"The elves were the first to charge. Their hatred for the goblins is cold and bitter. Their spears and swords shone in the gloom with a gleam of chill flame, so deadly was the wrath of the hands that held them." ~ The Hobbit.

Legolas sat in stunned silence. All he had said was that perhaps if Dwarves and Hobbits had joined in the Last Battle that the outcome would have been different. The hall had grown deathly quiet. Elrond's face had turned a sickly ashen colour. Haldir was being held back by Glorfindel.

Legolas swallowed and continued. "Though Isildur did not throw the… thing into Mt. Doom, still, the losses were so heavy. How did Elves and Men think they were capable of winning such a battle?"

He took another breath. "And for that matter, why were not allegiances strengthened before battle commenced. Mayhap my grandfather would be alive today if he had known the forces of Imladris and Lorien were behind him."

He shook in anger and frustration. Elrond knew the strength of Mordor. So many of Mirkwood's Elves had been slaughtered during the battle. Running towards the foe with none to guard their back. He almost lost everyone he loved and all because Elrond and Celeborn were too stubborn to make peace with the 'lesser' Wood-Elves.

Elrond stood. His face shone from the attempt to keep his emotions in check. Estel stood and walked to his father. Putting an arm on his shoulder, he whispered something in the Elf Lord's ear. Elrond's face fell. Estel guided him out of Merethrond. Others rose and left also. Gimli stood next to his friend. "A fine attempt to exonerate Dwarves, lad, but foolish." He grabbed his flagon of ale and walked out the door. Legolas turned around – the hall was empty, except for Pippin and Merry.

"If we had known of the Battle, Legolas," Merry said quietly, "we would have been there. My grandfather said we had battled Morgoth even and his dragons in the North a long time ago. Thank you for trying to defend us."

"I don't see why he was so upset, though," Pippin frowned. "Nobody asked us – as far as I know. Come and sit. It doesn't matter anyhow. Things are well now. And we are all friends."

"No we're not, Pip. Can't you see that Lord Elrond was quite upset by it all?

"Legolas. What did Lord Elrond do that made you so angry?"

Sitting down, Legolas grabbed the nearest flagon and quaffed its contents in one gulp. "I… Ever since I was a young one, my father has told me that the Elves of Mirkwood have been scorned by those of 'higher' blood. Noldor and Sindar. I thought my grandfather died because he hated Yrch. I found out, just recently reading through Denethor's library, that he died in a suicide ride against Mordor. And all his men. Where was the… This is nothing that concerns Hobbits, my friends. Forgive me. I am going to ride to Ithilien. Mayhap my mind will settle once I am near trees."

He walked out the door, but Merry and Pippin followed. "We'd love to come with you?" Merry asked hesitantly.

"I do not think it wise. My bow arm is weakened after these past weeks with nothing to do. I will spend time practicing. I might miss and hit a wayward Hobbit."

Pippin's face fell. "You wouldn't… "

Legolas relented. "I would never… I must be away, by myself. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course!" Merry said. "We will walk you to your mount?"

"Please, no."

"Farewell then, Legolas Greenleaf," Merry said formally bowing to his friend. "We will wait upon your return."

Estel stood by the Great Gate and waited. He knew Legolas' mind, knew the Elf would leave the city after the confrontation. The grooms were preparing both their horses. A commotion brought his eyes towards where the street met the Courtyard of Isildur. The people of Gondor were still not accustomed to Elves walking about. Their presence always created a stir. He was correct. Legolas walked into view – then stopped when he saw Estel. His lips tightened and his hands clenched. Estel stepped forward.

"I need a breath of fresh air, my friend. Would you join me in a ride to Ithilien? I plan to spend the night."

Oropher refused to look back. Head held high, he pushed through the underbrush, trying to keep up with his mentor. Amdir, who led them forward from Doriath, sent guards to the back of the rag tag column to protect the women and children.

Oropher could still hear the cries of the dying as Doriath fell to the enemy. He knew the Noldor were the cause of Thingol's death, though rumour had it that Dwarves had murdered his king. The young lad batted away tears. He would some day seek his revenge against the Noldor. His mother and father lay dead in the city's streets; his brother and sister lost.

The Silmaril – they were the cause of Doriath's fall. The sons of Feanor – once again wrecking havoc on any who opposed them, any who would claim, and rightly so, those cursed gems. Did not Beren himself wrest the jewel from the very halls of Morgoth! Did not he bring it to Thingol. The Noldor had lost it. They had no further claim on it. Yet the curse followed it, followed it to fair Doriath, and the kingdom was lost. Along with Elves innumerable.

He found he was breathing hard, not from the exertion, but the anger and frustration that welled deep in his heart. That accursed stone brought the Dwarves down upon them, and then... 'Enough of this!' he swore to himself. There was no sense in looking back, neither physically nor mentally. Doriath was ruined. The Elves were scattered, and his people were sick to death of it all. They had decided to return to their roots, to the land of the Silvan Elves, to unfettered lives of peace and quiet.

As they approached the Ered Lindon, their path was blocked by mound upon mound, as far as the eye could see. Oropher shivered. It was the graves of the Dwarves who had killed Thingol and then run, with the Necklace, back to Nogrod. His people became quiet. His skin prickled and he knew that the same was felt by all in his party. The death of these Dwarves had infuriated the Dwarves of Nogrod and they had amassed an army and destroyed his beloved home.

They regrouped at the River Ascar. Amdir knew it would be foolhardy to go by way of the Dwarf Road, so he turned his people north. They followed the River Gelion to the Greater Gelion and through the mountain pass north of Mount Rerir. Oropher kept his hand on the hilt of his sword for what seemed to be months. The mountains were inhospitable, cold and forlorn, and the few Elves left, escaping Doriath, were disheartened.

Amdir called a halt. "We have survived the last battle we will ever be part of. I promise you, my people, we will never again fight battles that are not our own. We will no longer pay homage to these Noldor. We now sever our ties, as Thingol did, and leave this land behind us. We will find our kin, the Silvans, and be at peace. This road we take is hard and long, but I promise you, we will rest, once we reach the Great River, till the end of our days."

Oropher was caught up in the hope that stirred in his heart from Amdir's words. They would have peace. They would no longer fight. He breathed a sigh of relief. If only they had left earlier, his parents would still be alive. A sob shook his body and another Elf, standing next to him during Amdir's discourse, gave the lad a quick hug.

"Amdir is wise. He knows where he is taking us. You have naught to fear, little one."

Oropher drew himself up, trying to stand as tall as possible. "I am near unto fifty years old," the boy said, "and I have been taught how to wield a sword. I am not afraid."

The Elf looked at him in sorrow. "You have lost someone in Menegroth?"

Holding his head down, Oropher nodded, but kept quiet.

"Some one close?"

"I do not want to speak of it… or them. I only look for Amdir's peace."

The Elf did not leave his side that day, nor the next.

They rode in silence for the next four hours. Once they reached the fort at Osgiliath, they changed mounts and rode across the half-finished bridge.

Aragorn had wanted to stop for nuncheon and visit with his men, encourage them on the progress they had made with repairs to the fortress, thank them for their part in the battles of the Pelennor and the Black Gate, and exhort them to greater deeds. However, Legolas' agitation was too great. They were mounted and furnished with supplies in less than an hour.

By the time they reached the Emyn Arnen, it was night. Both men knew this land well, so neither had any qualms about riding through the forest in the dark. Finally, Aragorn reined in his horse and dismounted. Legolas continued on. Aragorn signaled and Legolas pulled up, quickly looking about for signs of danger.

"It is very late, my friend. I think it is time we rested."

Legolas' tortured eyes looked at him for a moment before he comprehended Aragorn's meaning.

Aragorn said nothing further. He had known Legolas to be reticent for long periods of time. He remembered when Mithrandir fell; the Elf had not spoken for days. So Aragorn kept quiet, waiting. He unsaddled his horse, cobbled it, then went to gather firewood. He did not look back, hoping Legolas heeded his advice and stopped for the night. 'Ai,' he smiled, 'this Elf can be as stubborn as Gimli, when he puts his mind to it!'

When he returned to the camp, he found his friend sitting on a log, still as Bilbo's stone trolls. He started the fire and put a kettle on. Then he brought out the repast the cook from Osgiliath had made for them. They ate in silence.

Aragorn, beginning to lose his patience as he waited for the Elf to calm, was startled by Legolas' voice, low and bitter.

"Have you ever felt deceived by those you love, Aragorn? Have you ever felt betrayed by those you trust?"

Aragorn had to bite his lip to keep a sour laugh from escaping. Until he was twelve, he had thought himself an Elf, never even considering why his ears were so short. His hair and his eyes were the same colour as many of the other Elves who lived in Imladris.

One day a man had come, a Ranger his mother said, to speak with Gilraen. Estel still remembered the touch of the man's hand upon his shoulder. "Arathorn's son has grown strong and tall. He has the look of his father about him." Gilraen had started, but Estel was already in full flight, down the steps and running up the path as fast as his little legs could carry him. Finally, he sat upon the edge of one of the many bridges that traversed the River Bruinen, trying to understand the man's words. 'Elrond is my father, is he not?' It did not take him long to realize that he was not of Elven ancestry. Who was this Arathorn and why had he never heard of him? His mother's guilty start had told him more than words could – told him that he had been deceived.

A touch on his arm caused him to fall forward in surprise. Strong arms caught him, prevented his fall into the icy current below. He would not look up, he told himself; he was too ashamed, too confused. But the arms that had saved him, now held him tightly to a strong chest.

"Estel, your mother looks for you," he heard Elrohir's deep voice. "Are you ready to come home?"

"Home!" Estel shouted. "It is not my home, and Elrond is not my father, and you…" he tried to push away from those arms, "You are not my brother." Tears fell profusely.

The arms tightened. "I will always be your brother. Do not ever say that again."

Estel was surprised at the hurt he heard in Elrohir's voice.

"Well?" Legolas' musical voice, so clear and light compared to Elrohir's, brought him back to Ithilien.

"I have been deceived," Aragorn said, "Long ago. But there were good reasons. I understand, now that I am grown."

Legolas took a breath, light and gentle, but Aragorn knew the Elf's hitched breath meant he was still angrier than Aragorn had ever seen him.

He kept silent. When his friend was ready to share, he would. Aragorn was of the same ilk. He kept to himself, from long years of habit – out in the wild for years on end, with no one to speak to but the occasional deer. He remembered the year that he had left Imladris.

"Your time has come, my son." Estel turned and stared at his father. "Have you studied these paintings?"

"I have," Estel said quietly. "They have been part of my studies these past ten years, ever since I learned that I am not your son."

Elrond's face fell. He had hoped the man before him had healed from the wounds of his childhood. He cursed himself for not having probed deeper, when Elrohir had told him of Estel's discovery. "When have I ever not called you my son?"

Estel's face blazed with shame, but he kept quiet.

"Secrets are sometimes meant to protect."

"I know that now," Estel said softly. "It was still a shock."

"No one deceived you, Estel. You assumed things that I did not know. Who would think that you thought yourself an Elf?"

"You called me son."

Elrond interrupted him, "And you are and always will be."

"If I am an Elf's son, then I must be an Elf. What other logic could a child have?"

Elrond's head fell forward, the light tendrils of hair falling over his face, hiding the pain he felt.

"I am deemed wise, Estel, but even the wisest can make mistakes." He paused, brow furrowed. "It was so apparent to me, your race, that I thought no further on it." He brought his face up, placed his hands upon Estel's shoulders, and looked searchingly into those clear grey eyes. "I have never deceived you, Estel. I have held things back in ignorance; I have held things back from you because you were not ready. Come here; sit with me." Elrond led him to a bench a little to the right of the shrine. "As I said, it is time."

Dwarves were following them! How many they did not know. The band of weary refugees were slowly passing out of the eastern foothills of the Ered Lindon mountain range. Amdir, when he had been told of the Dwarves approach, had sent the women and children ahead, and that had meant that Oropher had been sent with them. Oropher was angry and hurt. ‘I am old enough to wield a sword,’ he thought; he had revenge on his heart. Obediently, he walked along with the column until they passed a high hill. He ducked behind it and waited until the rest of the company passed him. Then, he walked silently back towards the warriors who waited in the pass to slaughter the enemy. He did not know how he would convince Amdir to let him join the battle, but, when the time came, he was certain he would know what to say.

Oropher stopped when he saw Amdir and his men standing out in the open, their swords sheathed and their spears held lightly in their hands. His mind whirled. What was Amdir thinking? Did he not know the Dwarves would kill them all? He unsheathed his own sword and hid behind a great boulder.

The Dwarves came, at least three hundred strong. Their weapons were drawn Oropher noted. Yet, Amdir did nothing. The Elven troop stood still and waited. The Dwarves stopped. A small dribble of rock caught his attention; he looked up. Another two hundred at least lined either side of the pass. Oropher held his breath. The Dwarves on the path quickly crowded together. He could tell they were trying to decide what to do. Though the Elves looked impressive with their golden armour and their spears shining in the sun, they still had not drawn into battle formation, nor pulled their swords.

A lone Dwarf strode forward. Amdir stepped away from his men. Oropher bit his hand so he would not yell out his terror. If the Elven warriors were killed, who would protect the women and children? He could not stand to see another Elf dead. He stood, but just then Amdir raised a hand in salute and walked towards the Dwarf. The Dwarf also moved forward, hand outstretched in peace. Oropher shakily hid again.

The men met between the space left open between the two bands of enemies – Dwarves on the west and Elves on the east. The two leaders stood together and talked for some time. Oropher’s terror was growing. The Dwarven band became restless as their leader talked. The Elves stood still, not moving a muscle. Oropher did not know how they could stand like that, unshaken in the face of so many of the enemy, the very same kind who had destroyed their home. His cheeks blazed in anger and hatred.

At last, Amdir turned and returned to his troops. He walked to the head of the line and led his men eastward. Oropher watched, incredulously, as the Dwarves turned west and departed. ‘It is a ruse,’ he thought shakily. ‘When our warriors have passed the hill, they will attack.’ He hid behind the rock, his whole body shaking with fear. Tears streamed down his face. He would stay and signal when the Dwarves attacked. He would probably be killed, as none would be near enough to help him when the Dwarves descended upon him, once he loosed the signal, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t care, though his very body betrayed him. He waited. None came. He waited longer. None came. The tremors slowly left his body. Fatigue took their place. He could hardly keep his head raised.

‘They have tricked me!’ He rose in sudden anguish. ‘They have skirted around me and are attacking our men on their flank. I must run and save them!’ He ran as fast as he could, though hunger and fatigue held more sway over his body than the fear that drove him forward; he stumbled too many times. His speed was such that he knew his people would all be slain ere he overtook them. Tears covered his face as despair warred with hope. He would never reach them in time. His sword was so heavy; his feet sodden. He could hardly move. Hopelessness overcame him. His steps slowed. He fought the urge to move forward. He did not want to see the slaughter that he knew would meet his eyes, once he rounded the hill. He fell forward.

When he awoke, he cried aloud. ‘I have failed,’ he sobbed. ‘They are all dead!’

Slowly, he raised himself to his knees. Clutching his head, he wept bitterly. After some time, he stood and walked forward. 'Someone will have to bury them,' he thought, 'though I have not the strength to even think.' Bitterness filled his heart as he thought of his family, dead in Doriath, and now his friends, dead in this wretched pass. But he must bury them before the carrion eaters came. He pressed onward.

Rounding the hill, he stopped in amaze. Amdir stood by a campfire, holding a flagon, and speaking quietly with a woman. The other Elves stood around in disarray, the ease of being encamped apparent in their stance. Oropher stood still, his heart still racing. Amdir looked up and saw him. His captain walked purposefully towards him.

“You disobeyed,” Amdir said quietly, eyes of steel holding Oropher in their grip.

Oropher hung his head.

“I understand your motives. Nothing,” he whispered the last word, “nothing ever is more important than obedience to your leader.”

Oropher nodded, still unable to bring himself to look at his captain.

Amdir took his chin and lifted his head. “You will do guard duty for the next week. After that, we will sit and talk. I am at fault, also. I have not assigned you a teacher. We will discuss who it will be when we meet again. I do not want to see you for the next week, except walking to and from your duty. Do you understand?”

The anger in Amdir’s eyes frightened the lad. “I understand, my captain.”

“Very well. Return to your family.”

Oropher stood still, looking about him.

“Why do you stand there? Go to your family now.”

“I have none, my captain.” He swallowed hard. “They were all lost.”

Amdir put his arm on Oropher’s shoulder. “I will be your family, my son. Come with me.”

“Sit and tell me about your family, Legolas. Though we have spent much time together, I hardly feel I know you.”

Legolas sat, pushing at the burning logs with his stick. He looked up at the sky for a moment, then turned towards Aragorn. “Look! There!” He pointed his stick. “There is Eärendil.” Aragorn could see a shiver pass through the Elf’s body.

“And what is Eärendil to you, my friend?”

“A sign.” Legolas’ face fell. “He was the father of Elrond.” He blushed furiously. “Of course you know that.”

Aragorn smiled. “I do.”

“According to Denethor’s books, his people threw us out of our land. The land Amdir had settled them in after the fall of Doriath.”

“Hollin?”

“Aye. Or Eregion as some call it.”

“I did not know your people inhabited that land.”

“We did not spring from the waters of Cuiviénen. Our ancestors did, but my people moved west and dwelt in Doriath. When it fell, Amdir led our people, my grandfather, Oropher included, to Eriador. Eventually, they settled in Eregion.” He stood and strode from the fire, looking towards the sky, his hands clenched. “They forced us from that fair land. After passing over the Hithaeglir, Amdir took us to Laurelindórenan.”

“I had not heard that anyone was forced,” Aragorn said gently. “The land, according to Elrond, was deserted when they arrived.”

Legolas scoffed. “Deserted! Did you not feel my people’s fëa when we were there?” He calmed himself. “Denethor’s books speak of a different side of my history, different than what I was told.” He walked back to the fire and threw the stick into it, sparks flying everywhere.

Aragorn leaned back to avoid being set on fire. He drew in a quick breath as the thought of Denethor flitted across his brain. ‘How hideous to die in flames and despair,’ he thought.

Legolas sat. “It is not the telling that riles my blood, but the deceit of my father. He hated Elrond, but I thought it was… I am young and naïve, Aragorn. I thought it had to do with power or some such. Now, I find it was true hate, born out of numerous kinslayings. Do not think me foolish, but I had only known of the first – when the Noldor left Valinor and crossed the sea.” He bowed his head. “Gimli’s Lady was part of that. I wonder if he knows?” A shiver passed over him. “I will not be the one to tell him of her role. He is smitten beyond words and I would do nothing to hurt him.”

"Elrond's people fell under the kinslaying also, Legolas. At the mouth of the Sirion. Do you not think he knows what your people suffered in Doriath?"

Legolas remained sullen.

“Faramir is still grieving, Legolas.”

The Elf looked up in surprise. “Faramir?”

“Aye. I brought you here to discuss his well being. He is my steward, Legolas, and I need him whole. As your people need you whole. Would you take him with you?”

“And where am I to go?”

It was Aragorn’s turn to stand. This is not what he had planned when they crossed the Anduin today. In fact, he had not thought of sending Faramir off. The man was needed in Minas Tirith. Aragorn did not have the people’s wholehearted support; that he received because Faramir honoured him. Of course, Imrahil was still in the city. His presence would have to do until Faramir returned. He laughed out loud. Mithrandir always said things happened for a purpose. Aragorn had come to Ithilien to help heal his friend; now he would be sending him away. Something had to be done, for both men.

“Would you take Faramir to Amon Hen? Would you show him the place his brother died? Would you tell him the story of the Fellowship and the place Boromir had in it, the place he had in our hearts?”

Legolas shivered. “It is too terrible a thing to think upon.”

“He must know that Boromir died a warrior. When he sees the carnage of the battlefield, he will know. His heart dwells on the treachery. He must see the courage and selflessness. He will be away from Minas Tirith and his duties. They pull at him and he has no time for healing. I need him whole, Legolas!” Aragorn took Legolas’ shoulders in his hands. “Will you do that for me?”

“Of course. When do we leave?”

“Would the first of the week be agreeable?”

“We will leave at first light of the first day of the week.”

“Thank you.” Aragorn disturbed the fire, pushing the logs apart so that it would quickly die. He turned towards his bedroll and laid down.

Legolas stood, surprised at the turn of events, shrugged, and laid himself down.

“What did Estel say to you, last night, Elrond, that caused you to hold your tongue?”

Elrond smiled as Glorfindel leaned forward, waiting. “He is still a child.” He burst out laughing, “And Estel only eight-eight himself!”

Glorfindel laughed too. “He is right. Legolas is still a child in many ways. And,” he emphasized the word, “he is the son of Thranduil.”

Doubling over in laughter, Elrond choked out, “So is Thranduil still a child, for that matter.” He paused, looked at his friend and mentor, and laughed again, “As am I to you, my Lord.”

“Enough of that,” Glorfindel sighed. “We will speak of my age no longer, nor the difference between ours. Have I not asked this before?”

Elrond walked to the escarpment and sat on one of the parapet’s stone benches that faced the White Tower. “Do you know they call this,” and he pointed towards the towering spike before them, “the Tower of Ecthelion?”

Why?” Glorfindel started, moved forward and stared at the building before him.

“Some of it has to do with Denethor’s father, the Steward Ecthelion, strengthening it, but I think it is more than that. Was not Ecthelion’s title 'of the Fountain?' And do we not have a fountain before us and a remnant of Nimloth itself? Have you not noticed that the nobles of Gondor use the Elven names – Ecthelion, Denethor, Finduilas?

“I noted,” Glorfindel said ruefully. “that Denethor took the names of men for his sons, Boromir at least.”

“Was not the House of Húrin friend and ally to Thingol?” Elrond countered. “Did not Ecthelion…” The Lord of Imladris stopped at the pain on Glorfindel’s face. “I would not be here today if not for Ecthelion… and for you,” he finished quietly.

Walking to the fountain, Glorfindel touched the water. “I have decided I hate fountains,” the Elven Balrog slayer said. “We stood side by side that day, Ecthelion and I, captains in Thingol’s army. The city was on fire. Orc, dragons, Balrogs – Morgoth threw every weapon he had against the city. I remember the buildings burning brightly from the breath of the Balrog; the fires mixed their flames with the torches that the people of Gondolin held as they stood, defenseless, on the walls, waiting for the feast of the Gates of Summer to begin. Instead, the gates of Angband opened.”

“It was an Elf who betrayed Gondolin, Elrond, not a man. Long have you held men in contempt, particularly Estel, once he left childhood behind. His time had not yet come, my friend.” Glorfindel walked back to the escarpment, put his hand on Elrond’s shoulder, and smiled. “Arathorn’s son, your son, has come into his own, has he not. Fulfilled every foretelling of yours. Will you let him have Arwen’s hand?”

“Did you lead this conversation to this path?” Elrond asked testily.

“You know the loss of one you held dear, your own love and the mother of your sons. Would you have Estel and Undómiel suffer the same loss?

“It is different! He is a man.”

“As was your father’s father,” Glorfindel laughed again. “Is the Evenstar of greater blood than Idril, Turgon’s own daughter, and, I might add, granddaughter of Fingolfin himself!” He spoke more gently. “I do not have to remind you of your lineage.”

“You do not!”

“Was Ecthelion’s death in vain, then? Did he save Eärendil for nothing?” Glorfindel’s voice held as much anger as Elrond’s just had. Elrond stood and left his side. Glorfindel did not follow. Tears stung his eyes as he thought of his friend and warrior brother lying dead in the fountain, his precious blood mixing with the fountain’s clear waters.

Elrond walked back to him and sat. “‘Do Elves always die when they kill Balrogs?’ I remember asking my father that question. He told me of Adanedhel’s flight from Gondolin with his mother and father. You yourself died, fighting the Maia that day.”

Glorfindel looked up. “Forgive my words regarding Arwen. Your loss will be greater than any I will ever endure. Those I have lost, I will see again, either in the Halls of Mandos, or in Valinor, once they are released. No such grace will be given to you. Arwen will be lost to you for all eternity. Forgive me.”

“She will be with my Adanedhel. He will watch over her.”

“She will be with Estel,” Glorfindel replied. “He will watch over her. I cannot see Estel out living her.”

Elrond caught his breath. “I was cruel to her, hoping to sway her through grief, telling her of his expected death, and the sorrow she would feel until her own mortal body gave way to sorrow and death.”

Glorfindel knew the tongue of Elrond – he could use it to sway most to his will. That Arwen did not sway was testament to her own will. “She is as headstrong as her father. Will you speak to her?”

Heaving a deep sigh, Elrond nodded.

Glorfindel bowed and took his leave. His heart had grown heavy at the thought of the Fall of Gondolin. He went to Finduilas’ garden – shown to him three days ago by the Steward Faramir - sat and wept.