IN THE HEART OF A FRIEND

Disclaimer: The characters and settings of Middle-earth, with the exception of a few OC’s, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.  I just like to play there from time to time and gain no monetary profit from the experience!

Summary: The story begins... 

A/N:  This story is set in the same 'universe' as "The Golden Bell of Greenleaf", but you do not need to read that story to understand this one.  Of course, you can if you would like...  (very small grin)

Prologue: Memories

34 F.A.  (1457 S.R.), North Ithilien

“Will you tell us a story, Grandfather?”  The softly voiced question interrupted the old man’s contemplation of the doings outside, turning him about to consider the sweet, earnest faces of his eldest granddaughter, Mira, and her best friend, Liniel. 

He smiled at the two fondly.  He had been expecting this request for the past few hours, ever since the early spring day’s bright promise of sunshine had drifted into burgeoning clouds, the grumbling thunder with brief flashes of lightning forcing both adults and children into the house.     

The change in weather had come as most inclement weather does…at the most inopportune time.  Several families and friends had gathered at his house to celebrate his birth day and now the approaching storm rendered travel home impossible. All would stay over for a day or so until the rains were spent and the roads passable once more. 

He continued to examine the threatening sky with a practiced eye and smiled wryly – yes…two days, perhaps three.  It should prove to be…entertaining.  He recalled a long-ago conversation with a King of his acquaintance (and he happened to know several), who had clapped him on the shoulder and laughingly remarked, “I predict interesting times ahead for you, my friend.” 

The old man snorted softly.  Interesting.  Indeed! 

A crash and yelp from outside drew his attention to the sight of his sons struggling against the wind to close the huge barn doors.  Everyone was busily scurrying around in preparation for the days and nights to come.  The men had made a run for the barn earlier to tend the animals and secure them against the high winds and rain, while the women set to work preparing food for the evening meal, as well as the next day. 

But the children…ah, the children.  He grinned wickedly at his reflection in the window.  The children had been cooped up inside all afternoon, relegated to playing ‘quiet games’ which, judging from the squeals and bangs and crashes from the back of the house, did not suit their natures at all.  He had listened to the escalating ruckus with growing amusement, wondering just when he would be remembered and pressed into service.  Apparently at their wits’ end, the ladies of the house had finally sent these two to draft ‘Grandfather’ as storyteller for the remainder of the afternoon and probably for the evenings to come. 

A chore which, all things considered, was no chore at all. 

“Gather the others, Mira,” he instructed, chucking his smiling granddaughter under the chin, while he tucked a dark lock of silken hair behind Liniel’s delicately pointed ear.  “We will begin shortly.” 

His smile widened as the two young ladies dashed off to summon the others.  He knew it might take some time for them to return.  There were toys to be picked up and rooms to be reconstructed and motherly sensibilities to be appeased.  The old man chuckled to himself.  Previous noise from the back rooms suggested that might take at least an hour...or two.

He turned his attention again to the large window, staring out at the wind gusting through the trees, mixed now with fitfully spitting drops of rain and sighed, remembering other storms which had impacted the lives of his family.  Just the thoughts caused him to shiver and pull the woolen jacket he wore closer about his shoulders.  It seemed the cold of the passing winter had settled in his bones as even a blazing fire failed to warm him now.  Perhaps it was the rain, he mused, which prompted these memories and clarified in his mind the story he would tell the youngsters once they arrived.

He shrugged.  No matter.  They were, after all, family tales that needed passing on.  It was time they were told.  He remembered telling the same stories to his own children when they had reached the age to understand; now he would tell them to his grandchildren and their friends.  Friends, he thought with a fond smile, whose parents had played parts in the very events which formed the foundation of the tales.     

One by one, the children drifted into the roomy, comfortable front parlor, gathering in front of the fire he had kindled earlier.  Two of the older boys squeezed into the big chair near the hearth while the others huddled together on the floor, whispering excitedly.  The old man took his place in the ancient rocking chair, gazing at the young, expectant faces before him. 

He cleared his throat and all eyes snapped forward, intent on his weathered face.  No one told a better story than Grandfather!

“I know a tale,” he began, as he always did.  Several of the children grinned at each other in anticipation.  “It started long ago, in a forest far away…”

“Were there orcs?” Breda, the youngest asked, shivering slightly and scooting closer to her big sister.  Mira slipped a comforting arm about her shoulders.

“Is there a dragon?” asked Cian, earning a well-placed elbow from his friend beside him.  He elbowed Andurion back and a short tussle ensued as the boys wrestled briefly. 

“Boys!” hissed Mira, “Grandfather is waiting…”

“…on you!” Liniel completed her friend’s sentence pointedly.  The boys snapped to attention, glaring at their respective sisters even as they murmured apologies to their elder.

The old man smiled.  “In ancient Middle-earth, there were usually orcs and an occasional dragon to cause havoc for all, child,” he answered mildly.

“Will there be a battle?” Tathron, who sat slightly behind his younger cousins and friends and was of an age to learn sword play, leaned forward eagerly.

“Where evil dwells, there will always be those who stand against it.”  The boy nodded in satisfaction.  A battle, for certain, then…and probably more than one.

“And is it a true story, Grandfather?” asked Mira, voicing the question she always asked at the beginning of a story. 

The old man gazed at this granddaughter who always sought to know the truth and replied softly, “Yes, dearest, this story is true…from beginning until the very end.”  The children looked at each other wide-eyed…a true story with real battles and monsters!

As the wind-driven rain lashed the windows, the grandfather settled back in his chair, leaning his elbows on the padded arms and clasping his fingers together thoughtfully as he spoke, “It began in the last days of summer, in the midst of a particularly hot, dry year…”

Summary:  Long ago, in a forest far, far away…(please note this first installment of Grandfather’s story takes place several hundred years before the events in the Prologue.)

Disclaimer:  Don’t own any of this (except the OC’s)…only wish I did.

IN THE HEART OF A FRIEND

Chapter 1:  Beginnings

          “When a friend is in trouble, don’t annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. 

           Think up something appropriate and do it.”   Edgar Watson Howe

2890 T.A., near Esgaroth (also known as Lake Town)

Darius, son of Olwain, sighed wearily as he gazed across the field at the dry land which had once been a thriving field of grain.  He crouched and scooped up a handful of soil, watching the dirt sift through his fingers only to be caught by the dry breeze and blown away in a puff of dust. 

Good soil. 

Fertile. 

But without the life-giving rains, useless. 

He had given over all but a fraction of his crop to the relentless sun several weeks ago, choosing instead to concentrate his strength on saving his animals, the family garden, and a small corner of his field with the water he had managed to divert from the stream which bisected his farm.  He only hoped that water source would continue.  A once swiftly running stream, it had steadily diminished to a sluggish, shallow shadow of itself.

The young man dusted his hand off on his trousers and stood, turning to survey his farm. His.  He smiled.  It had taken him one look at the tract of land, bound on the east by the River Running and on the west by the great forest of the Greenwood five years ago to convince him to purchase it immediately, in spite of the protests of his family and friends.  “It’s too far from everyone else, Darius.”  “It’s too close to the forest, Darius.”  “You will be alone…if there’s trouble you will be too far for anyone to help.” 

He had listened to every reason and excuse, but after talking it over with his wife, Cara, he had bought the farm anyway.  That first year, a sturdy house with a wide porch and a large serviceable barn had been constructed under the stand of huge oak trees which formed a natural windbreak. They had moved in shortly after. 

He and Cara had cleared the first field together, and while he plowed the rows, she had followed behind, sowing the grain.  Their first crop had been abundant beyond all expectations and brought a goodly sum from the merchants in town.  He’d bought their milk cow and calf with some of the proceeds, knowing at last he had done the right thing.  The next three years he and Cara had begun to call the years of plenty – for it was certain this year would NOT follow suit.  Fortunately, he had saved enough profit from the years before to tide them over until this dry period passed. 

“Please pass – soon,” he whispered.  Looking at the dead and dying plants hurt the heart of this man who liked nothing better than to walk his fields, running his hands over the thriving plants, weighing the heavy heads of grain and breathing in the heady green smell of life.

Darius sighed again.  What a waste!  Yet as he stood there, his eyes were drawn to uneasily study the treeline across from his field.  This had been happening more and more of late and he was at a loss to explain why.  The woods did not look any different – mighty old trees surrounded by great younger trees and saplings, all vying for space and sunlight, providing home and shade and food for a variety of deer, squirrel, wild boar, and birds. 

He had never ventured far past the edge of the great wood. Every man, woman, and child raised in this part of Wilderland knew better than to trespass in the northern part of the Greenwood, where the Wood-elves made their homes under the governance of the Elvenking, Thranduil.  Not that the King did not permit hunting to take place.  He did - but only in certain areas of the forest and only with his permission. 

The dark mystery that was the Greenwood had grown over hundreds of years until the lake men had begun calling it Taur e-Ndaedelos, the forest of great fear, or Mirkwood.  And Mirkwood all men still named it.  Except Darius, who could often be heard to argue that while the southern forest might still be darkened by a great evil, this part still remained majestic and alive. 

Besides…Mirkwood?  Darius snorted.  In his opinion, such a name would only seem insulting to its guardians who worked so hard to keep the southern evil exactly where it was…in the south.  The elves might intimidate others, but he held out hope that one day before he died he would actually meet one of Firstborn.  Of course, his friends and family thought him quite daft. 

Darius continued to study the forest.  They were often there…he knew it.  From time to time he could feel the weight of their eyes watching him as he went about caring for his fields…but he had yet to even catch a glimpse of one.

And now this new sensation of…wrongness.  Darius stared at the nearby woods, puzzled at this sense of lurking danger he felt.

“What is it, love?” 

Darius started, his reverie interrupted by a gentle hand placed on his shoulder.  He turned to meet the concerned eyes of his wife, Cara. 

He shrugged, drawing her to stand before him, wrapping his arms around her slender form and cupping her gently rounded belly even as his eyes were unwittingly drawn back to their study of the treeline.  Both smiled when the babe within greeted its father with a boisterous kick, and Darius rested his chin on his wife’s head, inhaling her sweet scent.

“Darius,” she repeated, leaning back against his shoulder and turning slightly to peer up at his face.

“Hmmmm?,” he murmured.

“Answer the question.”  Silence.  

“What is it?” she persisted.

Cara watched her husband’s closed expression tighten and turned in his arms to kiss his cheek.

Time for another tack.  “Come inside then,” she urged.  “It’s well past noon and ye haven’t eaten yet.”

He scanned the wood one last time and reluctantly turned to follow her into the house.  After a quick meal of fresh bread, a vegetable soup and cheese, he returned to the endless chores of providing water for the garden and his animals (the cow and calf had been joined by a strong steer for plowing, a rather arrogant bull, and two horses). 

The next day was spent behind his plow, turning over the poor withered stubble in his field and again watering the livestock and garden, as well as refilling the makeshift reservoir he had devised for the house.  And watching the sky.  Always watching the sky for any hint of a promising raincloud.  But the sky remained a crystalline blue with a high, wispy cloud or two and the air remained dry, casting a fine dusty haze over the countryside.

One morning, Darius had had enough of the almost constant state of uneasiness and saddled his riding horse, a rangy blood-bay gelding grandly named Fire's Flame.  Darius had affectionately nicknamed the horse Cinder, for his practical, staid nature certainly did not resemble a flame of any sort.   

“I’ll be ridin’ over towards Lake-town to see my brother,” he explained to Cara as he led the horse from the barn. 

He kissed her forehead and said sternly, “Do not work too hard.”

She wrinkled her nose and crossed her eyes at those words.  Darius chuckled and kissed her again.  “I mean it, sprite,” he said.  “I won’t be gone but two, maybe three hours or so.  Save the hard chores for when I get back.”

“Yes, Master,” she dipped a curtsey, grinning and batting her eyelashes at him. 

“Ye are in a right fine mood, my girl,” Darius laughed, swinging into the saddle.  “See that ye take care…both of you.”

Hearing his concern, she patted his leg reassuringly.  “WE will, love.  Take care yerself and hurry back.”

He nodded and sent Cinder trotting out of the yard, northeast towards Lake-town.

Cara busied herself cleaning the house and preparing their evening meal.  True to his word, Darius returned several hours later, but would only tell her that his brother and family were doing well and was that wonderful smell berry tarts?  Knowing no amount of prodding would gain any information from her stubborn husband, Cara shrugged and fed him, well aware she would find out what he was planning soon enough.

‘Soon enough’ turned out to be early the next morning.  Darius' brother, Rendan and his middle son Garlon came riding up just in time for breakfast.  While they were putting their horse out to pasture, Cara was putting her fists on her hips and glaring at her husband. 

“What are ye planning, husband?” she asked.  “And no more passin’ me off with silly excuses or questions about tarts!”

Darius looked at her steadily and replied, “A trip.”

“Where?” she snapped, her heart sinking.

“Into the forest,” he said.  Cara closed her eyes.  Of course.

“Darius,” she whispered.  “If there be trouble in those woods, the elves will deal with it.  Leave it be…please.”

He took her by the arms and she looked up into his pleading eyes.  “I cannot, Cara,” he said softly.  “The forest is huge – they cannot be everywhere.  If there be trouble, I must at least try to find it…before it finds not only them, but us as well!”

“Darius…”  He stopped her protests with a gentle hand over her lips. 

“A short trip, dearling,” he promised.  “Just to scout around and make sure there’s no threat near our farm.  Rendan and Garlon will keep ye company and take care of the chores until I return.”

He drew her close.  “Two days – maybe three…then I’ll turn back if I don’t find anything.”

“And if ye get lost, ye foolish man, what then?” she asked, gritting her teeth in frustration.

“But I won’t.  I’m no novice to travelin’ long distances.  I’ve marked a trail and I’ll stick to it.  Besides, I’m not going towards the Elvenking’s stronghold.  I’ll stay fairly close to the edge of the forest, alright?” He kissed her forehead softly.

“No, it is not alright,” she returned shortly, pushing away to glare up at him, only to complain, “Why are ye so tall, Darius?  I can never fight with ye properly when yer towering over me like some overgrown troll.” 

Her husband, drat the insufferable man, threw back his head and laughed.  She tried to shove him away but he grabbed her again and drew her back against his chest.

“There, there, now little one,” he murmured consolingly.  “I’ll let ye win next time.”

Cara thumped his chest, giving up abruptly to lean her forehead against him and sigh.  “I know ye won’t rest until ye find out what is bothering ye so.”  She huffed in exasperation.  “Two days then – no more.”

He grinned.  “Two days.”

“Darius…” she warned.

“Two days – and I’ll start back.”

She slapped his arm.  “Impossible man – two days and ye’ll BE back.”  A long pointed silence.  “Period.”

Darius looked down into his wife’s deep green eyes, sparking now with anger and smoothed her bright auburn hair back from her face.

“Have I told ye lately how pretty ye are with those eyes fairly snapping with temper, love?”

She punched his arm this time.  “Two days, ye dolt.”

He laughed.  “Yer a hard woman, Cara my love.  Alright, two days it is.”  He bent to kiss her frowning mouth. 

“It better be,” she muttered against his lips and clung to him for a moment before pushing away.  “I’ll go and pack a bag with some food and fill a water skin.”

He watched as she turned and went to the back room where the cooking was done and food was stored.  Giving a little sigh of his own, he walked out of the house and headed to the barn to saddle his horse.

He met Rendan on the way.  “How did she take the news?” his brother asked, falling into step beside him.

Darius lengthened his stride.  “About like ye said, brother,” he answered.

Rendan stood outside Cinder’s stall and watched as Darius saddled his horse, frowning slightly when his big brother slipped a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and took down a bow from its mount on the wall.

“I wish ye’d reconsider,” he began.  “But…”  He raised a conciliatory hand when Darius turned to argue with him.

“…I know ye won’t.” 

Darius snorted and turned back to his horse.  Saddling completed, he led the big animal out of his stall and finally into the bright sunlight.  Rendan followed silently behind and clapped his brother fondly on the shoulder as he prepared to mount.

“Don’t ye worry about Cara or the farm,” he said.  “Garlon and me will take care of things.”  He gestured toward a field behind the barn.  “I’ve already got the boy takin’ yer cattle out to pasture.” 

Darius nodded and reached to clasp his brother’s shoulder in return.  “Thank ye, Rendan,” he said, swinging up into the saddle.

He gazed towards the forest for a moment before looking at his brother again.  “She gave me two days,” he said.  “Don’t start worryin’ until three pass.”  His brother nodded, both men watching Cara walk from the house carrying a gunny sack of food and two water skins.

“Ye have yer knives and an axe?” Rendan whispered.

“Aye,” Darius replied, patting the bow slung across his back.  “And the bow too.”

“Ahhh…well,” his brother huffed.  “Yer such a poor shot with that thing…keep the knives close.”

Darius chuckled.  “At least I can shoot the thing…after a fashion.”   

Cara reached the men and handed the sack up to her husband.  Darius looked at her set face, the way she stood stiffly with her arms folded across her chest and thought he couldn’t possibly love her more than he did right at that moment.  He hooked the sack on the saddle and leaned over. 

Cara cupped his face and gave him a lingering kiss.  “Be careful,” she whispered.

“I will,” he reassured her, catching one last kiss.  Cara stepped back as Darius nudged the horse forward.

She and Rendan watched as he rode across the field and followed the treeline before finally disappearing into the woods.

“Come along, Cara,” Rendan urged the silent woman gently towards the house.  “Brand is bringing Nola later this evenin’ to keep ye company.”

Cara tried to smile.  “Thank ye, Rendan.  It’ll be good to visit with another woman again.”

Rendan stopped, staring after her for a moment before following, plaintively saying, “What am I?  Fishbait?”

~~~~*~~~~

Darius rode slowly but steadily in a southwesterly direction the first day, staying close to the boundary of the forest at first before gradually working his way deeper into the trees.  He found the faint path he was looking for and followed that until sunset when he finally came across a small clearing with a very shallow creek skirting its edge.  Dismounting, he checked the water carefully.  It was really just a trickle, but clean and cool and protected from the sun by the heavy shade.  Darthon quickly unsaddled Cinder, rubbing the big horse down before putting the hobbles on and setting him to enjoy the measure of grain he’d brought, along with the fresh water. 

“See there,” he told the horse.  “Fresh water…yer favorite grain…all the comforts of home.” 

Cinder looked up at the man, water dripping from his muzzle, rolled his eyes and shook his head as if to say his man was obviously blind.  Darius laughed and swatted the horse affectionately. 

“Eat yer grain, ya big oaf,” he chuckled.  “And let me see yer hoof.” 

He picked up one hoof, then another, and picked them out to his satisfaction before leaving the horse to rest.  He gathered wood into a stack nearby and sat down to eat his own cold supper.  Using the dead wood to kindle a small fire, he sat quietly for a time, listening to the forest creatures settle for the night and hoping no one (man, elf, or otherwise) took notice of his presence.  He checked Cinder one last time before rolling up in his blanket and trying to sleep.  Which he did.  Sleep, that is.  Eventually.

Darius woke at dawn the next morning, stiff and wondering what in the world he had been thinking in attempting this insane search through a forbidding forest based on nothing more than a feeling.  But a breakfast of Cara’s sweet spice rolls with a healthy slice of cheese and a slab of ham, heated on a stick over the coals of the fire soon raised his spirits. 

“I have got to get a pig,” he muttered, chewing blissfully on the last bit of warm pork and licking his greasy fingers. 

He broke camp in his quiet, efficient way; doused the fire and scattered the coals, making sure no spark remained.  Filling the water skins, he saddled Cinder and climbed onto the horse’s back, urging him forward on the same path.     

“Now, my friend,” he said, patting the muscular neck.  “Let’s see what we might find today.”

The path wound its way deeper into the woods and Darius noticed the increasing gloom and heaviness in the air.  Birdsong grew faint and the small wildlife he had seen the day before disappeared.  Cinder’s pace slowed, became reluctant, and Darius felt the familiar uneasiness return. 

“Now maybe we’ll see what’s causin’ this,” he thought, wondering at the same time if he really wanted to know.

By midafternoon, the big bay’s nervousness finally reached the point where Darius had to dismount and lead the horse on foot.  The pair had not traveled much farther when Cinder balked, planting his feet and refusing to move.  Darius grabbed the horse’s headstall, bringing the beast’s head to his chest and stroking the trembling animal’s nose.

The man didn’t make a sound, standing stock-still, listening and trying to see through the gloom surrounding them.  The trees had fallen silent – nothing, neither animal or wind disturbing the absolute stillness of the air.

Suddenly, Cinder's ears swiveled forward, alerted by something ahead on the path.  Darius slowly slipped his long knife from its scabbard, ignoring the bow for the time being.  He knew his limitations – he was no warrior, but his skill with a blade was marginally better.

Now he could hear what had caught Cinder’s attention...a faint movement through the brush just off the trail – something attempting stealth and speed rather unsuccessfully.  Darius tensed, his grip tightening until his knuckles ached.

From the underbrush to his right, a small figure broke free, stumbled and gasped for breath, then broke into a shambling run.  Right into Darius.

He fumbled around, returning the knife to its sheath with one hand, while the other grasped a fragile shoulder.  His astonished eyes widened in disbelief as they beheld the grimy, terrified features of a small child.  Darius bent down slowly, talking softly to calm the young one.

“There, there, shhhh,” he whispered, gently patting the shaking shoulder.  “Yer safe now.  Shhh…no one will harm ye now.” 

The child, a young boy perhaps six years of age, looked up at Darius and fell into his arms, sobbing softly.  Darius hugged the boy, keeping his eyes on the path ahead for whatever pursued the child and drawing the long knife once more.

He didn’t have to wait long.  He heard it first.  A click-clacking sound of something skittering along at a rapid pace.

The little boy gasped, tugging on Darius' arm and pointing up.  He saw it then – a large, black something with many legs, scuttling along a branch overhead. 

Quicker than thought, the shape dropped from the tree, suspended by a thick rope.  Shoving the child behind him to be sandwiched between his own body and Cinder, Darius lifted the knife and shoved it into the rapidly descending creature.  The blade sank into the soft underbelly, the weight of the animal staggering and almost knocking him off his feet. 

An unearthly shriek sounded as a gush of thick black gunk – “Is than blood?” he thought, recoiling at the gore – spurted over his arm and chest.  He allowed the creature’s momentum to carry its twitching body over his head and into a bush behind him.  Darius stood there, astounded, staring at the dying carcass.  It was large – the size of half-grown calf, covered with coarse black hair with eight jointed legs.

“By the Powers!” he breathed, watching the thing in a kind of horrified fascination.  “Is that a…a spider?” 

Within moments, the twitching stopped and the legs curled over the body in death.  Darius drew a deep, shaky breath and bent over the dead spider to retrieve his knife.  He yanked it out, grimacing at the gore and the smell and the horror of the dark thing there beside the path.

A soft choking sound behind him brought him out of his paralyzed reverie and back to awareness.  He returned to Cinder, who thankfully had assumed a protective stance over the child cowering at his feet. 

“It’s alright, child,” Darius said, crouching down and trying to see the little face currently covered with two scratched and bleeding hands.

“It’s dead, see?” The little head shook, side to side.  No.

“But it is, little one.  It is dead,” Darius reassured, trying to think how else he might comfort the terrified youngster.  “Nothin’ will hurt ye now…”  His voice trailed off as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.  Oh no. 

“Child,” he said urgently.  “Are there more?”

The little one, face still covered, did not respond.  Darius stood, eyes frantically scanning the trees overhead. 

“Where?” he rasped, talking to himself, trying to stay calm and remain as quiet as possible so as not draw any further attention to their location.  He eyed the brush from which the child had appeared and made a quick decision. 

“Stay here with Cinder,” Darius said. 

The little hands came down at the sound of his voice and Darius found himself staring into frightened, tear-filled eyes the color of new leaves.  He finally took notice of the ethereal beauty of the child’s face and caught his breath.  The boy’s ebony colored hair covered his ears so Darius couldn’t see, but…oh, surely not!

Kneeling before the little one, he held both hands up to show he posed no threat and asked, “Edhel?” 

The child nodded slowly.  Darius sank back on his heels.  An elven child – here in the deep woods – apparently alone.  He closed his eyes, hoping the elfling’s parents were not somewhere on the path ahead, injured or worse.  He had to find out.  Now. 

Darius opened his eyes again to find the child watching him fearfully.  He smiled – or tried to and said softly, pointing to himself, “Darius.”

The green eyes widened and the little one sniffed tearfully, but pointed to himself and whispered, “Gilfileg.”

“Well met, Gilfileg,” Darius said.  “This is Cinder.”

He rose and patted the big horse’s neck, taking care not to make any sudden movement towards the child, who also stood and leaned against the animal, one small hand stroking the bay coat.  Darius breathed a sigh of relief.  The elves of this forest guarded their young closely – he couldn’t remember anyone in Lake-town saying they had ever seen any children of the Firstborn, even accompanying the small groups of adults that sometimes visited the market square.  He certainly had never seen any and did not want this little one’s first memory of man to be a frightening one.

“Gilfileg,” Darius said quietly.  When the boy looked up at him, he gestured to him.  “Stay.  Stay here with Cinder.  I’ll be right back.”  Gilfileg shrank back against the horse, eyes filling with tears again as he realized the man was leaving him alone.

Darius stiffened against the stark pleading in those green eyes and made himself turn and walk up the trail.  The faster he looked, the sooner he could return and they could leave. 

He immediately noted how dark it seemed, the undergrowth thick, the air stifling.  He crept along the path, staying close to the edge, eyes constantly examining the trees.  He saw a stand of older oak and larch ahead that seemed oddly darker than the surrounding trees. 

He stopped behind some concealing bushes, crouching close to the ground and freezing in place.  Barely breathing, he heard again that strange clacking sound of spiny legs scrabbling against bark.  He inched forward to get a better look and the hair lifted on the back of his neck at the nightmare laid out before his eyes. 

The huge old trees appeared dark because of the thick, sticky strands that could only be spider silk dangling from their branches.  They were covered, limbs weighted down with ropes of webs.  Hanging from the webs were squirrels and birds, all partially or completely wrapped in silk; in one web hung what looked to be a fawn or small deer.  What particularly frightened him, though was the sight of a large, ominously pulsing egg sac anchored in one web-draped tree.  He spotted two of the black monsters scrambling among the branches of a far tree, busily adding to their nest.

Darius turned and made his way silently back to his horse and the child, swallowing bile and fear as he moved.  He found Cinder standing statue-still, the elfling huddled at his side. 

“Good boy,” he murmured, caressing the horse’s nose.  “Ye know better than to move around and call attention to yerself, eh?”  Cinder bobbed his head, shifting restlessly. 

Darius felt a tug on his shirt and looked down into eyes filled with questions.  “I wish I could answer in a way ye could understand, child,” he murmured regretfully.  He took a chance and laid his hand on the dark hair, pleased when Gilfileg didn’t flinch away. 

“Will ye ride with me, youngling?” he asked, gesturing to Cinder’s back.  “We need to get out of here now.”  Bright eyes watched the gesture and understanding Darius' intent, he nodded. 

“Excellent,” breathed Darius, mounting Cinder and reaching down to lift Gilfileg up before him. 

The elfling curled into the man, clutching his shirt with both hands.  Darius wrapped one arm around the shivering little body and pulled the horse around, letting him find his way down the path.  They traveled thus almost a half hour before Darthon deemed it safe to nudge the big horse into a trot.  Another half hour, and he let Cinder have his head, trusting the intelligent animal to know how fast to move and still keep to their path.

They traveled that way for what seemed an age when suddenly, Cinder shied, coming to a bone-jarring halt.  Darius clutched the elfling close, drawing his knife as all around him warriors dressed in the green and brown garb of the Greenwood dropped from the trees, arrows knocked and aimed directly at the man on the horse. 

“NO!” he cried at the same instant another voice shouted, “Daro!”

~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~

Translation:  edhel – elf (s.)   Daro! - Halt!

A/N:  I have been reliably informed that the use of names for men based on Sindarin would be inappropriate at this point in the story, so I am changing the names of my OC characters (men).  Oh, and the horse, too!  Below is a list of the changes, which I know is confusing, but necessary at this point.

Darthon - now Darius

Haldor (Darius' father) - now Olwain

Rirdon (Darius' brother)- now Rendan

Galen (Rendan's son)- now Garlon

Firion (the horse) - now Fire's Flame, affectionately nicknamed Cinder because of his placid nature

I'm sorry for any confusion this might cause...I'm going to put this same name change note in the next chapter, too!  Also, other the Prologue and this chapter have been edited to tighten things up a little and correct some other little mistakes.  Thanks for your patience, all!

Summary:  Darius finds some help.

Disclaimer:  The setting and major characters belong to JRR Tolkien.  I don’t own them – I only call them out to play from time to time. 

A/N:  I have been informed by a reliable source these men would not be using names of elvish origin at this point in the story, so I am changing the names of some of the men to reflect that fact.  The changes are listed below. (Thank you, NiRi, beta extraordinaire.) 

Darthon will be known as Darius

His father will be known as Olwain

Darthon’s brother Rirdon is now Rendan

Rendan’s son Galen is now Garlon

Firion, the horse is now Fire’s Flame – aptly nicknamed Cinder because of his placid nature

Also, I must apologize for the delay in posting…RL has a habit of interrupting at the most inopportune times.  And did I mention I hate computers?  I will try to stick to the weekly posting schedule once again…*sigh*.

*character thoughts will be in italics

Chapter 2:  One Little Corner of the Forest

                   “You can’t stay in your corner of the forest, waiting for others to come to you;

                    you have to go to them sometimes.”

                                                                                             -Winnie the Pooh on friendship

A shocked silence fell over the room, broken only by the intermittent crackle of the fire and the rhythmic thud of rain on the roof.  Eight pairs of accusing eyes stared at the old man smiling at them from his rocking chair.  Within the space of a breath, eight young voices rose in protest.

“Grandfather!  You cannot stop now!”

“What?  What happened?”

“Wait a minute.  Did they SHOOT him?”

“No!  Of course not!  They would not do such a thing…would they?”

“Grandfatherrrrrrr…”

When the outrage turned to whining, the old man raised his hand and the voices faded away.  “I will continue for a time longer,” he promised.  “Then we will stop so that everyone might eat…”  He grinned at the eager nods of agreement.  “…and help with the cleanup afterwards, of course.”  He laughed out loud at the groans of protest.

“Now, where was I?  Oh, yes…”

                                                                    XXX

Darius heard a voice shout, “Daro!” but had no idea what it might mean.  For all he knew, it was the command to release all arrows, so he bent over the child seated before him as far as possible, enfolding and surrounding the little body with as much of his as he could.  If they were going to shoot first, he was determined Gilfileg would take no injury.

He squeezed his eyes shut and waited…

Cinder snorted at the strange creatures surrounding them, pawing the ground.  His shivering eased as the sense of threat diminished, although the silence stretched over the pathway, encasing it in a thin, tense bubble of expectation.  Gilfileg squirmed his way around on Darius’ lap until he had his thin arms wrapped around the man’s neck in a stranglehold.  Darius could feel the little one’s tears soaking his collar and a rising anger with these elves for scaring one of their own babies began to burn away his fear.  So focused was he on protecting Gilfileg from attack that the arrival of another horse escaped his notice until he heard again that same commanding voice speaking directly in front of him.

                                                                    XXX

Ohtar Meneldarion had stood beside the first king of the great forest, Oropher, and his family throughout the discovery and settlement of Eryn Galen.  He had trained and commanded the forces of the Greenwood during those horrific years on the battlefield of the Dagorlad, and throughout the agonizingly slow retreat north, forced by the darkness which had taken up residence on Amon Lanc in the south.  At the death of his friend, Ohtar had pledged his fealty to the son, Thranduil, and had continued to lead the fight to protect the forest and its people.  He thought that in all his long years he had seen everything.

Until now.

He sat his horse in the middle of a narrow path, watching a man offer himself as the target for his warriors’ arrows, all in an effort to shield a child, who, if he wasn’t mistaken, also happened to be an elfling!

Amazing.

Ohtar glared at the six warriors he had sent ahead through the trees to surround only – not attack – the man.

“Would you impale the youngling also?” he growled, gratified to see the tense stances relax somewhat, the bows lower fractionally.

“Just what is a man doing in our forest with an elfling anyway, Captain?”

Ohtar turned his hard gaze on the speaker.  Tathor.  Tathor, of the ungoverned mouth.  He dismounted and stalked over to confront this newest member of the Southern Patrol.

“Tathor,” he snapped.  “If you would hone your powers of observation as proficiently as you do your skill with a bow, we would all be very blessed indeed.”

The younger elf flushed and clamped his lips shut against an ill-thought retort.

Ohtar nodded.  “Very good.  I see you are not unteachable, you just want me to think you are.”  He gestured towards the pair on the horse, his voice taking on the tone of a lecturing teacher.  “Now, look at them.  Note the man’s posture, Tathor.  The human is not cowering in guilt or fear – he is hunched over in an effort to protect the child.  Even more telling, look at the child.  Do you see?  He is not trying to escape a captor – he is clutching the man’s neck as if his life depends on it.”

Ohtar threw up his hands in disgust and addressed the whole group, his voice dripping disapproval.  “And why should he not?  His very life DOES depend on the good will and strength of a frail mortal!”

He snorted.  “Of course, you will note the elfling’s reaction also implies a large measure of trust, not fear.  I realize most of you have had very little contact with the Secondborn and are reacting to the stories you have heard about them.  However, not all men pose a threat.  Remember that.”  He glared pointedly at the bows still drawn.  “You may be new to the Southern Patrol, but you are not novices.  I expect you to act and react like the seasoned, responsible warriors you are.”

“Now,” he snapped out, one hand slashing through the air in an imperious gesture of command as his exasperation finally overrode his patience, “lower your weapons before you hurt someone.”

The patrol members, chagrin clearly expressed in the looks exchanged between them, quickly complied with their commander’s order.  Ohtar harrumphed, staring at them one interminable moment longer before turning away to study the man.

The elf approached the bay horse with care, stopping a short distance away, admiring the strength evident in the big, rawboned frame.  No delicate, graceful creature here.  This one had been bred for hard work and stamina – and had learned the lesson of loyalty from the man on his back.  Recognizing the warning stamp of hooves, the nervous tossing of the animal’s head and laid back ears, he began singing in a calm, quiet voice.  The lilting sound of the song eventually registered with both man and beast.  The horse’s ears perked forward and his restless shifting about ceased.  Ohtar stepped forward, smiling as the horse shoved his nose into his chest in an unashamed bid for petting, while his rider finally lifted his head to look at the elf standing before him.

Ohtar found himself staring into eyes a deep indigo blue…eyes shining with resolution.  As the two stared at each other, Ohtar knew the instant the man’s resolution turned into defiance.  The elf almost smiled.  One had to admire this one’s foolish courage.  He would not back down, despite the fact he was outnumbered and unarmed.  Ohtar spotted the blade at the man’s waist.  Well, at least he had not drawn his weapon as of yet.  They were such an unpredictable race – capable of much loyalty and bravery – as well as unimaginable cruelty and treachery.  This man, however, appeared to be one of the good ones.

“I can think of at least three pressing questions I could ask…” he began in flawless, lightly accented Westron.

The man gasped upon hearing words he at last understood.  “Please!” he cried, his voice hoarse and pleading.  “Ye must summon more of yer warriors!”  Ohtar lifted one disbelieving eyebrow at this obvious lack of manners, preparing to rip a strip off the presumptuous mortal’s hide when the man choked out, “Spiders!  Huge, black ones!  Back down the trail!  Please, ye must believe me…”

His words sputtered to a halt when the elfling, who had stopped crying and began listening when he heard the sound of his own language, turned towards Ohtar and released a frantic flood of Sindarin.

“Whatever he was telling you is true, Captain!  I was playing near our village and followed a bird through the woods to find its nest…”  The child sniffed, fighting tears.  “I went further than I knew and one of those black spiders snuck up behind me and knocked me out of the tree.”  He gulped back a sob.  “It followed me to the ground, hissing ‘here was a fine and tender meal’.  I ran and ran and it went back into the trees and followed me…teasing…”  The child finally lost his composure and collapsed, sobbing into Darius’ soft shirt.

“Spiders?” Ohtar muttered.  “This far north?  It cannot be…”  After watching the man try to comfort the frantic child, the elf made a quick decision.  Turning to the waiting warriors, who had listened to the child’s account with growing alarm, he began firing off orders.  “Tathor, how far are we from the rendezvous point with the Eastern Patrol?”

Tathor’s reply came immediately.  “Less than two leagues, Captain.”

“Take the man and the child NOW to our meeting place.  Nilmar…Arhael…you will accompany them.”  He paused.  “Tathor, go on and ride Maethor.  I will join the others on the ground or in the trees, if necessary.”  Nodding their assent, the warriors moved to do his bidding. 

Tathor went to the bay horse, singing softly as he took the reins and led the animal over to Ohtar’s imposing gray stallion, Maethor.  After a brief moment communing with the captain’s horse, he leapt onto the strong back, keeping the reins firmly in hand and bringing the bay up beside them.  The two horses examined each other; Maethor giving a suspicious snort while the bay horse maintained his calm, yet watchful, demeanor.  Tathor, grinning at the insulted toss of the sculpted head, murmured to the big grey, “He does not seem too impressed, my friend.”

Darius, meanwhile, watched all the change with growing alarm until Tathor noted his unease and leaned over, saying in halting Westron, “Do not fear.  We are taking you to a safe place.”  Nilmar and Arhael took up their places on either side of the horses; they would serve as the party’s escort.

Once Ohtar saw the little procession on its way, he turned to what was left of his patrol, ordering, “You three – with me.”  The remaining warriors fell into step behind him as he led them further down the path towards the spiders’ lair.

                                                                    XXX

Darius felt some of the tension ooze from his muscles as the elf led Cinder down the trail away from the spiders.  According to their guide, they were being taken somewhere safe while the commander and the remaining patrol went to check out his story.  He hoped they were careful.  He hated to think of those fair elven warriors trussed up in spider silk and served as the main course of the evening meal.  Shuddering at the gruesome thought, he hugged Gilfileg, smiling slightly as the child sighed and burrowed deeper into his arms.  At least the little one was safe and would see his family soon.

May that wish hold true for us all.  Darius thought wistfully of Cara and home with all its mundane chores as they turned off the main trail onto a very faint track that led to who knew where.

                                                                    XXX

“Captain?” Gwaelas whispered.  “Now what?”

Ohtar stared at the dead spider, idly noting the placement of the mortal wound and sighed.  “It would seem Shadow has somehow managed to breech our lines and thinks to establish a foothold here.”  He stood abruptly, hands on hips as his keen gray eyes studied the forest, noting signs of both the man’s and the elfling’s passage.

“Gwaelas, you and I will locate the nest.  According to the man, it is not too far from here.”  Gwaelas nodded, his face set and pale.

“Artamir, you and Galthor make your way towards the west – make it a wide circle in order to avoid this path.  Find the elfling’s village.  I have not been in this area in years.  There were once several villages in this area.  Perhaps they still exist.  If so, the child is probably from the nearest one.”  He gazed intently at the two.  “Stay together.  And stay out of the trees.”  The two warriors exchanged uneasy glances at that command as their captain continued.  “Once you find the village, stay there.  Warn the people and make certain that everyone is accounted for.  Set a perimeter guard, even if all they have in the way of arms is hunting bows.  We will join you as soon as possible with reinforcements.”

He paused.  “I know this goes against everything in you to do nothing.  I, too, can hear the despair and pain in the trees’ song.  But I need you to stay in the village and keep them calm.  Once you locate the elfling’s parents, tell them he is safe and we will bring him home sometime tomorrow.  I hesitate to split our forces any further, but there is no help for it if we are to do all that needs doing.  Once we have joined the Eastern Patrol, we will make short work of the nest and its occupants.

Ohtar held up a hand to forestall the protest he saw building.  “You will both get a chance to participate, believe me.  We will need to track any spiders that might be away at the time we dispose of the nest.  That will require a sweep of a large area.”

He smirked at the feral smiles now gracing his warriors’ faces.  “Yes, yes, children.  Then we will chase them all the way back to Dol Guldur!”  Once the laughter had subsided, he asked, “Everyone satisfied now?  Good.  On your way, then.”

Ohtar and Gwaelas watched their companions disappear into the forest.  Ohtar frowned at the lengthening shadows.  They would need to hurry if they were to find the infestation and still make the rendezvous before dark.  He motioned to Gwaelas.  “Let us go find that nest.”

                                                                    XXX

Darius knew they must be nearing their destination when the elf leading Cinder sent one member of their escort ahead.  The elf returned within minutes and after a hushed conversation with Tathor, they continued on their way.

Shortly after, the track they were following broke free of the dense forest into a small meadow, which was currently hosting yet another patrol.  Darius counted at least nine elves involved setting up a camp in the clearing.

“Tathor!”  A tall, golden-haired figure turned from speaking with several other elves and crossed the camp with long strides to greet them. 

The two clasped shoulders in what was obviously a warrior’s greeting, smiling and exchanging news and in Tathor’s case, explanations, in their musical language.

Once Tathor and the guards left to clean up and eat, Darius found himself under the intense scrutiny of the tall warrior, who, judging by the deferential attitude of the others, was the captain of this group.  He swung a leg over Cinder and slid off the big horse, carefully holding Gilfileg who had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and stepping forward to meet his host.

“I am Legolas Thranduilion,” the elf introduced himself in fluent Westron, bowing slightly.  The man stifled a gasp of recognition as the elf laid a hand lightly on the bundle in Darius’ arms that was Gilfileg.  “And who is this?”

“His name is Gilfileg, my lord,” Darius replied, nodding his head in respect.  “My name is Darius.”  That gentle hand ghosted over the elfling’s dark hair and Darius was stunned by the warm beauty of the elf’s – no, the Prince’s – smile.

“Come, Darius,” he invited.  “Sit by the fire and be welcome.  After you eat, you can tell us about yourself and the spiders you found.”  Darius followed the son of the Elvenking, still cradling the sleeping child.

“You may lay him here, Darius.”  A dark-haired elf appeared at his side, placing a pallet of blankets on the ground a short distance from the fire and speaking as he worked.  “Then you will be able to eat freely.”  Between the two of them, they managed to settle the youngster, who paid them no mind other that to turn over with a grumble and pull a light blanket almost over his head.  Man and elf shared a grin and left the elfling to rest.

Darius sank down on the other side of Gilfileg and let out a long relieved breath.  The dark-haired elf, apparently an aide of some sort, handed him a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of bread before bowing and leaving them to talk.

Prince Legolas asked a few thoughtful questions, and Darius was surprised at how easily the two of them conversed.  For over an hour, they ate while he spoke of his life on his farm, of Cara and the child to come, his concerns about the lack of rain, of the sense that something was wrong in the woods and finally, of the spiders and Gilfileg.  At the end, Legolas sat back and thoughtfully considered the man sitting across from him.

“You risked much, Darius,” he remarked.  “I cannot decide if you are impossibly brave or incredibly foolish.”

Darius laughed.  “Ye and my Cara must meet, my lord.  Ye sound just like her.”

At that moment, the same dark-haired elf approached, bending over to whisper something in his commander’s ear.  Legolas nodded.  “Thank you, Anárion.”  He stood and looked down at his guest.

“Rest now, my friend,” he instructed.  “and know that you have our unending gratitude for not only your information about the spiders, but also for the life of young Gilfileg.  We will return you to your home as soon as possible.”

“But the spiders…”

Prince Legolas clasped Darius’ shoulder and gently squeezed.  “Worry not,” he said, his gray eyes steely with resolve.  “We will deal with that evil presently.”

With those words, Legolas walked away, calling for several others to attend him.  Anárion returned and handed Darius more bedding.

“Sleep, Darius,” he repeated his Captain’s words.  “We will keep watch.”

Darius sighed; it seemed pointless to argue with these suddenly deaf elves.  He rolled up in a blanket and by the time Ohtar arrived, he was fast asleep.

                                                                    XXX

Night had settled over the forest when the outer guards sounded the alert signaling new arrivals.

“Ohtar!”  Legolas saluted the past commander of all the forces of Eryn Galen, grinning when the older elf waved his very proper salute aside and took him into his arms for a brief, but fierce embrace.

“It is good to see you again, youngling.”  Ohtar stepped back, studying the King’s son with shrewd eyes.  “I see the responsibility of a patrol has added a worry line or two, Legolas.”

Legolas brushed aside Ohtar’s observation with a scowl and a grimace.  “Did you find the nest?”

“I did.” A short, succinct reply, guaranteed to drive the younger elf mad with curiosity.

“And…” 

“Gather your warriors, Captain,” Ohtar ordered, amused.  “I believe we have an engagement with some spiders to plan.”

“What of the man and the child?” he asked, once Legolas returned to his side, his warriors congregating behind him, their voices muted, their eagerness almost palpable.

“He and Gilfileg are asleep,” Legolas replied.  “According to Darius, it has been a long, fraught-filled day for the both of them.  Darius has eaten and Anárion will feed the little one if he awakens.  They are bedded down near the fire.  In fact, we should do our talking on the other side of the camp so as not to disturb them.”

The Prince led the assembled group to one of the several perimeter fires, and they gathered around a crouching Ohtar as he drew a rough map in the dirt, outlining the layout of the spider’s lair.  “This is a relatively small colony,” he sketched the cluster of beech and oak with its small clearing, “with four nests and anywhere from six to eight spiders attending each nest.  At least we hope there are only that many.  However, we should be prepared for more, just in case.”

The stick marked the location of each nest.  “This nest,” he circled one near the center of the colony, “has an egg sac.”  Ohtar looked up, his expression stern.  “The spiders will swarm to that one once they realize what is happening.”

He nodded to Legolas, who took over the briefing.  “We will concentrate our initial attack on that nest and spread out from that point.  Since the spiders are inactive at night, we will wait here, resting and readying our weapons.  Two hours before dawn, we will move out and take our places surrounding the nests.  At dawn, we will attack.”

He paused to allow the approving murmurs to subside.  “I would prefer to burn those foul carcasses, but in this weather and with the forest this dry, we will have to bury them.”  He tapped his chin thoughtfully.  “A small fire, however, to burn the egg sac, would be prudent.  We do not need any surprise hatchlings later.”  Several of his warriors grinned at the Prince’s dry tone of voice. 

Ohtar leaned towards Legolas and whispered, “Silk?” 

Legolas grimaced.  Sticky, nasty, unfortunately useful, stuff.  “As I have been reminded,” he bowed towards Ohtar, who nodded his dark head regally in return, “we should also harvest the useful silk.  You are all aware of the thicker strands prized by the palace weavers.  The newer, more delicate strands should be handled carefully and preserved for the healers.  Bury the rest.  Once our chores…” more grins from his fellow warriors “…are completed, we will make a thorough sweep of the area from here south to the mountains.”

“There are villages scattered throughout this area that will need to be warned, Captain,” Anárion told them.  “We should probably start with Gilfileg’s home.”

Legolas thought for a moment.  “You are from this area, are you not, Anárion?”  At his aide’s nod, he said, “I know it has been some time since you visited, but get out the maps and mark the approximate locations of the villages you are aware of.” 

“Yes, Captain,” the elf replied and went to fetch the maps each patrol carried. 

Legolas looked over his remaining warriors.  “Celebgil and Falas will stay behind on guard duty.  At dawn, they will break camp and bring Darius and Gilfileg, along with the horses, to us.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ohtar caught a sudden movement from Tathor and lifted an eyebrow in surprise as the young elf raised his hand to catch Legolas’ attention.  “They will need a guide, my lord.  I will stay behind and lead them to where we first met, if that is acceptable.”  He glanced at Ohtar, who agreed. 

“That should be close enough.  We will watch for you.”  The usually dour Captain allowed a small, approving smile to grace his features.  “Well thought, Tathor.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Tathor murmured.

Legolas gestured to a silent elf standing off to one side of the group, watching the proceedings with keen-eyed interest.  “Tarmadîn?”  The elf straightened to attention.  “You will watch for Celebgil and Falas.  Of all of us, you hear the forest most clearly.  The trees will let you know when they come?” 

“Yes, my lord,” the elf’s voice was soft.  “I will see that I am informed when they arrive.”

Legolas nodded in satisfaction.  Tarmadîn was one of the oldest elves of the Greenwood and his most accomplished scout.  He could easily watch for the others and kill his share of spiders, too.

The Prince rose, a signal to all that the meeting was at an end.  “You have about six hours before we must leave.  Use your time wisely.”  The elves drifted off to attend to various tasks.  Ohtar and Legolas settled by the fire and spoke of the coming confrontation, discussing strategy and the placement of their respective warriors.

“You seemed surprised Tathor offered to stay, Ohtar,” Legolas commented, eyeing the old soldier sitting across from him, examining each arrow in his quiver for flaws or damage.  He had his own bow in his lap, replacing the string.

“He is a friend of yours?” Ohtar asked, sighting down the length of one arrow, looking for any cracks in the wood. 

“We were novices together,” Legolas replied, tensing.  A much younger Tathor had gained a reputation based on a few…well, maybe more than a few…reckless exploits.  Now that he was older, he was finding it hard to overcome that label, despite the fact he had become a proficient warrior.  Legolas often found himself defending him.  “He is a good warrior, Ohtar.  He…”

Ohtar raised one hand, ending the impending diatribe before it could begin.  “No need to defend him, my Prince.  Although he is an impetuous one, I see much promise in him.”  Ohtar returned his arrows to the quiver.  His sharp, intelligent eyes pinned the prince.  “He has not had the guidance and strong discipline you have received, but I have seen him take correction and apply it.  Along with Belegdor’s recommendation, I am encouraged.”

Legolas chuffed.  “At least he has been sent to your patrol.  It seems I am doomed to stay close to home.  Any idea when I will be allowed to come south, Captain?”

“When your lord father deems it time.”  Ohtar studied the strong young elf fondly.

“I am ready now, Ohtar,” Legolas complained softly.

“I know.  But HE is not ready.”  Ohtar rose and held out his hand to lift the young Prince to his feet.  “Patience, Legolas.  Your time will come…and the south with all its dark troubles is not going anywhere.  Now, attend me, youngling.  I am hungry and I noticed Gwindor is in charge of the cooking tonight.  I will need you to test the stew before I try it.”  He smirked at Legolas’ squawk of protest as they ambled over to join the others.

                                                                    XXX

Two hours before dawn, twenty-two elven warriors took to the trees, moving cautiously through the branches until they reached their destination.  Legolas and Ohtar directed pairs of elves into position until the nests were surrounded.  Then they waited for sunrise, the despairing song of the afflicted trees igniting a cold rage in the elves as they listened.

The sky had just begun to brighten when a clacking sound issued from the nests, shattering the stillness of the forest.  The first black body emerged from one of the nests, followed by another and then another.  The captains signaled their warriors, the loud twang of bowstrings being released echoed, and with a shout, the battle was joined.  The great spiders swarmed from their nests, making their way through the trees towards the egg sac like a vile, rippling wave of darkness.  Each elf worked with a partner, efficiently maneuvering limb to limb, methodically eliminating the creatures with one well-placed arrow after another.  Bodies of spiders began piling up on the forest floor like dead leaves.  And still they came.

Legolas loosed an arrow into one particularly grotesque spider, watching it drop to the ground in a writhing heap before glancing at the next tree just in time to finish off a spider sneaking up on a preoccupied Narmacil.  A distressed murmur from the tree behind him alerted him to further danger and, pivoting gracefully, he buried another bolt in a spider preparing to drop onto Taurdil.

“Legolas, above you!” shouted Anárion.

The Prince looked up as one of the arachnids dropped swiftly toward his head.  Swiftly balancing with the obliging tree’s help, he leaned back, changing the trajectory of his arrow to an upward flight into the abdomen of the spider, ducking his head in an effort to avoid the stinking black blood that rained down on him.  Leaping to the next branch, he continued his attack when a sudden cracking sound jerked his attention to one of the trees nearest the clearing.  He watched in horror as the limb gave way and two bodies plummeted to the ground, several of the spiders immediately following them down, suspended on long ropes of silk.

“Narmacil!  Gwindor!”  Releasing two arrows in rapid succession, he impaled one of the descending spiders with such force it was knocked clear of its silk rope and flung twenty feet away from the fallen elves. 

Narmacil rose, shaking his head to clear it, standing over the alarmingly still body of his partner, and firing at the threat overhead.  Legolas and Anárion scrambled through the branches in an effort to reach his side, keeping up a continuous barrage to deflect any attack on the helpless pair.  Legolas had skewered another monster when he realized his quiver was empty. 

Slipping his bow into its place on his back and drawing one of the long knives in a fluid, practiced motion, the Prince struck a blow to an oncoming spider that almost cleaved it in two.  All around ink-black blotches of blood pooled around the bodies of the dead and dying arachnids, their stench rising into the air like a poisonous cloud.  Dispatching another troublesome, hissing opponent, he heard Ohtar send some of his warriors in pursuit of several fleeing creatures. He paused, surprised, breathing heavily, his sword drawn back for another blow.  A swift scan of the clearing and the trees overhead told its own story; the attacking spiders were no more.  The battle was over. 

“Taurdil!” he called for his second in command.  “I will need an accounting now!”

“Yes, Captain.”  Taurdil, who had been expecting just such an order, turned and yelled, “Ascarion, to me!”

Ascarion appeared at his side and delivered his report in a low voice.  Taurdil listened closely, the hard expression on his face easing at the news. 

As Legolas heard members of his patrol responding, he relaxed somewhat, flexing his blood-slick fingers on the sword’s hilt.  The call, “All accounted for!” came some moments later and the Prince drew his first deep breath since the battle began.

“Start disposing of this mess,” he gestured towards the webs and carcasses on the ground.  “Be certain to get that egg sac.” 

Ascarion motioned to several nearby warriors and they set to work digging the deep hole that would eventually serve as the dead spiders’ grave.  Taurdil saluted and gathered the remaining elves to help pick up the deadfall for the small fire and collect the egg sac to be burned. 

Legolas joined Anárion and Narmacil, who were crouched beside the fallen Gwindor.  Narmacil was supporting Gwindor in a sitting position, but Legolas could see the elf was still dazed, one side of his face covered with blood.  Both of his friends were checking him over closely, looking for spider bites.

Finally, Narmacil looked up at his captain and said, “No bites, my lord.  Most of the blood is from that cut on his head.  He is most certainly concussed, and I think his arm is broken.  I will have Tarmadîn look at it when he gets back.  He is a much more accomplished healer than I am.”  Anárion took a length of cloth and dampened it with water from his waterskin, gently wiping off the blood coating the side of Gwindor’s face.

He, too, looked up at Legolas with a faint smile.  “A stitch or two to close this up and a week or so to let that arm heal…he will recover to delight us with his cooking once more, my lord.”  He gazed past Legolas.  “And it looks as though Tarmadîn has arrived with Tathor and the others.”

Legolas turned just as the horses paused at the edge of the clearing.  “Stay there,” he called, running over to grab the headstall of the nervous, fidgety Cinder.  “The horses will not appreciate the scent of blood and spider.” 

“It looks as if hunting was good, my lord,” a grinning Tathor called. 

“Hunting was excellent, Tathor!” Legolas returned the grin before turning to Tarmadîn.  “Your healing skills are needed, my friend.  Gwindor managed to slay many spiders, but he broke himself in the process!” 

“I will see to him immediately, Captain,” Tarmadîn saluted and after a quick word with his horse, hurried off to tend to the injured Gwindor.

Legolas looked up at an ashen-faced Darius.  “All right, my friend?” he asked in Westron.

Darius nodded and observed, “Ye are covered with that foulness, my lord.”

Legolas sighed.  “I did not duck fast enough.”  He laughed at the man’s disgusted expression.  “Wait here with Tathor.  We will go to Gilfileg’s village as soon as I can find Ohtar.”

Tathor leaned forward, controlling his commanding officer’s horse with his knees.  “There is the Captain now, my lord.  And Artamir is with him.  They will know the way.”

                                                                    XXX

Several hours later, a weary group of elves entered a village made up of several small houses and twice as many flets.  Two upset elves rushed from one of the small houses as Gilfileg leapt from Cinder’s back and fell into their arms, crying and apologizing.  The other villagers gathered around the three, cheering and laughing in relief while the warriors watched the reunion, feeling a little relieved themselves.

A lean, black-haired elf left the happy gathering and walked over to the warriors.  “Welcome!  I am Dorlas!  You are most welcome indeed!  Galthor and Artamir have told us of the danger in our forest.  Have those foul creatures been destroyed?”

Legolas and Ohtar stepped forward and bowed to the village leader.  “Well met, Dorlas,” Legolas greeted him.  “I am Legolas, captain of the Eastern Patrol and this is the captain of the Southern Patrol, Ohtar.  Yes, the spiders are no more, at least, for now.”

Dorlas shook his head sadly.  “We have been busy this summer, what with the heat driving the animals far from their normal homes in search of water.  Our own water source is spring-fed, so we do not suffer as much as some.  I will take some of my people gifted in forestry to minister to the affected trees tomorrow, if you deem it safe.”

Legolas looked thoughtful.  “I believe I will leave two warriors here with you, Dorlas, if you are agreeable.  They will keep watch for a fortnight to be certain the threat does not return.”

Dorlas looked thrilled at the notion.  “We would be most grateful, Captain.  In truth, there are times when the villages of the interior forest feel forgotten…”  He paused at Legolas’ start of surprise, rushing to reassure the warrior.  “We are well aware that the patrols are border patrols, Captain.  And we know help would come if we should need it…as it has now.” 

Ohtar and Legolas exchanged troubled looks.  How many other small villages such as this one were scattered about, becoming more and more isolated over the years from the main settlements of the north because of the distances involved? 

Legolas drew a deep breath.  “Dorlas, I would speak with you about this matter later, if you would.  At length.”  Dorlas agreed warily. 

“Something must be done to lessen the isolation of villages such as this one,” the Prince explained.  “Perhaps my father…” 

A horrified look of recognition dawned on Dorlas’ face.  “Legolas…the Prince?” he gasped, offering a belated, heartfelt bow.  “My lord, I did not realize…you were just a child the last time…” 

Legolas placed a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder to halt his stumbling words.  “Nay, Dorlas.  Do not apologize.  I am very glad this happened.  None of our people should ever feel ‘forgotten’!  It is just that we are spread so thin…and the forest is vast…”  He shook his head.  “But enough excuses.  We will talk, you and Ohtar and I, update our maps and make some changes in our patrol routes.  It may even be possible to create a new patrol, dedicated to the farthest reaches of the interior forest.” 

Dorlas looked stunned.  “Such would be welcome by all.  There are times…” his voice trailed away, his eyes shadowed. 

Ohtar laid a consoling hand on the elf’s other shoulder.  “I can only imagine, my friend.  We will provide a temporary remedy for that until the King can put something more permanent in place.” 

Dorlas smiled.  “Please understand.  We do not blame the King for this.  Oh, there is some anger now and then when things become difficult, but the leaders of our settlements meet often and we have helped each other out whenever necessary.  We knew when King Thranduil moved the capital north that it would be almost impossible to stay in touch with those who refused to move with him.  He did warn us.” 

Legolas shook his head again, his voice adamant as he spoke, “You are a part of us, Dorlas.  We have been negligent.  It shall be remedied.” 

Dorlas and Ohtar studied the sudden transformation of a simple woodland captain to the son of the Elvenking and exchanged smiles.  This one was indeed a worthy scion of the noble house of Oropher and it boded well for all the small settlements in this part of the wood, now that their plight had come to his attention. 

“Well good, good!” Dorlas exclaimed.  “But where are my manners?  You must be hungry and tired.  We will show you where to camp and I believe a meal has been prepared for you.  There will be time for discussion and plans later after you have rested.”  He looked past Legolas at the man still mounted on Cinder, looking decidedly uncomfortable.  “Is that the man that saved Gilfileg?”   

“Yes,” Legolas replied.  “His name is Darius.”

“Amazing,” murmured Dorlas.  “Will you translate for me, my lord?”

Legolas grinned.  “I would be delighted.”

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of mixed business and pleasure.  The two patrols enjoyed a delicious lunch with the villagers, consisting of roasted venison, fresh vegetables, warm, crusty loaves of bread, and a luscious berry pie which sent Tathor into a rapturous swoon and the villagers into gales of laughter.  They were able to bathe…”full immersion!” moaned an ecstatic Taurdil…in a quiet, spring-fed pool and set up a joint camp in the midst of some lovely, welcoming trees just outside the village.  Legolas walked among the towering beech and old oak, pleased to find this part of the wood murmured a contented song, the trees rustling a welcome to him as he passed.  No filthy webs or encroaching darkness had touched this place.  Even the heat of the summer failed to penetrate the heavy canopy, although the air felt dry and tasted of dust at times. 

Legolas spent several hours that afternoon with Dorlas, discussing the needs and concerns of these most distant of Thranduil’s subjects.  The Prince watched the open, trusting face of Dorlas as he spoke and vowed that they would never feel so alone again…and knowing his father as he did, he imagined a visit from the King would not be long in coming.

After supper, the two captains set up rotating guard duty around the village for the night and made assignments for the next few days.  Looking at maps of the area which Dorlas and his foresters had updated, they planned patrol routes and devised a means of communication with each other and the villages from that point on.    

Then Legolas and Ohtar spent the rest of the evening with Darius, describing the battle in graphic detail to the man and laughing at his nauseated expressions.  “If you are going to make a habit of helping the elves, Darius, you are going to have to toughen up,” Legolas told him, dodging the man’s good-natured, playful swipe at his head.  When Gilfileg came to drag Darius off to see his home and meet again with his grateful parents, Legolas tagged along, a welcome addition to the impromptu party.

Leading the bemused man later back to the camp, Legolas asked, “Well, Darius, are the elves everything you thought they might be, or have we disappointed you?”

“Disappointed?  How could I possibly be disappointed, my lord?  Except for that first misunderstanding, I have been treated with nothing but courtesy and kindness.”  The man fell silent for awhile and Legolas could sense he was troubled by his thoughts.

“What is it, my friend?” he asked.

Darius looked at the elf walking beside him, glowing faintly in the dark, a gleaming accompaniment to the soft silver light of the stars above.  “I wish other men could know ye as I have come to…could see ye as I have.  Maybe then they wouldn’t be so afraid.”  He glanced again at his companion.  “Maybe our two peoples could learn to be friends rather than just passing acquaintances that don’t trust each other.”

Legolas sighed and gazed at the stars overhead.  “I would wish it so, Darius.”  He stopped and faced the man, clasping his shoulder.  “It is a worthy goal.  Let it begin with us then.”

Darius clasped the elf’s shoulder in return and replied simply, “Yes.”

The next morning after a hearty breakfast, Legolas chose three warriors to accompany him and Darius to the man’s farm.

As they prepared to leave, Gilfileg came pelting across the open green, gasping, “Please let me ride with you, my lord.  I would see where he lives and thank his wife for letting him come.”  He paused.  “My parents said I might if you give permission,” he added belatedly, turning big, pleading eyes on the Prince.

Legolas grinned at the child – he had told him all about Darius’ farm and his wife, Cara.  He had also mentioned to the elfling the fact that Darius’ delayed return almost guaranteed his wife’s wrath. 

“Would you mind sharing Cinder with Gilfileg again, my friend?” he asked Darius, who had watched the elfling’s performance and now struggled not to laugh.  “He wishes to thank your good wife for allowing you to make your trip into the forest.”

Darius flashed the elfling a bright smile.  “Of course, he is more than welcome to ride with me.”  Legolas smothered his laughter when he heard the man mutter to himself, “Maybe he can save me from Cara.”

                                                                    XXX

The youngest son of Rendan, one Jaren by name, was in the midst of concocting a plot.  He loved plotting and he was good at it, too.  As the youngest (hah! eight wasn’t so young!) of three brothers, one either learned to plot and to execute said plots, or one faced annihilation at the hands of the others.  It was a simple case of survival; the fact Jaren enjoyed the process was a side benefit.

At the moment, he was deep into planning a way to convince Mama and Papa that he belonged on the farm here with his Uncle Darius.  The boy was mentally listing his arguments as he forked hay into the feed trough for the cattle, muttering to himself, “Besides, Mama, I LOVE the farm and the animals.  I don’t like livin’ in town and I hate the smell of fish all the time…”

The sound of hoofbeats interrupted his impassioned, imaginary plea, drawing his eyes across the field nearest the treeline.  Seconds passed, his mind unable to reconcile what his eyes were seeing.  Five riders had emerged from the trees and were making their way towards the house.  He recognized the big rangy bay, Cinder, with his uncle astride.  And riding alongside was…

The boy shaded his eyes with one hand, staring for one long moment before dropping the pitchfork and breaking for the house at a dead run.

“Mama!  Papa!  Aunt Cara!” he hollered at the top of his voice.

His big brothers, Brand and Garlon, stepped out of the barn.  “What’s the matter with ye?  Are ye daft?  Yer screamin’ like a girl, Jaren!” yelled the eldest, Brand.

All Jaren could do was point in the general direction of the riders and keep running.  His father stepped out of the house about the time he reached the yard and came down the steps to meet his son.

“Papa…” Jaren gasped.

“Hush,” his papa hissed, jerking his head back towards the front door as his pale blue eyes took in the scene unfolding before him.  “I see them.  Into the house with yer mama, now.”  Knowing better than to argue, Jaren slipped past the door and into his mother’s arms.  Both women were white-faced and silent.  They could also see well enough who accompanied Darius.

“Darius,” moaned Cara to herself.  “What have ye gotten yerself into?”

Outside, Brand and Garlon raced to stand beside their father.  At the ages of fourteen and sixteen, the boys felt old enough to offer their support and did not hesitate to do so.  “Not a word, boys,” their father greeted them in an almost inaudible voice.  His sons nodded quickly.  All was silent but for the rhythmic pounding of the approaching horses’ hooves.

Who is that riding behind Uncle Darius?  Brand strained to see the figure more clearly.  What the…is that…?  He exchanged amazed glances with his brother and father, the beginnings of relieved smiles blooming on their faces.

“Cara!  Nola!  Jaren!” Rendan called.  “Ye can come out – it’s alright.  Ye have GOT to see this!”

The door burst open as Jaren flew out to join the men, the women following at a more sedate pace.  Cara looked at Nola, who gave a half-hearted shrug and said, “Well, love, he’s always wanted to meet some of the Fair Folk.”

Cara growled softly, “After I kiss him senseless, I am going to KILL him fer scarin’ me this way!”

Nola grinned at her sister-in-law.  “Well, he’ll be dyin’ a happy man then!”

Cara scowled at Nola before the absurdity of the statement reduced her to giggles.  “Aye, but he’ll still be a dead man!” she promised.

The horses trotted towards the waiting group, three of the riders pulling up a distance away to allow Darius and an elf with hair the color of sunlight to approach alone.  Darius dismounted only to find his arms filled immediately with a tearful wife.  He held her close, murmuring soft words of comfort – only to have her rear back after a few moments and poke him in the chest.  The questions came fast and furious then, and he was hard pressed to get a word in edgewise.  Jaren, recognizing a lengthy tirade when he heard one, edged away from his mother as they moved forward to welcome his uncle back and slipped over to stand by Cinder, looking up at the young elf perched on the broad back.  The blonde warrior mounted on a magnificent gray stallion smiled as the two youngsters stared at each other with unabashed curiosity.

“I’ll tell ye everything later,” Darius protested over the deluge of questions thrown at him.  “Only let me introduce ye now.”

Everyone turned to the two elves as Darius said, “My lord, this is my wife Cara, my brother, Rendan and his wife Nola, and their three sons, Brand, Garlon, and Jaren.”  Each bowed or curtseyed as Darius called their names.

“This is Gilfileg.”  Darius gestured to the young elf on Cinder’s back who grinned at them shyly.  “And Prince Legolas, the son of the Elvenking.”  The golden-haired elf bowed, the warm smile on his face quickly easing the trepidation the mortals had felt upon hearing his name.

“I am pleased to meet you,” the Prince responded.  “As is Gilfileg, although he cannot greet you appropriately.”  Hearing his name, the elfling asked the Prince something, who answered in the same fluid, musical language.

“Gilfileg wishes to greet you also,” the Prince said, “and to say, Mistress Cara, that he is VERY glad you allowed your husband to make his trip into the forest.”

“Of course, my lord,” Cara replied graciously, looking curiously at her husband.  Nola swallowed a laugh when Darius shook his head at Cara’s silent, questioning gaze and mouthed, “Later,” and exchanged amused smiles with Rendan.  Even the Prince watched the exchange with laughing eyes. 

Cara stepped around her clueless husband and addressed the grinning elf.  “Prince Legolas, won’t ye and yer men stay fer a meal?”

The Prince shook his head, his regret clear in the expressive gray eyes and the rueful smile.  “Nay, mistress.  Gilfileg must return to his family before nightfall and I am expected by my patrol.  There is much to do in the Greenwood.  Perhaps another day?”

“Of course, my lord.  Ye are welcome at any time – the invitation stands.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Legolas replied with a courtly bow, as Darius walked over to his side and looked up.

“Ye have my gratitude, my lord,” he said quietly.  “Go safely.”

The elven Prince saluted the tall man, one hand over his heart, replying, “It is we who owe you a debt we cannot repay, Darius.  Go well, my friend, and may the stars shine on your pathway.  Gilfileg…”  He held out a hand as the youngster stood up on Cinder’s back and leapt gracefully into the elf’s waiting arms.  “Oh, and Darius…” Legolas grinned at the man.  “It would not be wise to turn your back on your wife any time soon.”

Darius blushed and sighed mournfully.  “Yes, I did notice, my lord.” 

“Gilfileg…” Darius turned to the elfling, who had watched the two say goodbye with tear-filled eyes.  “Ah, don’t, child…” Darius sighed, patting the little one’s leg.  “We will meet again, somehow,” he promised, knowing that the Prince would translate for him later. 

The child leaned down and patted the man on the cheek, sniffing just a little.  “Navaer, Darius,” he whispered.

“It has been an honor,” Prince Legolas said to the other humans, controlling his prancing stallion easily.  “Until we meet again.”  Lifting his hand in farewell, he nudged the horse away from the house and into a brisk trot, gathering his guards as he passed.

Darius watched until the group disappeared into the trees.  Turning to his family, he was confronted by six accusing faces and a thump on the arm.  A very hard thump.

“Ow,” he muttered, wincing.  Jaren grinned.  He was well acquainted with acts of retribution.

“Talk,” Cara ordered.  “Now.”

Summary:  The King receives a letter. 

Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the major characters and settings of Middle-earth.  They belong to JRR Tolkien.  I just like to play with them from time to time.

A/N:  Sorry again, RL will just not let go long enough for me to be consistent, and to top it all off, my computer had the gall to crash on me…*sigh*…but I’ll keep trying and offer my apologies now.  Thanks so much to NiRi for her suggestions/encouragements/corrections.    

*Italics are a wonderful thing!  Not only will character thoughts appear in italics, but also any flashbacks, letters, and quotes from the Professor.

Chapter 3:  In the Halls of the Elvenking

                             “It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be

                                     stupid with them.”

                                                                         - Ralph Waldo Emerson

In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived at this time their greatest king.  Before his huge doors of stone a river ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marshes at the feet of the high wooded lands.  This great cave, from which countless smaller ones opened out on every side, wound far underground and had many passages and wide halls; but it was lighter and more wholesome than any goblin-dwelling and neither so deep nor so dangerous.  In fact the subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches.  The beeches were their favorite trees.  The king’s cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies. 

                                                                               -JRR Tolkien, THE HOBBIT

Baranthor, chief counselor to the king, and one of his oldest friends, paused in his afternoon meandering through the wide halls of the palace to study the two elves standing toe to toe outside a closed door, arguing.  Well, one of them was arguing while the other stood listening in stoic silence.  Curious.  Why would the king’s head butler and seneschal be arguing with one of the king’s elite guards?  He changed direction and approached the pair, who snapped to attention as soon as they noticed him. 

“Malvagor, Galion,” he greeted them, amusement evident in his gray eyes.  The two elves nodded in return.  “My lord,” murmured Galion.

“What seems to be the problem, Malvagor?” he asked the tall guard, one of the warriors dedicated to the king’s safety and privacy. 

Malvagor, face impassive and eyes straight ahead, replied, “The King has given strict orders he is not to be disturbed, my lord.”

Galion sputtered, waving a letter in front of Baranthor’s nose.  “He would not object to being disturbed for THIS!”  Shoving the dispatch into the counselor’s hand, he stepped back and stood straight and stiff, the very picture of elven indignation.  “As you are now here, my lord, perhaps you can talk some sense into this one’s thick head!  I will leave you to resolve this…this…impasse.”  With one last glare at the guard, he gave a disdainful sniff and stalked off down the hall.

Baranthor sighed, turning the letter over in his hands.  For such a staid, proper elf, Galion certainly made an impressive exit!  Trouble was, in this instance he was right – Thranduil would not object to an interruption for this.  He raised amused eyes to study the guard before him. 

“Well done, Malgavor,” he congratulated.  “I do believe he was almost frothing at the mouth.  It takes a certain talent to achieve that reaction from him.”  Holding the letter level with the guard’s eyes, he let the elf study the missive and its distinctive seal, knowing he would recognize both. 

Sure enough, Malgavor’s eyes widened and his face paled.  “Ah, yes…hmmm.  Ah…well.  Perhaps you should take it to him, my lord.”  He stepped aside with the alacrity of one attempting to avoid a particularly nasty collision, bowing as a grinning Baranthor opened the door and slipped into the room.

The chief councilor found himself in a familiar, well-appointed study, the stone floor carpeted against the underground chill with thick, hand woven rugs and furnished with handsome oak shelves full of hand-bound books and stacks of carefully preserved parchments.  Several elaborate tapestries depicting events from the history of Eryn Galen adorned the walls, adding splashes of color to the masculine room.  A grouping of comfortable chairs stood before an immense fireplace.  The Elvenking sat behind his large, ornate desk, eyes fastened on the document spread out before him. 

Baranthor was quick to note the forbidding expression and clenched jaw as the King growled, “What is it, Malvagor?” 

Hmmm.  The reports he had heard from about the palace by those in residence seemed quite accurate.  The old wolf was indeed fractious today, snarling and snapping at any provocation.  He stopped just in front of the door and waited for Thranduil to notice him and give his permission to advance.  The imposing elf’s foul mood was apparent, from the dark frown on his face to the tight fist grasping the quill.  When Thranduil glanced up and saw that it was not his guard intruding, he leaned back in his chair, glaring his displeasure as he tossed the quill down. 

“Baranthor, what do you want?” he asked rudely, gathering the scattered parchments and shoving them aside to one corner of the desk.  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he snapped at Baranthor’s hesitation, gesturing his friend forward.  “Come in, come in, if you must.”

Baranthor successfully smothered a smile as he strode forward.  One of intelligence did NOT poke at this angry wolf, at least not yet.  Since he considered his intellect well above average, he planned to at least gain a chair before testing his friend’s patience any further.  Now what could have spurred Thranduil’s anger so?  Either his morning meeting with Meneldur about the state of the realm’s treasury had not gone well, or the parchments just thrown aside concerned the proposed agreement with Erebor.  Baranthor would place his gold on the dwarves being the source of aggravation.

Drawing up a chair beside the desk, he sank down, sighing gratefully as he rearranged and smoothed his robes. The King watched the councilor’s delaying tactics for long moments, steel gray eyes turning glacial as his temper flared even higher.

“You try my patience, my friend,” he ground out.

Baranthor nodded.  “Yes, I know.”  Time for a poke or two.

One strong hand slapped the desk hard, the impact echoing through the chamber with the sound of a heavy mallet striking metal.  “I gave orders I was not to be disturbed…by ANYONE!”  For all its emphatic tone, the King’s pleasant baritone had softened, becoming silky and threatening.  Not a good sign. 

Baranthor clucked his tongue.  “Now, Thranduil,” he chided.  “When I saw this…” He waved the letter.  “…I knew you would want to see it immediately.  Why just the thought of Malvagor withholding it from you because of…”

“Baranthor!” Thranduil roared.  “Cease this drivel and give me that letter!  And trust me, it had better be impor…”

“It is from Legolas,” Baranthor inserted the Prince’s name quickly, handing him the communication and watching with delight as the temper and vitriol oozed from Thranduil like water from a punctured bladder skin.  Mission accomplished. 

He waited, his patience rewarded when his friend exhaled noisily and grumped, “Well, why did you not say so straight away?”  Thranduil glared at his visitor.  “Were you so certain I would not skewer you first and ask questions later?” 

At Baranthor’s impudent grin, he grunted and slouched in his chair, frowning as he ran gentle fingers over the surface of the parchment.  Baranthor again smothered a fond smile and set himself to soothe the troubled elf.  “You have been working too hard for too many days, my friend,” he said.  “I take it the proposed trade agreement sent from Erebor is completely untenable and we will be declaring war on the Naugrim within the week?” 

Thranduil huffed, “I wish.”  He stared at the letter for a long moment, then split the seal and unfolded the parchment, looking up in surprise as Baranthor rose to leave.  “You are not staying?”

Baranthor shook his head.  “Nay, my lord.  I will give you some privacy to read your son’s letter.  I am certain if his news concerns the realm, you will advise us at the council meeting tomorrow morning.” 

He was halfway to the door when he turned back for a final word.  “Read your son’s report, Thranduil.  Put that infernal proposal from the dwarves aside for a day or so until your temper cools.  Then perhaps we can examine it together before presenting it to the council next week.  Eat a substantial dinner and get a good night’s rest.”  He held up a hand to silence a protest.  “Do not argue with me.  You have been fretting and worrying over the forest’s song and simmering about that agreement with the dwarves for several weeks.  Now, do what I have said and you will find everything more palatable in the morning.” 

Thranduil’s eyebrow shot up in disbelief.  “Palatable?” he scoffed.  “Do not make me gag!” 

Baranthor laughed.  “Oh, all right.  Poor choice of words.”  His fair face grew serious once again.  “I meant what I said, my King.  You cannot make wise, informed decisions in your present state of mind.”

The old friends stared at each other, Baranthor shocked when Thranduil lowered his gaze first.  “Oh, all right.  As you wish, Naneth,” he muttered, frowning as his friend’s smile widened.  “Have I really been that bad?” 

At Baranthor’s happy nod, he let slip an unwilling grin.  “At least it keeps everyone on their toes.” 

His chief advisor snorted.  “Everyone would prefer to keep their feet FLAT on the ground, Thranduil.  Walking around you on tiptoe becomes most tiresome after a time.” 

Thranduil shrugged.  “I will appear most affable and contrite from now on.”

Baranthor almost choked.  “No one would ever believe it!  They would think the Elvenking kidnapped and an imposter put in his place!”

“I am NOT that bad!” Thranduil shot an affronted look at Baranthor, who could only shake his head.    “Oh, off with you, you impossible wretch!  I must see what my son has managed to get up to since last I heard from him.” 

Baranthor bowed and turned toward the door. 

“And inform Eloriel I will take my meal here in my study in two hours.” 

“I will let her know.”  One step. 

“And send in Malvagor as you leave.  I need some air and a hard, fast ride sounds just the thing before I eat.” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“And Baranthor?”  He turned back to look at the King, whose hard gaze now glimmered with affection.  “Thank you.  I will take your words under advisement.”

“Good.  Good.” Baranthor sighed in relief.  He hated seeing his boyhood friend so angry and upset; as he had pointed out, a temperamental Thranduil played havoc with everyone in the palace.  “I will pass your orders along.  Good night.” 

“Good night,” the King replied absently, waving a hand in dismissal, his eyes and attention already fixed on the letter. 

Baranthor paused outside to give the King’s orders to Malvagor.  “Surprised to see me alive, hmmm?” he teased the bemused elf.  “Give him a few moments to digest Legolas’ news; then go on in.”  Malvagor nodded his assent and resumed his stance at the door. 

Baranthor snorted softly to himself.  Malvagor was an elf of few words now, but he could remember not too long ago a black-haired, gray-eyed, chattering elfling pestering everyone in the palace with his questions.  Honestly, the youngsters these days took themselves much too seriously.  Come to think of it, Thranduil, who was old enough to know better, was almost as bad as the children.  It was time for a feast - a celebration of some sort - to lighten the atmosphere, which had become weighted with the ever-increasingly grim news from the south.  He walked on, lost in thought, composing several good excuses for a party to present to the council the next day.

                                                                    XXX

Thranduil rubbed a hand over his weary eyes after Baranthor left the room.  What an irritant Baranthor is…but he knows me well and his words have merit.  Ai!  I am so tired…and almost afraid to hear what Legolas has to report.  He smoothed the parchment, took a deep breath, and began to read.

To My Lord Father, Thranduil Oropherion, King of Eryn Galen

From Legolas Thranduilion, Captain of the Eastern Border Patrol

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well and in fine spirits, terrorizing your council and Baranthor, as usual.  I am somewhat at a loss as to the formality required for this missive, since I write as captain to make a formal report, but also as your son.  Business first; then I hope to dispense with the formality altogether.   Thranduil grinned, some tightly wound place deep within easing as he read the familiar handwriting.  Since Legolas had taken on his first command as the captain of the Eastern Patrol, he had struggled with these reports.  Usually, they were stilted and cold, guaranteed to bring a smile to his father’s face at their earnest attempts to appear official and competent.   This one, however, sounded different.  Curiosity aroused, he continued reading.

You were right about the change in the tone of the forest.  The trees’ song had grown anxious, and the farther south our patrol traveled, the more oppressive the air and the song became.  I sent a messenger with word of the problem to Ohtar and the Southern Patrol some weeks ago.  He agreed the situation warranted investigating, and we set a rendezvous point in order to combine our forces for a sweep of the area.  Do not fear, Father – he did not bring his entire patrol, of course.  You know Ohtar – he would not leave the south unguarded.  He only brought a small contingent north and left Arlas in command.  However, our plan to locate the problem was unnecessary.  A most unexpected ally discovered the threat and showed us where to look.  A farmer, (yes, Father, a man!) whose land lies in the corner between the forest and the Celduin, sensed a danger lurking near his home and set out to find it.  What he found was a colony of the great spiders.  Individual nests which would normally house five or six of the foul creatures held over ten of the beasts, and one contained an almost mature egg sac!  We were able to destroy all of the nests, burying sixty-three of the adults and burning the egg sac, just to be sure nothing would hatch later.  Oh, and you will be pleased with the amount of silk, both for weaving and medicinal purposes, that was harvested.  I will be sending it north to the palace in a few days, along with a report for Aravir.   

Our forces sustained only one serious injury, as well as the usual scrapes and scratches.  Gwindor broke his arm and suffered a concussion in a fall, but is recovering nicely.  A sweep of the area showed no further incursions at this time.  Ohtar has since returned to the south with his warriors and will send you and Aravir an additional dispatch soon.  We are concerned that more warriors, or perhaps a whole new patrol, might be necessary to reinforce our presence in this area.  We have composed our report about this incident together to advise Aravir of the needs here and feel confident that, after discussing the problem with you, the matter will be addressed as soon as possible.  Why the villages in that area were not attacked, I do not know. 

What I do know is that this man saved many lives by giving us the information about the spiders.  His name is Darius, son of Olwain.  Remember Olwain, Father?  He is the head of the guilds of Esgaroth.  In addition to giving us vital information, Darius also saved an elfling from the nearest village who had wandered off.  He killed a spider that was chasing the child and was taking him to safety when Ohtar’s warriors found them.  Bravery such as that should not go unnoticed, Father.  And do not use the excuse he should not have been in our forest to begin with.  That does not negate the good he has done.  He has much good will towards the Wood-elves and their King, and while he holds a healthy respect for us, he is not afraid.  Only very, very curious.  I found him most refreshing, and worthy of our respect in return.  I will leave it to you to think of some way to reward him.  Thranduil paused, grimacing.  Reward him?  He stared off into space, one long finger tapping his lips thoughtfully.  So the mortal had saved an elfling AND killed one of the great spiders.  A brave man, indeed.  He knew from long experience that Legolas would never let this matter rest.  He was the most compliant of sons – until he got it in his head that someone was not being treated fairly.  Better to meet this man and see for himself if his child had been hood-winked by a self-serving, opportunistic phony.  As he returned to his reading, he decided to discuss the matter with Aravir later that evening.    

As you can see from the rough map I have sketched for you, the colony was not too far from a village.  The leader is named Dorlas.  He and ten families (twenty-two adults, six elflings of varying ages) have well-established homes and take good care of the forest around them.  In speaking with Dorlas, I learned that these people, beyond the intermittent visitations of passing patrols, have had little contact with anyone in authority (that is us, Father) since the capital was moved north into the caverns.  They seem very isolated and alone.  They are still loyal to you as their King, but it seems wrong that we have forgotten them.  Dorlas assured me they knew it might happen because of the distances involved and that there is no anger or acrimony felt by the villagers, not in his village or in any of the others scattered throughout the region.  (We found five in all, counting Dorlas’.)  I just thought you should know of their situation.  Thranduil snorted.  Sly, sneaky son of mine!  He knows me well.  Another thing to discuss – this time with the council in the morning.       

My patrol will continue to search for other spiders, and Ohtar has promised to watch for any migrations from the south.  In speaking with Darius and the village foresters, it is very possible the dry weather has driven the spiders north in search of food and water.  I am certain Aravir will contact the other patrol captains and alert them to the threat.  I would also suggest it might be prudent to send additional warriors south to bolster Ohtar’s forces. 

It would seem we have relaxed our guard somewhat of late.  We must be careful to maintain constant vigilance from now on.  Give my greetings to everyone.  I miss you and remain, as always

                                                                                                         Your loving son,

                                                                                                               Legolas

Thranduil read the letter one more time, making a note of the man’s name and location, as well as his son’s suggestion of reinforcements in the south.  He had just finished putting the letter in an inner pocket of his robe when the door opened and Malvagor looked in. 

“Lord Baranthor said you had new orders for me, my lord?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes, come in here, Malvagor,” Thranduil barked.  “And for Eru’s sake, stop lurking in the doorway!” 

The tall guard stepped into the room, standing at attention and awaiting his King’s pleasure.  Thranduil sighed.  Baranthor is right.  I really need to get hold of my temper.  Even Malvagor looks cowed.

He pasted a stiff smile on his face and made an attempt to soften his voice, saying, “Please excuse my foul temper, Malvagor.  I need you to send word to the stablemaster that I will be riding out just as soon as I can change.  Have him prepare Aglarion for me.  Make certain Eloriel knows I will not be eating in the dining room tonight and to send a tray here.  Then inform Commander Aravir I would like to meet with him after dinner.” 

A quick bow of acquiescence and Malvagor was on his way.  Thranduil stretched his tall frame, twisting his head from side to side to work the tension from the muscles in his neck.  Clearing his desk and storing the offensive parchments from Erebor in a top drawer, he waved a hand to lower the rushlights on the walls and left the darkened room behind.

                                                                    XXX

Aravir, the commander of the forces of Eryn Galen and captain of the King’s elite guard, strode through the familiar corridors of the stronghold to meet with the Elvenking to discuss a dispatch from the King’s son.  By Malvagor’s account, it must be important; the King had seemed “galvanized” by whatever he had read.  Legolas was, at present, enjoying his first command, having served in the patrols for years before his father had brought him home to learn the ways of a diplomat.  He had finally returned to the patrols after serving as his father’s ambassador to numerous Mannish settlements, from Esgaroth to Dale and beyond, for over a yeni, and been promoted to captain of the Eastern Patrol several years ago. 

Aravir allowed a small smile to escape as he walked.  He had watched the young Prince grow up, from inquisitive elfling to a young novice possessing an uncanny skill with a bow.  Since he was often elsewhere in the great forest on one assignment or another; they had had little contact until Legolas’ promotion.  He had been delighted to discover not only a competent warrior, but also one who possessed a growing power through his connection to the forest.  Because the son so resembled the father, he feared the newly received missive contained news he was not going to like.

He paused before the great wooden door, nodding to Malvagor’s replacement, Arundur.  “Good evening, Commander,” the guard saluted.  “He is waiting for you.”  Aravir returned the salute, allowing Arundur to announce him. 

                                                                    XXX

Thranduil sat behind his imposing desk watching his commander approach, and for a moment he saw not the tall, broad-shouldered elf before him, but the traumatized, shivering elfling clinging to his older cousin, weeping for the family that had been wiped out by orcs.  Weeping for an entire village; all lost with the exception of five youngsters trembling before the throne of the Elvenking and his queen.  On that day, four hundred twenty-seven years ago, the return of evil to the south had become reality and the King and Queen had gained a family.    

Eruwen had taken one look at the children and immediately adopted them.  Thranduil had thought it a fine idea.  It had taken the young ones some time to overcome their grief and settle in to life in the palace, but they had done well under the loving watch of the King and his Queen.  Their fosterlings were all grown now, settled with professions of their choosing and successful.  Thranduil remembered having worried about Aravir most of all.  The child had been quiet and withdrawn for a long time, to the point Eruwen had feared he might waste away from grief.  Thankfully, an engaging bundle of black curls and shy smiles in the form of his sister, Tasarien, had dragged him out of his well of sadness and set him on the path to living again. 

It was a different path, though.  The child who would have been a forester like his father became a warrior, dedicated to the defeat of the evil that had destroyed everyone in his family except his sister and one cousin and threatened his home.  Eryn Galen’s gain – but at times Thranduil mourned Aravir’s loss of his first love, and now that Aravir was no longer absent for years at a time, Thranduil could see the changes.  Before him stood a fell warrior, silent and strong, caught up in duty and schedules and patrol movements.  So stiff…and serious.  Only Tasarien and his cousin, Ariann, were able to elicit a smile from time to time. 

Thranduil knew Baranthor had made it his mission to “make that elfling laugh again, Thranduil – he is much too staid.  There is no joy in him anymore”.  Thoughtful gray eyes studied the stern features of the elf standing so stiffly before him.  Perhaps his counselor could use a little help.  He would have to be careful, however.  No sense in driving the child away. 

“Sit down, Commander,” he invited, gesturing to the chair nearby.  Aravir settled in, his usually impassive expression faintly questioning. 

“I have had word from Legolas on a rather disturbing development in the southeastern quadrant of the forest,” the King began.  If possible, Aravir straightened even further.  Thranduil raised a hand.  “It has been dealt with…for now, Aravir, and you should be receiving your own report from Legolas and Ohtar by tomorrow, I would think.  He said they had composed it together once their sweep of the area was completed and posted it a short time after this letter.  Their concerns were for a rather large colony of the great spiders that had been established just this side of the mountains…” 

Aravir cursed under his breath at the news as Thranduil continued to outline the events leading up to the posting of the Prince’s missive.  The two elves spent the better part of an hour huddled over Legolas’ map, discussing further troop movement and the feasibility of creating another patrol to aid in the protection of the more distant villages. 

“The border patrols are just that, my lord,” Aravir stated, sitting back in his chair and staring at the tapestry on the wall behind the King.  “They patrol the borders of the realm and have not the numbers to provide protection for the interior.  We have depended on the villagers to set their own guards.” 

“And they have done well,” Thranduil mused.  “But if Shadow has begun pushing northward, these villages farthest from us will require more aid…help must be more accessible than the border patrols.” 

Aravir nodded in agreement – perhaps even two extra patrols would not go amiss in this case.  He applied his considerable intellect, coupled with a fine strategic knowledge of the realm’s defenses, to the problem, considering the new crop of novices waiting to be assigned and the seasoned warriors who would be needed to lead these new patrols.  Watching Aravir work through a tough puzzle had always fascinated Thranduil and he knew the instant the younger elf reached a possible solution.  Placing a quill in the commander’s hand with ink nearby and parchment before him, he smiled as Aravir began jotting names down, muttering under his breath from time to time as he arranged and rearranged the troops that would protect the villages and their people. 

“I believe we have the numbers needed for two patrols, sire,” he said, finishing his list and turning it toward the King for his perusal. 

Thranduil scanned the list, frowning once or twice.  He sighed, sitting back and closing his eyes.  “Some of those you listed are newly-minted warriors, Aravir, young and untried,” he noted.  He looked at his commander.  “I do not relish sending them into a potentially volatile situation.” 

Aravir shook his head.  “I know, my lord, and I made certain that only the most proficient of that class are listed in the new patrols.  You will note that the rest of the novices will be split between the Northern and Western patrols as usual.”  He paused.  “And I will make certain all are placed with experienced captains, along with a good ratio of seasoned warriors.  It will require some rearranging of personnel, but it can be done, sire.” 

Thranduil smiled, encouraged by the steadfast demeanor of the warrior before him.  Aravir knew his people well, their strengths and their weaknesses.  He would weigh all possibilities before sending them in harm’s way.  “I know, child.  If anyone can make the necessary assignments while keeping their safety in mind, you can.  The only other one I would trust to this would be Ohtar.” 

Aravir flashed one of his rare grins.  “Oh, I will most definitely be enlisting his opinion, sire, as more warriors will be sent south to strengthen his patrol.  He will not hesitate to tell me if my plan is complete rubbish.” 

Thranduil laughed, rising from his chair along with Aravir.  Ohtar, that irascible old warrior, had relinquished his role as commander to Aravir in order to captain the more active southern forces; however, his absence from the position had not lessened his input whenever he deemed a decision questionable.  He always made his displeasure known, loud and clear.  Thranduil clapped the younger elf on the shoulder, “Of that I do not doubt!” 

The two walked across the room, pausing at the door.  “About the man, my lord…” Aravir started.  

Thranduil halted his words with a look.  “I, too, have my doubts about him - which is why I want to meet him.  You have his location?”  Aravir nodded.  “Good.  As I said, after the council meeting tomorrow, I want you to make plans to fetch him to the palace.  We will see if he is as deserving of a reward as Legolas believes.”  The King’s gray eyes hardened.  “Let us hope he is.” 

“As you wish, my lord,” Aravir murmured, bowing as he left the room.  Thranduil huffed impatiently.  A man in his stronghold!  The only worse scenario he could imagine involved dwarves.  And he needed to find a way to reassure those small, distant villages of his continued concern and good will.  Perhaps Baranthor would have an idea or two…

                                                                   XXX

The old man eyed his rapt audience.  “Thus it was three days later that the King’s commander was dispatched to bring the man, Darius, to the palace.  Thranduil would trust no other to bring him, wanting Aravir to spend some time with this Darius and make his own assessment of his character.  Alongside him rode two other messengers, who carried greetings and invitations to Dorlas and several other of the village leaders mentioned in the Prince’s report.”  The children turned to each other, eyes bright with speculation.  Grandfather laughed at their expressions.

“How did you find out about Ada’s conversations with the King, Grandfather?” Lindorie asked, her fond, honorary title of ‘grandfather’ bringing a smile to the old man’s face.  “Did he tell you?” 

“No, child,” he answered.  “He eventually told Darius, and Darius…” 

“…passed the story on because he is related to you!” Mira exclaimed.  “Isn’t he, Grandfather?” 

“Of course he is, Mira!” scoffed her brother, Cian.  “You know we’ve heard about him from Father before.” 

Mira glared at the know-it-all in the chair behind her, who stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes at her in return, reducing Andurion beside him to helpless giggles.  “Now, now, enough of that, Cian…Andurion,” their grandfather chided.  “Yes, I’m sure your father has probably mentioned your great-great-great-great grandfather before this story.  And yes, Mira, once he found out, he was able to make it a part of the bigger story.” 

He slapped the arms of the rocking chair and pushed himself to his feet, stifling a groan as his knees and muscles protested violently and listening as the children complained, knowing the story was at an end…for the time being. 

The grandfather lifted a hand, silencing the din of noise.  “As I warned you before, it is time for your supper, children,” he said, nodding to the door where his son’s wife stood, smiling.  “Lilianne, I turn this raucous bunch over to your tender mercies.” 

The children groaned as Lilianne snickered.  “Mercy for this horde, Father?” she sniffed, hands on her hips as she surveyed the group.  “I think not!  Now, wash up, you lot!  And make a good job of it or there will be no trifle for any of you!” 

The children trooped off to do her bidding, their young voices echoing through the hallway.  Lilianne walked over and linked her arm with her father-in-law’s.  “Thank you for entertaining them,” she whispered.  “And from the look of the weather, I hope it is a long story!”

 He grinned as she led him towards the dining area.  “Trust me, my dear.  We have only begun.”      

Disclaimer:  I do not own any part of the Professor’s world – I just stop by from time to time to play in it. 

Summary:  Darius receives an invitation – the King prepares for a special guest…or two…or three…

A/N:  No excuses.  *sigh*  (Unless you count the fact that I tried to post this 5 days ago and LOST the entire chapter.  I’ve been retyping this ever since…GAH!!!)  But...I ended up splitting this chapter, it was so long, so the next chapter is ready to go in the next few days!  Thank you, NiRi, for suggestions, corrections, and instruction!  You so rock! 

Chapter 4:  An Unexpected Invitation

                               “Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.”

                                                                           --Unknown

The old man retired to the sitting room after dinner, relaxing in his rocker as he waited for the children to complete their chores.  He hoped to finish the first part of his story knowing the darker, more difficult tales of later years would require more explanation, as he was certain the youngsters would have many questions.  He hoped to enlist the aid of their parents…they had participated in many of the events to come, after all. 

He closed his eyes, rocking slowly and enjoying the heat from the fire as, one by one, the children drifted into the room, resuming their places on the floor at his feet or in the chairs nearby.

“Now, where was I?” he asked, when all had gathered.

“The Elvenking had gotten a letter from the Prince,” offered Cian, exchanging a grin with Andurion.

“And he had decided to send his Commander to fetch Darius to the palace,” Mira added.  “Ooooh, Cara is not going to like that!”

The old one smiled.  “No, my dearest, Cara would not like that at all…”

                                                                    XXX

Aravir halted his horse at the edge of the forest, stroking the silken neck and whispering words of thanks to the sleek animal as he examined the barren expanse of fields before him, the dry, dusty landscape broken only by the various greens of a stand of sturdy oak trees and the garden planted at the back of a small dwelling.  Drawing a deep breath, he detected a hint of the distant Celduin and his quick eyes caught a glitter of sunlight on water from one of the small creeks leaving the forest to bisect the farmland and empty into the river beyond.  He nodded to himself.  There, then, was the farmer’s water source, unless he had found a way to tap into the larger river.

Malvagor pulled up beside him, his grey eyes keeping a constant watch on the forest around them.  “What now, Commander?” he asked, when the silence had stretched between them for several minutes.

His commander’s keen eyes had spotted the small figures of two men leading several animals to a trough beside a large wooden structure built behind the house close to the creek.

“We do not wish to alarm them unnecessarily, Malvagor,” he replied.  “Prince Legolas mentioned in his report he and some of his patrol had visited here.  Hopefully they will not be too frightened by our sudden appearance.”

Malvagor grimaced.  “I would not be too certain about that, sir.  They have made their home in a rather isolated locale.  Look how far they are from any other farm.  I know I would be somewhat ‘upset’ at the sight of riders emerging from the forest and approaching my home, especially if I did not recognize them.”

Aravir shot a wry look at his companion.  “Obviously, Malvagor.  But we can hope that this Darius will recognize we are elves and not others bent on mischief.”

Malvagor grinned.  “We can HOPE he does not think we are elves bent on mischief, sir.”

Aravir looked so scandalized at the thought that Malvagor almost choked.  “The Belain forbid!” the Commander breathed, and Malvagor nodded his agreement as they urged their horses forward, leaving behind the concealing cover of the forest as they made their way across the field towards the house.

                                                                    XXX

Darius hefted the heavy bucket of water and emptied it into the trough, muttering under his breath as Cinder bumped him aside in his exuberant rush to reach the cool liquid.

“Watch out, ya overgrown oaf!” he growled, slapping the big horse’s shoulder in a fit of pique, only to chuckle when the cheeky animal turned to give him a wet, slobbery buss on the side of his head.

He laughed as he pushed the horse’s head aside.  “Oh, go on then, ya impossible beast!  And keep that wet muzzle o’ yers out o’ my hair!”  Cinder gave his man one last good-natured shove before returning to take a long drink from the trough.

Garlon watched his uncle at play with the big bay, grinning at the exchange as he released his own small black mare, Joy, and Garth, the huge, lumbering plough horse, to get their own water.  At least they were finished for the afternoon…the cattle had already been returned to their pasture with a fresh mound of hay to supplement the meager ground cover of grass.  The horses would join them shortly.  They would let the animals graze in the back pasture for the remainder of the day and bring them in for one last drink when the sun set.  Before that, there was the garden to weed, water, and harvest.

Although it was back-breaking work, Garlon had to admit the animals looked good, despite the sun’s harsh punishment they endured every day.  Uncle Darius insisted all animals be watered morning, noon, and evening as long as the blistering hot days lasted.  It was hard, sweaty work and they still had to refill the reservoir for the house, which Garlon considered an amazing work of ingenuity, its construction driven by his uncle’s need when several of the smaller creeks in the back pastures had dried up before winter had even spent itself.

The youth paused to swipe one dirty hand across a sweaty brow and lift his sodden shirt away from his body in an effort to create a cool breath of air.  When his family had prepared to return to Lake Town last week, he had volunteered to stay behind and help his uncle with the daily chores around the farm.  He knew his Aunt Cara usually helped out, but with the birth of the babe drawing near, Uncle was allowing her to do less and less of the outside work.  And Garlon agreed – she looked wrung out and frail by the end of each day…and that was even when she only did the inside chores.

He smirked, remembering Jaren’s squawk of protest when his brother had asked to remain behind.  The sprout had begged to stay and help, but in the end his father had shut him up with a stern glare and a promise to let him return in a few weeks, if he behaved himself.  In truth, Garlon did not mind working on the farm; it had provided a relief from the miserable, muggy stench of town life.  Garlon’s father, Rendan, was a skillful fisherman, in charge of a fleet of several boats that supplied fish for the biggest markets in town.  Garlon and his older brother, Brand, had been helping on the boats since they turned twelve and he usually enjoyed it.  This summer, however, had seen the level of the lake fall at an alarming rate, and the fish had all disappeared, hiding in the depths of the waters in an effort to escape the heat.

Several weeks ago, his father had taken a few days off to help Aunt Cara on the farm when Uncle Darius had disappeared on an errand into the great forest, only to return in the company of wood elves!  Garlon still shook his head in awe when he remembered the events of that day.  He had to admit he had jumped at the chance to stay and help, mainly because he hoped the elves might return.  So far, no such luck.

He glared at the bright, cloudless sky.  And could it possibly get any hotter?  He jumped as his uncle clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come on, lad,” Uncle Darius grinned.  “Glarin’ at the sky will only get ye a headache.  Grab yer mare and let’s get ‘em back to the pasture.”

“Yes, sir,” Garlon mumbled, grabbing Joy’s halter and his bucket and following his uncle.  He had only taken a few steps when Joy threw her head in the air, dragging him around as she balked, ears swiveling forward as she stared across one of the fields.  One hoof pawed at the ground as she shifted about, snorting nervously.

“What…?” Garlon sputtered, struggling to keep hold of his prancing horse.  Glancing across the wide expanse of empty field in an effort to see what had startled her, he froze at the sight of two riders approaching the house.  There was no mistaking their identity.  I think I would know those horses anywhere; they are so different from most of the animals of men.  And the way they ride – so straight and still, as if they are part of their mount, with no tack to block that connection between them and the horses.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up into his uncle’s sparkling blue eyes.  “I’ve sent Cinder on, Garlon.  Take Joy and old Garth to the pasture.  I’ll go and greet our visitors.”

“Is it the Prince, Uncle?” Garlon asked.

Darius shook his head.  “No, remember the Prince had gold hair…these two are dark.  But see the way they are dressed…and the great bows strapped to their backs?”  Garlon nodded.  “Warriors, if I’m not mistaken.”

Darius smiled at his bedazzled nephew and gave him a gentle shove.  “Off with ye, lad.  Show some speed, boy, and ye can meet ‘em with me.”  Garlon flashed the tall man a brilliant smile and hurried off with the two horses trailing behind him.  Darius took a deep breath and walked over to greet the two strangers.

                                                                    XXX

Aravir’s first impression of the man was one of height combined with courtly manners and a forthright gaze.  How intriguing.  He dismounted and left Malvagor with the horses as he strode forward to meet the man.

“My lord, welcome to my home,” the man said, bowing.

Aravir bowed in return, replying in Westron.  “Thank you, although I am no lord.  You are Darius, son of Olwain?” he asked.

“Yes, I am Darius,” the man answered, the deep blue eyes brimming with curiosity.

“I am Aravir, commander of the Woodland forces, Darius,” the elf explained.  “I bring you greetings and a message from the Elvenking.”

Darius’ face paled, but his voice remained steady and polite.  “Would ye care to come inside, ye and yer companion, and refresh yerselves from the long ride?”

Aravir smiled and nodded.  “That would be most welcome.  Thank you.”  Turning, he motioned to Malvagor, who dismounted and after a quick word with both horses, joined his commander.  “This is one of my lieutenants, Malvagor.  Malvagor, this is Darius, son of Olwain.” 

Malvagor bowed slightly, “Mae govannen, Darius.”

The three exchanged pleasantries, Aravir translating the conversation for Malvagor from Westron into Sindarin, much to the delight of Darius and had just turned to start for the house when a young man came racing around the corner, only to come to a sliding halt, gasping for breath and red-faced with embarrassment.

The elves smiled as Darius gestured for the youth to approach.  “My nephew, Garlon,” he introduced the blushing boy.  “Garlon, this is Commander Aravir and his lieutenant, Malvagor.”

“Well met, Garlon,” Aravir replied, smiling at the youngster, who bowed and murmured, “Pleased to meet ye, Commander.  Lieutenant.” 

At that moment, the door to the house slammed open and a petite, auburn-haired woman well gone with child stalked out and descended the steps, her lovely face set in angry, fearful lines.  She marched over to the group and grabbed her husband by the arm, stating in an agitated voice, “NO!  Ye cannot have him!  He is NOT goin’ anywhere!”  The furious words had no sooner left her mouth when she burst into tears and buried her face in the soft blue cloth of Darius’ shirt.

Darius held Cara close, whispering in her ear for a moment before looking up at his visitors.  “My wife, Cara.  She did not approve of my earlier exploits into the forest,” he explained, before returning his attention to the sobbing woman in his arms.  “Come inside, love.  It is too hot out here.  We’ll all sit down with a cool drink and some of yer delicious shortbread and listen to what the Commander has to say.”  As he spoke, he turned his wife and, keeping her close in the circle of his arms, led the group into the house.

Aravir and Malvagor followed, exchanging concerned looks.  Garlon walked beside them, his embarrassment forgotten.  “It’s the babe,” he confided in a low voice.  “She’s been right unreasonable fer weeks now.  Uncle gave her quite a scare when he was late comin’ back from the forest.  And then hearin’ the stories about the great spiders and all…well, she’s been upset ever since.”

“When is the little one expected, Garlon?” Aravir asked.  A visit to the stronghold might be impossible for Darius at this time.

“Not for three more weeks, accordin’ to the midwife.”  The boy paused.  “Don’t know that she’ll last that long, though.”

Darius led the silent group into a small sitting room, settling his wife in a comfortable chair, before leaving to gather the refreshments.  Aravir and Malvagor sat on a wide, well-padded settee, noticing the carefully crafted furniture, the colorful braided rug on the floor and hand-made curtain in the windows.  Everything was meticulously clean, the smell of some sort of homemade oil leaving a fresh tang in the air and a glossy polish on the wood.

Garlon sat on the floor at his aunt’s feet, speaking to her in a soft voice.  She finally lifted her head and stared at the two elves for a long moment before saying, “Ye must think I’m a rude one, and crazy as well.  I apologize fer my poor welcome.”  She sniffed and dabbed at her wet eyes with a handkerchief Darius had slipped into her hand earlier.  “I am Cara, Darius’ wife.  Please excuse my manners and be welcome in our home.”

Aravir shook his head.  “You need make no apology to us, Mistress Cara.  We are sorry that our appearance has caused you any strain.  Please worry no further.”

Darius came back into the room, carrying a heavy tray with cups, a large pitcher of water, and a plate of Cara’s golden-brown shortbread.  Garlon got up to help his uncle pass out the water and cookies to their guests.

Malvagor had devoured three of the sweet, flaky cookies before he leaned over to Aravir and whispered, “This is the best shortbread I have ever eaten.  What do you think our chances are of getting some to take home?”

Aravir raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant, shaking his head.  “At this point?  Slim, Malvagor, slim.”

“What seems to be the problem, Commander?” Darius asked, curious about the exchange between the two elves, which had been in elvish, and the disappointed look on the lieutenant’s face.

Aravir replied, a faint grin gracing his serious face as he addressed his mortal audience.  “Malvagor does not speak Westron, so you must forgive him for excluding you.  However, Mistress, he has decided your shortbread is the best he has ever eaten…I find I must agree.  He was also wondering what our chances were of getting some for the return home.”

Cara listened to the melodious voice, finding the compliment and fleeting smile from this most reserved person almost as disarming as the wishful look on the younger elf’s face, and he must be younger, his expression reminded her too much of her nephews’ when they were angling for a treat.

She sighed and glared at Aravir.  “Ah, Commander, not fair.  How can I dislike ye if ye act like that?”  The commander shrugged, his amusement evident in his striking green eyes.

To Darius’ great relief, the exchange seemed to melt his wife’s icy reserve.  They spent almost an hour speaking of inconsequential things, all knowing that the real reason for the elves’ visit remained unspoken for the time being.  Cara then drafted Garlon to help her with supper, deciding to serve the meal outside under the trees after sundown, while Aravir and Malvagor helped Darius refill the house reservoir, marveling at the simple, yet effective sluice which diverted water from the creek into several huge, conjoined wooden barrels outside the back door.  Once they were full, the sluice was shut off and the barrels tapped for use in the house.

After that chore was completed, the elves helped Darius bring in the livestock, proving to the man that the elvish way with all good beasts was not a myth.  Malvagor was especially taken with Garlon’s dainty black mare, declaring Joy a perfect name for the sweet-tempered horse.

A dinner comprised of thin slices of venison between thick slices of fresh bread, fresh corn and squash from the garden and a hearty vegetable soup was served beneath the oak trees in back, everyone sitting at the trestle table on benches Darius had built just for such gatherings.

When all had eaten their fill, Cara gave Aravir a hard look and said, “Now, enough stallin’.  I must insist ye tell us why ye have come, Commander.”

Aravir nodded.  “Of course.  King Thranduil received a letter from his son, Captain Legolas, informing him of Darius’ bravery in saving Gilfileg and his aid in ridding the forest of the threat from the invading spiders.  The King would like to honor you, Darius.  He has issued an invitation asking you to visit the palace so he might meet and speak with you personally.”

Darius listened, his astonishment plain.  “But…”

Knowing her husband as well as she did, Cara laid a hand on his arm, halting his words.  “Nay, Darius.  Do not deny ye had a hand in sendin’ those foul creatures to a well-deserved death and savin’ that precious child, too.”  She took a deep breath.  “Ye should go.”

“Cara!  I cannot leave ye so close to the birth of the babe…”

She lifted a hand, interrupting his words again.  “How long would he be gone, Commander?”

“I would think a week, at least, Mistress,” Aravir replied.

“Cara…”

“Plenty of time for him to visit with the King and get home in time for the babe’s birth.  Tell him what an honor it is to receive this invitation, Commander,” Cara instructed.

“Cara…”

“Tell him it is not a common thing.”  She cupped Darius’ cheek, leaning forward to kiss his protests silent once more.

Aravir agreed.  “She speaks truly, Darius.  The Elvenking is not one to INVITE men for a visit.  Trade delegations…exchanges with the leaders of Esgaroth and Dale…these are interactions initiated by men first.  Your invitation is a singular honor.”

Darius grimaced, muttering, “I didn’t do that much…”

“I am certain, however, that you did,” Aravir countered.  “And I would challenge you to repeat those words to Gilfileg’s parents or the leaders of the villages that were spared ravishment by those monsters.”

Darius had no reply to that.

“Rendan could send Brand, Jaren, and Nola to stay again and help with the chores,” Cara added, brushing the dark hair back that had fallen across her husband’s forehead.

Aravir exchanged a long, speaking look with Malvagor, who inclined his head in assent.  “Malvagor will also stay to lend a hand with the farm, Darius.”

Darius looked at the other elf in surprise.  “How would they communicate with him?  He speaks little or no Westron.”

Cara laughed.  “Ye know very well I can point out what needs doing, Darius.  I have never had trouble getting’ things done before.  I doubt I’ll start now.  Besides, ye may give him the details of what will be needed each day, with the Commander translatin’ fer ye, before ye leave.  AND I would wager he’ll be more than pleased to have a steady supply of my shortbread while he’s here.”

Aravir translated Cara’s words and everyone laughed at Malvagor’s quick nod of acceptance.  The next hour was spent in discussion and plans for the week Darius would be gone.  Garlon went to bed early, in anticipation of a dawn departure for Lake Town to fetch his brothers and his mother.  At last, all plans had been finalized and the elves wished their host and hostess a good night.

“Are ye sure ye’ll be all right sleeping outside?” Cara asked, her concern evident.  Darius hugged her, laughing at the surprised expression on Aravir’s face and remembering his own reaction to the sight of the elves bedding down in the trees near Dorlas’ village.

“Dearling, they are WOOD elves…there is a reason they live in the forest and I would think they’ll be more than comfortable in the trees.”

“He is right, Mistress Cara.  We would much rather sleep outside, listening to the trees’ song.”

Cara hesitated, entranced at his words.  “Do they really sing?”

The Commander allowed a gentle smile at her fascination.  “They do.  And the song of the oak is most pleasing.  Be at ease…the trees will welcome us; we will be quite comfortable.”

Cara shot Aravir a still-skeptical look as Darius took her arm to escort her inside.  “They’re elves, sweeting.  Not for us to understand,” he whispered.  “Come along.  It’s to bed with ye…I’ll clean up.  Good night, Commander.”

“Sleep well, Darius…Mistress Cara.”

At dawn the next morning, Garlon rode out with a message for his father.  Leaning forward, he spoke to Joy, encouraging the mare to maintain her easy, ground-eating canter.  At this pace, he would be home by early afternoon.  The return trip would be made the next day, with Darius and Commander Aravir prepared to leave that afternoon.

                                                                    XXX

Baranthor met the King as he crossed the bridge leading into the stronghold, pleased to see an agreeable, relaxed expression on his friend’s handsome face.  “Any news from Aravir?” he asked, falling into step beside Thranduil.

The King shook his head.  “I do not expect to hear anything yet.  We discussed how long it might take for him to convince the man to come, as well as the return trip.  I would think they will not even start back for another day or so.”

Baranthor looked thoughtful.  “What of the other messengers?  Any news from our other guests?”

Thranduil grinned.  “A little bird told me this morning that they are on their way.”

His advisor rubbed his hands together.  “Good.  Good.  How go the plans for the revels?”  All my scrambling for an excuse to have a party, and Thranduil has already decided on the necessity of welcoming the leaders of the most distant villages.  An excellent reason for fun and frivolity.  I ought to have known better…the sneaky elf is usually one step ahead of me.  Hmmmm…could be why he is King and I am not.  

The ruler of the woodland realm threw an arm over his best friend’s shoulder and ducked his head to whisper in his ear.  “Galion has things well in hand.  You know he is in his element when he is planning a large celebration.  As for Eloriel, she has been given the responsibility of seeing to the menu.”  He chuckled.  “I believe the cooks are in an uproar, scurrying to and fro raiding the gardens and orchards, while organizing expeditions into the forest to seek out the last of the summer nuts, herbs, and vegetables.”

Thranduil eyed his friend playfully.  “I, of course, have my own answer for dealing with all this madness.”

Baranthor grinned.  He always admired Thranduil’s ‘answers’.  “Yes?” he prompted when the irritating elf remained silent.  “And just what is this ‘answer’?”

Thranduil eyed Baranthor, suppressing a smile at his rising impatience.  Really, he was SO easy sometimes!  “Why, my friend,” he purred.  “I have done what any self-respecting elf would do when faced with the planning and preparation for an inundation of numerous guests, all expecting a feast to remember.”  He walked on, while Baranthor stopped, hands on hips, a jaundiced look on his fair face as he frowned in disapproval at Thranduil.  The King turned and laughed at Baranthor’s sour face.

Baranthor was not amused.  “Just tell me, you exasperating…annoying…” he sputtered, the incoherent sounds serving only to broaden Thranduil’s smile. 

“…maddening…troublesome…exasperating…”

“You are repeating yourself, Baranthor.”  The councilor continued to glare at him.  “All right…all right…cease the name-calling, my friend,” he chuckled.  Strolling back, he leaned close to Baranthor’s ear again.  “I have done the only intelligent thing possible.  I have called…A HUNT.”

Baranthor tried to smother the yelp of excitement that threatened to escape.  The palace kitchens were kept supplied with fresh meat and fish by the Master Huntsman and his “troop of merry hunters”.  Sometimes the foresters would pitch in and help and, of course, individual families provided their own game.  But Thranduil had not called for the King’s Hunt in many, many years, not since…well, he could hardly bear to remember that dark time.  This was an auspicious occasion, one well worth marking with tasteful, restrained enthusiasm.

He grasped Thranduil’s forearms, shaking the grinning elf and firing questions at an alarming rate.  “Well?  When?  Who have you invited?  Where do we plan to hunt?”

Thranduil laughed – a full-bodied, hearty guffaw that caused a sting of tears to prick Baranthor’s eyes and a lump to form in his throat; it had been so long since he had heard that laugh. 

Thranduil ticked off the answers on his fingers as he replied, “Tomorrow morning early.  All of the huntsmen, the members of the council I have managed to speak to, the usual guards, me.  The foresters are planning the route we will take as we speak.  I trust you plan on joining us?”

“Just try and stop me.”

“I would not dream of it.”  Baranthor shoved his King, who shoved him right back.  A brief, but amiable scuffle later, the two ambled on, tugging their rumpled robes back to order as they continued to discuss the coming day.

Disclaimer:  All of the major characters (with the exception of a few of my own) and the setting belong to JRR Tolkien.  I only visit his world from time to time.

Summary:  Darius meets the King – the King is surprised.

A/N:  At this point, I would like to say that I have been influenced and inspired by the tales of life and governance in Eryn Galen through the excellent writing of several different LotR authors (mainly at SoA), in addition to a very detailed unit on the Middle Ages that I taught my classes at school over a period of 5 years.  The pomp and pageantry accorded to a King, the order needed to maintain such a large community, the headache it must have been to keep track of all the little aspects of government, with the addition of escalating danger brought about by an advancing evil…it boggles the mind.  I do so admire the Elvenking and his people!  *heartfelt sigh*  (This chapter was once a part of Chapter 4 – NiRi suggested I split it in two since it was quite long, so everyone does not have to wait on me for the usual three weeks…or four…for an update. *sigh*)

Chapter 5:  A Brave New World

                   “Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until

                    they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”

                                                                                  --Anaís Nin

Three days later, two weary riders stopped by a stream a short distance from the huge, double doors of the Elvenking’s stronghold.

“You wanted to know when we were almost there, Darius,” Aravir said.  “This stream is less than an hour removed from the palace.”

“Good.” 

Aravir watched, a perplexed look stealing over his face as the man dismounted and led his horse to the stream.  Hobbling the big animal to curtail any wandering, Darius began digging through his saddlebag.  Aravir threw one leg over his horse and perched on the broad back, staring at his confusing companion. 

Darius paused long enough to laugh at the elf’s expression.  “Ye may be able to travel for several days and still look as if ye could attend a royal feast.  I’ve not seen a hair out of place on yer head, Commander, and I would swear that ye don’t even sweat.” 

“Oh, but I do perspire.”  Aravir wrinkled his nose a bit, the action bringing a bark of laughter from the man. 

“You do, do ye?” Darius snorted.  “Well, it is near invisible to my way of lookin’.  As for me, I am filthy!”  He swept an arm across his grimy forehead and grimaced.  “And besides that, I reek!  I’ll not meet yer King lookin’ like this!” 

He returned to his search…for clean clothing, Aravir supposed, given the explanation he had just heard.  Sighing, he jumped to the ground and released his horse to graze and take what water he wanted.  Do not go far, Gwathion.  We shall not be here too long…you will have fresh grain and a comfortable stable before the afternoon turns to evening.  An elegant horse the color of mist and shadow, Gwathion nudged his rider’s shoulder before moving to the stream for a long drink of the shade-cooled water. 

Aravir made certain Darius was occupied with his bathing before leaping into the lower branches of a nearby beech tree.  He climbed until he reached a vantage point that afforded him a clear view of the clearing, the stream, and the surrounding area before settling against the tree’s trunk to keep watch.  The welcoming murmur of the old beech sank into his very bones, loosening tense muscles and energizing his weary body.  He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his cheek against the rough bark and sighing.

Nothing restored him more quickly than the forest’s song.  He had been so preoccupied with reaching Darius and later, bringing him safely through the woods, that he had neglected to absorb in full the music that surrounded him.  And before that, most of his time had been spent in the stronghold, attending his lord and coordinating the patrols of the realm.  He had had little opportunity to just sit among the giants of the forest and breathe…to feel the heartbeat of Eryn Galen and allow it to work its own brand of magic on his spirit. 

A vigorous splash from the stream caught his attention and he opened his eyes to check on Darius.  A reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he watched the man, clad only in his smallclothes, hip deep in the water, scrubbing the dust and grime from his body and hair as he sang a lilting song praising his lover’s eyes in a pleasing, if slightly off-key, baritone. 

The man had turned out to be a pleasant surprise – easy to talk to and amusing, with his stories of a youth spent in Esgaroth with three older siblings and all the trouble they managed to stir up.  Aravir’s smile deepened.  It was about time the King met a mortal that did not fit his preconceived notions.  Legolas’ description of Darius had been accurate – though incomplete.  You really had to meet the man to appreciate his character. 

“Aravir!  I’ll be ready to leave shortly!” Darius gave a shout from below, slipping on his clean shirt before tugging a wooden comb through his dripping hair.  Aravir stretched, standing on the branch as he prepared to descend and complete his mission.  Yes, he was looking forward to Thranduil’s reaction.

                                                                     XXX

“The King does speak Westron, doesn’t he?”  At the whispered question, Aravir paused to look at the pale face of his companion. 

“Fluently.”  Instead of reassuring, Aravir noted his words only made the man stiffen, and if possible, pale even further. 

The Commander stopped short of the huge doors leading into the stronghold, out of earshot of the standing guards, and gazed into worried indigo eyes.  “Deep breath, Darius.” 

He waited for the man to comply.  “Now, watch me.  The herald will announce us and we will approach the King.  Bow when I bow and wait for him to acknowledge you before you speak.” 

“Don’t think much will be comin’ out of my mouth,” the nervous man muttered. 

Aravir clapped him on the shoulder.  “Be yourself, Darius.  Speak truth to him - he would know if you tried to embellish your words.  You will be fine.” 

“Huh.  Easy words for ye to speak, Commander.”  Darius straightened his tunic one last time and nodded to the elf at his side.  “Let’s go, then.” 

At a gesture from Aravir, the guard at the entrance opened the doors.

                                                                    XXX

“The mortal, Darius, is here, my lord,” the herald announced.

The Elvenking of Eryn Galen, Thranduil Oropherion, looked up from his perusal of the list of applicants for trade within his realm. 

“This is the man Aravir was charged to bring to us?” he asked, observing the formalities while inside a little voice was complaining.  Finally they are here!  About time. 

The herald nodded respectfully.  “Aye, Sire.  The Commander accompanies him.”

King Thranduil motioned him back to his post and returned the list to Baranthor.  “A most comprehensive – and abbreviated – list, my friend.  I am pleased to see several names from the original have been eliminated through the interviews conducted by you and Berenthil.  We will take this up at the next council meeting, Baranthor.  See to it that each of the interested parties is notified.”

Baranthor took the list, replying, “I will see to it at once, Thranduil.”  As he turned to leave, Thranduil laid a lightly restraining hand on his shoulder, turning him around.

The advisor lifted one questioning eyebrow at his King, who smiled.  “Stay, my friend.  You know I have been waiting impatiently to meet this human who made such a positive impression on my son.  Legolas has requested that he be rewarded for his service to the realm.”

“Indeed?” Baranthor murmured, his surprise evident.  Thranduil had not mentioned that little fact in the meeting when he had shared the contents of Legolas’ letter with his councilors.  “I will gladly stay to witness this auspicious event, then.”

Thranduil chuckled at his friend’s somewhat sarcastic tone, returning to his seat as he raised his hand, a signal to the door warden to admit the human and his elven escort.  Legolas’ letter had been adamant that the man was owed some form of reward or recognition for his aid to both the Southern and the Eastern patrols.  Legolas, a most loving and faithful son, seldom demanded anything of his royal father, and remained constant in his loyalty to his King and his people.  Small wonder upon reading his report that Thranduil had decided immediately to give the situation his undivided attention.

Thranduil leaned back in his big chair as Baranthor assumed a position behind and to his left.  He looked over his shoulder, whispering, “I am trying to keep an open mind about this.  You, above all, know how difficult that is.  Still, Legolas has insisted.  I want you to watch and listen carefully, old friend.  If you see or hear anything which seems amiss, I want to know about it.” 

Thranduil paused.  “And if I seem unreasonable, I want to know about that, too.” 

He shot a wry grimace at the elf that had remained steadfast beside him during some of the worst times of his life and added, “A raised eyebrow or an odd look will do as a signal, I think.”  Baranthor grinned and nodded as the King turned to await the arrival of their ‘guest’.

Seconds later, the tall double doors leading into the Great Hall swung open and an imposing elf clad in the greens and browns of the Wood Elves entered, accompanied by a tall, sturdy, ebony-haired young man.

The first thing the King noticed about the man was his piercing blue eyes.  The second thing was his apparent curiosity and interest in his surroundings.  Those avid, intelligent eyes missed nothing and the human’s awed delight was almost palpable.  Then there was the surprising fact that, unlike many of the mortal visitors he often met, this one had obviously taken some care with his appearance.  He was clean, his long hair still damp from a recent washing, and dressed in simple, well-made clothing.  Thranduil straightened.  Seldom did men realize the importance of first impressions on their elven hosts...often to their detriment.  Perhaps there was more to this man than just a simple peasant who had happened to be in the right place at the right time to garner the attention of his only son.

His gaze shifted to the commanding elf at the man’s side, catching Aravir’s verdant gaze immediately.  A gaze that was bland and noncommittal.  Thranduil snorted to himself, his eyes narrowing as he noted a very faint lifting of the Commander’s lips.  Stubborn, secretive elfling!  So he will let me form my own opinions, will he?  The King returned to his study of the human pacing by Aravir’s side.  The two stopped many feet away from the low dais upon which the King’s chair sat, each dropping to one knee, heads bowed in respect. 

“Rise,” Thranduil ordered, gesturing them forward once they stood upright again.  He looked at Aravir, his expression expectant.

“My lord King, may I present Darius, son of Olwain?” Aravir introduced the man, stepping back once his duty was complete.

The young man bowed once more, murmuring, “Yer majesty.”  He lifted his eyes to the King and Thranduil was again struck by the straightforward, fearless gaze.

“Be welcome, Darius.  I have been looking forward to meeting you since receiving my son’s letter.”

Darius flushed slightly.  “The Prince is too kind, sire.”

Thranduil, increasingly impressed by the man’s humble air and careful courtesy, replied, “Oh, I can assure you, he is not.  Prince Legolas could not embellish a situation if his life depended on it.  It is not in his nature.”  

The man shifted a little under the intent stare of the Elvenking.  “You intrigue me, Darius,” Thranduil stated, his voice soft, thoughtful as he came to a swift decision.  Plans to reward the man only half-formed in his mind at that point solidified and became reality.  Legolas approved of this man…Aravir approved, and that was no small concession from his serious, security-minded commander.  And I can sense no deceit in him…only the curiosity of a child and a healthy respect and admiration for us.  Thranduil could now proceed without doubt.  “Might you remain with us for a time?” 

Darthon started at this unexpected invitation and Thranduil sensed Baranthor’s sharp intake of breath.  Even the impassive Commander’s eyes widened at the king’s words. 

“Yes, sire, if that be yer will.”  He paused, a shy smile stealing across his features.  “I…I…well, I thank ye fer the invitation, my lord.”

“Then stay for a day or so and rest before you return to your home,” the King invited, pleased further by the man’s hesitant response.  The prospect of spending a few days underground in the company of an alien people could not be a comfortable one.  Once more, the man displayed fortitude and a willingness to face the unknown gracefully.  Just as Legolas had described him.

“You are certain you are not needed by your family?” Thranduil pressed.

Darius shook his head.  “Nay, Sire.  My brother’s wife and their sons are stayin’ at the farm to help with the chores and keep my wife company until I return.  He planned to join them in a day or two.” 

The Commander stepped forward.  “Malvagor also remained behind to lend aid where needed, sire.”  Thranduil raised an eyebrow.  Malvagor stayed?  There was a story behind that simple statement, he was certain.  How…unexpected.  And entertaining.

“Excellent.”

Thranduil stood, signaling an end to the audience; a regal, imposing figure in his crown of summer flowers and his forest green court robe with its elaborate embroidery as he beckoned Baranthor forward.  “May I present one of my trusted advisors?  Baranthor, allow me to introduce Darius, son of Olwain, of Esgaroth.” 

Baranthor smiled at the flustered visitor and said, “Welcome, Darius. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.” 

“Thank ye, sir,” the man murmured.

Exchanging a devious grin with Baranthor, Thranduil gestured towards the waiting Commander as he continued blithely on, “You already know Aravir, of course.”  Aravir’s green eyes narrowed.  What was the King playing at?  Of course, Baranthor knew him!

Baranthor nodded a greeting to the elf.  “Certainly.  Greetings, Aravir.  It is good to have you back.” 

The advisor’s merry grey eyes twinkled as the Commander bowed stiffly in return.  So, Thranduil is having a bit of fun with his commander.  And involving me!  Good!  Having carved wooden soldiers for this one when he was just an elfling, it had often tickled his sense of humor to observe the oh, so dignified expression that so often graced the young one’s face when he was on duty.  Lately, however, the child’s reserve resembled more of a withdrawal.  Baranthor had decided to dedicate his considerable talents to breaking through that wall the Commander had built to separate himself from his friends, much to Aravir’s chagrin and the King’s delight. 

“It is good to be back,” a stiff-lipped Aravir replied to the grinning advisor.  Darius watched the exchange with amusement.  It would seem Aravir was being gently teased by his elders.    

“I must check in with my aide, Sire,” Aravir informed the King.  “Do you require anything else at present?”

“Just your presence at the dinner hour, Aravir,” the King ordered, smiling when the startled elf was unable to contain his pleased nod of assent. 

“Darius, you will join us.  Baranthor, we will expect you also…and bring that brother of yours and his wife.  We will feed our guest, make him feel at home and tomorrow, he will experience a Woodland revel.”  

Baranthor chuckled softly, Darius looked alarmed, and Aravir unbent enough to arch one amused eyebrow at his lord in response.  The King laughed at what seemed outright impudence from the Commander and made a dismissive gesture.

“Ah, off with you, you scamp.  I do not know why I put up with your foolishness, Aravir!” 

The elf raised the other eyebrow, now the picture of provocative innocence, and executed a perfect bow before leaving. 

“The elfling grows confident, my lord,” Baranthor whispered. 

Thranduil threw him a pleased grin in agreement before turning to Darius, saying, “Pay no attention to us, Darius.  It has become a common practice of ours to attempt to rattle Aravir’s chains once an audience is over and business completed.” 

The human smiled, the glance he bestowed on the King filled with the understanding of one who had often suffered the same treatment from his own father and uncle.  “Of course, Sire.” 

“Come then.  We will show you to your quarters that you might rest and refresh yourself.  Later this evening, you and I will discuss that colony of spiders you discovered and helped destroy.”

The King, accompanied by Baranthor, led the bemused man to a side exit and conducted him through the corridors to the guest wing of the stronghold.  After showing Darius into the guest room, Thranduil paused at the door.  “Darius.” 

The young man turned towards him, a rather lost look on his face.  The King’s heart softened even further as he advised, “Rest, Darius.  Avail yourself of the bathing room, if you wish.  There is also fruit and a fine wine on the table over there if you are hungry now.” 

“Thank ye, sire.  Ye are most kind.” 

Thranduil smiled as he turned to leave.  “I will send someone for you when it is time for the evening meal.” 

Darius spent some time exploring his quarters, amazed at the sheer artistry used by the elves for the simplest things.  Rock walls were smooth and polished, or adorned with tapestries of such color and grace he stood before them for long minutes, lost in the stories depicted by each scene.  Even the bedding was lush and elegant, embroidered with gossamer threads of green and gold, covering a massive bedstead carved with woodland creatures. Thick carpets covered the stone floor, a small fire kindled in a brazier dispelled any chill in the room, and the oil from the burning rushlights was pleasantly scented. 

The bathing room was another wonder, and although he had recently cleaned up in a stream before entering the palace, he could not resist the deep pool with its heated waters and fragrant, elven-made softsoap.  Falling on the bed after his bath and a delightful cup of a fruity tasting wine, he stretched his arms above his head and sighed.  “Just a short nap, maybe…”

                                                                    XXX 

So Aravir found him several hours later.  Shaking the man awake, he smothered his chuckles at Darius’ frantic scramble to dress for dinner.  There, in what Darius decided was the family dining room, he found all his fears laid to rest by the welcome he received.  In between courses of fresh fish, accompanied by platters of squash and snap beans, braised mushrooms, fresh bread, and a trifle of sponge cake drowning in fresh berries and cream, Baranthor and his brother, Berenthil, offered many amusing stories while Berenthil’s wife, Miriel, provided a gentle presence, controlling their more exuberant discussions.  Aravir sat beside him, a familiar, reassuring figure, and even the King, who Darius was certain could be the most intimidating elf imaginable, proved a comfortable table companion, in spite of the constant spate of questions he threw at Darius. 

However, once Darius started relating his adventure with the spiders, he found it easy to describe everything in detail, from the size of the spider and the smell of its foul blood, to his horror at the sight of the grotesque webs overwhelming the trees, and his fear for the small elfling who trusted so completely in the strange man who saved him. 

At the end of the story, Thranduil had drawn a deep breath and said, “I can see why Legolas was so impressed with you, Darius.”  He held up a hand to halt the man’s protest.  “Nay, I have spoken with Aravir, and in the short time we have been acquainted, I know you well enough to see you do not wish any special recognition or reward.  But I find I must insist.”  He eyed the blush stealing across the young man’s cheeks.  “I will try not to make it too much of an ordeal, but tomorrow evening at the revel, I will introduce you to my people, that they may know of your efforts and honor you for your actions in protecting our realm.”

                                                                    XXX

The next day, after a breakfast consisting of a sweet nutty porridge with fruit and warm bread with honey, Darius spent the morning with Baranthor, observing the King as he greeted various courtiers or heard petitions in the Great Hall.  Having seen his father preside over the formal meetings of the different guilds of Lake Town, Darius was struck by the similarities between the rituals of elves and men.  It would seem we are more alike than we know…although the King presents a much more imposing, impressive figure than Father or the Mayor.  Even the King of Dale pales in comparison to the Elvenking.

After the final petition was heard, Baranthor delivered Darius to the King with a wink and an impudent bow, causing Thranduil to cast a mock-glare at his friend before turning to the man with a huff of annoyance. 

“I do not know why I put up with his cheek,” he groused to himself.  Noting Darius’ ill-concealed grin, he snapped, “What?” 

Darius cleared his throat and offered the elven ruler the truth.  “He keeps ye grounded, my lord.  After all, what are friends for…if not to remind us we are not all we think we are?” 

Thranduil eyed the man askance, amazed at the temerity of his observation.  Darius blushed, then turned deathly pale, as if just realizing how his words had sounded.  “My lord...,” he began. 

“Nay, Darius,” Thranduil interrupted.  “Do not spoil it with an apology.  I would be most disappointed in you.”  He studied the young man a moment longer, then gestured him to his side.  “Come along,” he said.  “Eloriel has been known to send my lunch to the Commander’s office if I am overly late.” 

Darius followed the elf, maintaining a respectful silence, all the while berating himself for his gaffe.  Why in Arda would he think that this elf in particular would be interested in hearing his ill-thought, too familiar observation?  It was a wonder to him the King had not had him escorted to the great doors and kicked out of the palace.

“Peace, Darius,” Thranduil suddenly said, looking down at the bent head of the man pacing beside him.  Darius looked up, the chagrin and shame apparent in his blue eyes.  Thranduil smiled at him…or perhaps a bearing of teeth would be more accurate.  “I do not mind the truth…most of the time.  And fortunately for you, I am disposed to allow your words…just this once.” 

“Yes, sire,” Darius breathed.  “Ye have more than made yer point.  Forgive my arrogance.” 

“Oh, you did not speak in arrogance, young one,” Thranduil remarked.  “If you had, I would not have reacted so…how shall I put it?  Calmly.”  The King swept on, leaving the man behind him swallowing heavily before he hurried to catch up.

Lunch started out a rather strained affair, until it was lightened by the elf maiden in charge of the servers who, after examining the table with a critical eye, began urging the King and his guest to take second helpings. 

“I know you have been in the Great Hall, my lord,” she explained, offering Thranduil another slice of the excellent venison pie.  “Just listening to some of that foolishness often causes your appetite to disappear.”  She ignored the King’s glare, adding some vegetables to the pie on his plate.  “You know you will need your strength for tonight, Sire.  All those guests…and every one of them wanting to speak to you.” 

“Eloriel,” he sighed, “I will eat at the feast…” 

“I have seen how you eat at a feast…you become so distracted during the festivities you do not eat enough to keep an elfling active.  Come now, my lord.  This is your favorite…Meneldur took time out to make it just for you.” 

“Meneldur should concentrate on his duties in the treasury,” Thranduil growled, taking a bite of the flaky crust with its savory filling. 

“Yes, yes…and you may remind him of that later…after you eat.”  She turned her serious gray eyes on Darius.  “And that goes for you, too, good sir.” 

Darius obediently picked up his fork and resumed eating, earning a bright smile from the maiden before she left the room and a smirk from the King as they both cleared their plates – as ordered.

Darius spent a pleasant hour in the King’s favorite garden, telling the elf about purchasing the land for his farm, in spite of his father’s objections.  He described his Cara and the coming babe in loving detail, and told Thranduil of their early struggles to clear the land and build their house and barn. 

“Still, things have been good fer us, ‘til this drought,” he concluded, his handsome face shadowed by the memory of dry, barren fields. 

“The rains will return, Darius,” Thranduil assured him.  “I know it is difficult for you, but have patience.  It sounds as if you are doing everything possible to maintain your land until that happens.”  He stood.  “Come.  I will take you to your room so you might rest and prepare for the feast this evening.  We will wait until Anor completes his journey and the heat of the day dissipates somewhat.”

Darius returned to his room and paced in restless anticipation before finally collapsing on the bed and dozing off.  He awoke in time to bathe and change into his finest clothing, packed at the insistence of Cara.  “Ye don’t know what’s in store there at the palace,” she had scolded.  “If the King wishes to thank ye in front of everyone, ye had best be dressed in a fittin’ manner, husband.”  Thank the Belain for his wife’s foresight.

Aravir arrived to serve as his escort and they followed the King out of the palace, crossing the courtyard to the wide expanse of lawn where rows of tables covered in finely-woven cloths, adorned with wreaths and garlands of flowers had been set up, facing a long table set on a low dais before them. 

The lawn was lit with lanterns strategically hung from the trees and candlelight.  Darius did not quite know where to look first, he was so dazzled by the sights before him, finally resolving to keep his eyes on Thranduil and do his gawking after the feast had begun.  Thranduil led him to the High Table, seating him on his left hand with Aravir on the other side.  The crowd of elves at the tables had risen at the entrance of their King, bowing deeply as he passed.

Thranduil stood, staring out over the crowded lawn for a moment, gathering the attention of every elf present, before speaking.  “It is with great honor and pleasure that I welcome each and every one of you tonight.  Long has it been since we have had an opportunity…no, a reason to celebrate anything other than the usual seasonal festivals.  Tonight, I am pleased to inform you that we have much to celebrate and be thankful for.  We have lost much over the years to the Shadow that threatens our very existence.  Loved ones, as well as our beloved forest, have fallen in the wake of its evil.  But we have persevered, and we shall continue doing so.  Even as we sit here tonight, our warriors patrol our borders, seeing to our safety.  And now, we have a new ally who has proven his worth by alerting our patrols to an incursion by the great spiders from the South.” 

Here the King paused to allow the alarmed whispers to fade.  “He not only helped our warriors locate and eliminate the threat, but he was able to save one of our little ones.”  Another pause as Thranduil turned to look off to one side of the High Table. 

“Darius!”  The sudden shout, followed by a blur as a small figure separated from the group waiting to be introduced and seated, startled everyone.  Darius stood just in time to catch Gilfileg as the elfling leaped into his arms, hugging the child close, his welcoming smile visible to every elf present.  The entire assembly burst into applause. 

Thranduil held up a hand, quieting the crowd.  “It gives me great honor to introduce to you, Darius, son of Olwain, of Esgaroth.  We bid him welcome to Eryn Galen and thank him for his courage and aid in ridding the forest of these enemies while saving one of our precious children.” 

Darius shifted Gilfileg to his hip, bowing to the King and the crowd, drawing more applause and shouts of welcome.  Thranduil continued when silence fell once more.  “It has also come to our attention that the villages farthest from us have been neglected of late.  That will come to an end, beginning now.  I have brought the leaders of these villages to the capital for the express purpose of determining their needs…and I will be returning with them when they go home to greet these stalwart, courageous subjects who remained behind those many years ago to care for the forest when we were forced north.” 

Another roar of approval sounded as Thranduil motioned the village leaders and Gilfileg’s parents to take their seats at the High Table.  Darius whispered a quick hello to the elfling’s parents and Dorlas, who greeted him with warm smiles of approval.  They turned to listen as the King continued to speak.  “I trust each of you will make them welcome during their stay here as they renew acquaintances and meet with me and my council.” 

He paused and the people stilled, listening intently.  “We have called this forest home for time out of mind, and the hardships we endure we face together, both as one people…and with the help of those we might not have considered in the past.  Those who now show us that friendship is often found when and where we least expect it.  Please…be seated now…and enjoy the feast!”

The people complied with laughter and chatter, and what a feast it was!  As soon as the King finished speaking, minstrels began wandering among the tables, playing softly as the dishes for the first course were brought out and served.  Darius released Gilfileg, with a smile and pat on the back, to his parents and sat down beside Thranduil, whispering, “Just what did ye say to them, my lord?” 

Thranduil grinned.  “Oh, this and that.”  He patted Darius on the shoulder.  “Nothing you did not deserve, Darius.  Now, enjoy yourself.” 

Darius nodded, waiting for the King to be served before helping himself to a bowl of fragrant soup made from the pulp of pumpkins.  The soup was followed by roasted boar, crisp and spicy, a crusty pie stuffed with rabbit and accompanied by braised mushrooms in wine sauce, thick slices of venison with warm, crusty bread, and a fresh salad of greens, garnished with chestnuts, tender fiddleheads, and parchment-thin slices of apples.  Each table was kept supplied with the potent wine favored by the King.  Darius took a careful sip and promised himself he would drink only water once his goblet was empty. 

As he ate, content to listen to the musical language flowing around him, he watched the elves, dressed in their fine gowns or flowing robes and thought he had never in his life seen such beauty.  His silent study was interrupted by the second remove of fresh fish, more warm bread with honey, buttery corn and squash. 

Aravir leaned over to whisper in Darius’ ear, “Eat sparingly from now on, my friend.  You do NOT want to miss the sweet I heard Eloriel has planned.” 

Darius nodded, “Thank ye, Aravir.  Just a bite of the fish, then.” 

The Commander chuckled, hoping the man did not make himself sick taking ‘just a bite’.  The final course proved to be everything Aravir had promised – flaky pastries stuffed with fruits and nuts, glazed with honey.  Darius had two, wishing he was Gilfileg’s age and could lick the sticky goodness from his fingers. 

Once the meal had ended, he walked around the gathering, nodding politely to the smiles and greetings of the crowd, enjoying the music and dancing.  In time, he found himself sitting at the base of one of the huge trees at the edge of the lawn.  Smothering a huge yawn, he leaned back, sighing, his vision slightly blurred by an abundance of good food and Thranduil’s excellent wine.  He watched the elves weaving an intricate pattern as they danced, tapping his fingers on his knee in time with the music, his eyes growing heavier and heavier, until at last he slept, watched over by the stars and the Elvenking’s Commander. 

“Asleep, is he?” Thranduil asked, looking fondly at the man resting against the trunk of the old beech. 

“Yes, I believe the combination of too much excitement and an excess of food, along with a healthy dose of your Dorwinion proved too much for him in the end.”  He smiled at the King, who placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder.  “But he did enjoy himself.” 

“Good.  Will you see him in, Aravir?” 

“Of course, my lord.  Enjoy yourself.”  Aravir watched Thranduil wander off in search of the archery contest beginning across the lawn before bending down to rouse the man and lead him to his room.

                                                                    XXX                   

The next morning, Thranduil spent several hours showing Darius the stables and the practice fields where the novice warriors learned their lessons with the bow and blade.  They ended up once more in the garden, Thranduil listening as Darius spoke of his youthful yearning that he might one day establish a friendly relationship with the elves of the great forest.  Thranduil found his early assessment of the man reinforced with every word that left his mouth.  He was intelligent, resourceful, and above all, honorable.

The next day when they met for the last time in the courtyard near the stables and Darius’ horse was readied for the journey home, Thranduil said to him, “Consider yourself and your family under our protection, Darius.”

At the man’s startled look, the King explained,” Your farm is the farthest from town, is it not?”

“Aye, my lord,” Darius replied carefully.

“You are close to the boundary of my realm, with the forest bordering your western fields and the river to your south and east?”  Another tentative nod of agreement.  “A small farm…unprotected and isolated from the larger settlements and farms of the area?

“Yes, my lord.”

Thranduil paused, considering the man before him.  “Unfortunately for us all, the Shadow of evil continues to grow.  Given the distance from your nearest neighbor, you are vulnerable.  But no more.  Our Eastern Patrol can easily keep an eye on you and your family.”

The man stuttered, “My l-l-lord, th-that would be very generous of ye!”

The King laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “The forest is vast, my friend, and our patrols are spread too thin at times.  You discovered that huge colony of spiders, Darius.  You then proceeded to go out of your way, at considerable danger to yourself, to rescue an elfling separated from his parents, and when intercepted by Ohtar and my son, to apprise them of the situation and give them directions to the colony.  You were not aware of the three elven settlements located in that area or the families that live in those settlements… families with young ones.  Legolas has noted, and I concur, that you probably saved the lives of many of those villagers.”

He squeezed the man’s shoulder lightly.  “I do not count that a small thing, Darius.  We are in your debt and would be honored to consider you a friend…you and your descendants, for as long as they should live.”

The delighted young man smiled at Thranduil and bowed his head.  “As ye wish it, Sire.  To count the elves of the great forest and their King as friends has always been a hope of mine.”

Thranduil escorted Darius to his horse.  “Your hope is realized, then.  Go well, elvellon, and know that from this moment on we name you elf-friend.”

He watched as the young man mounted, surprising him when he added in parting, “Be certain to send word when your wife delivers the babe, Darius.  I would know that all of you are well.  May the stars shine brightly on your path, my friend.  I will inform Prince Legolas of my decision.”

A sudden frown marred the fair features.  “On second thought, perhaps you should inform him.  You will probably see him sooner than I will.”

Darius laughed at the disgruntled expression on Thranduil’s handsome face and replied, “Should I see the Prince, I will give him yer regards, my lord.”

Thranduil grimaced and the man suddenly saw only a father, missing his son.  “Do that…and tell him I said to write!”

“I will!” called Darius, as he turned his horse and joined Aravir and the elven escort waiting to lead him from the stable yard into the forest beyond.