant, yet here it seems as if each tree has a different voice.’

‘They have.’  Legolas was enchanted by her amazement and drew her closer.  Could he ever get close enough?  ‘They approve of your presence among them and wish to show it.’

‘And that is another thing.’  His wife – his wife – propped herself up on her elbow and ran the fingers of her other hand across his skin like the touch of a gentle breeze.  ‘I might be wrong – but I thought we retired to the chambers my amil prepared.’

He laughed.  ‘We did – at the end of a remarkably long day – and I have no more idea than you have of quite when we ended up leaving them for this bed in the woods.’  His breath caught as he lost himself in the pleasure of her touch and he had to force himself back to earth to continue.  ‘But I am glad we did.’

‘I feel your gladness,’ she marvelled.  ‘I knew, in my head, that bonding would make us closer, but I could not imagine that it would feel like this.’

It was remarkable, he admitted to himself.  Somehow the edges of their individuality had thinned and melted and allowed them to blend together – while, at the same time, they remained exactly who they were.  Openness?  Perhaps that was what you could call it – and yet, not really, because it was an excessively private revelation.

He rolled, pinning Elerrina on the soft grass and gazing down at her as if determined to trap every second into his memory.  The night had become a haze, in which sensation had overcome reason – but he wanted to treasure this.    He lowered his head to kiss her – and all attempts at restraint left them.  Nothing existed but each other and the moment.

‘It is to be hoped,’ she murmured eventually, tangling her fingers in his hair and briefly breaking contact, ‘that no-one comes and disturbs us.’

His laughter was no more than a released breath.  ‘It is to be hoped that – by some miracle – we thought to bring garments with us,’ he told her.  ‘Or we will be reduced to hiding in the trees until I can sneak back in to find some.’

For a heartbeat, Elerrina could not decide whether to be shocked or to giggle, but the euphoria of the moment was such that nothing – even the prospect of being discovered naked in the woods – was sufficient to shatter her bubble of exhilaration. ‘You will manage,’ she said confidently.

‘Your faith in me is touching.’

‘H’mm,’ she said vaguely, ‘touching.’  Her hands explored his body, reminded both of his proximity and his availability.

He collapsed beside her, shaking with laughter.  ‘I am glad to know I still have my uses!’ he remarked.  He felt one with the world around him, a part of the song, singing now in harmony with this elleth who had bound her life to his.  ‘I cannot believe how happy I am,’ he said.  ‘I am needed – I have a task that gives me purpose and a future for which to work.  And I am not alone – I will never be alone again.’  He tangled his fingers in her hair, running them through the silky strands until they brushed her pale skin. ‘In you,’ he murmured, ‘I have found my home.  You are my wife, beside me at last – and ahead of us… ahead of us we have eternity in which to share our joy.’ 

***

***

***

(Note:

Some time ago … some really quite a long time ago … I recall talking about ageing and elves – along the lines of ‘why do the twins still behave like twenty-somethings when they are several thousand years old’ – and concluding that elven life came in stages, along the lines of the Seven Ages of Man.  Marriage is a life-changing event that moves them from one stage to the next.  The links of elves to family must change at that stage – no offspring (or parent) would really want the same kind of parent/child bond that is probably quite natural earlier in a child’s life.  If the – er – physical intimacy attending marriage is such that it creates an unbreakable bond and a sharing of each other’s fëa, it seems logical that the same event would change the relationship between an adult child and his/her parents.  Nilmandra showed this brilliantly – and far more intensely, because of other attendant factors – in History Lessons 3.  What Celeborn is remembering is something more than a human father’s reaction to his daughter marrying, but rather less – much less – than Elrond’s distress at Arwen’s choice.  Thranduil might feel that he will be less susceptible.  Legolas is his son, not his daughter, and perhaps he feels that not only is the relationship different, but that he and Legolas have also spent much of the last half-millennium apart.  However, his reaction might well be compounded by the fact that he has no wife or parents to offer him their support at this time and that he was Legolas’s only parent for much of his life, leading to an exceptionally strong parent/child link between them.  The result might well mean that he will feel very alone when Legolas finally bonds with Elerrina.  At the same time the influx of emotion involved in bonding might well mean that the couple would not realise the change in their relationship with their parents until later, when their – er – passions had begun to settle down a bit.)