Disclaimer:  I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him.  I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

AN:  In this story, Legolas is almost 27, which, in human terms, makes him much like a child of 10 or 11.

*******

1.  Desirable Weapons

Bow in hand, Legolas moved through the trees, his attention divided between the woods around him and the figure of his father, ghosting silently along in front of him through the gathering early-spring dusk.  He hefted the bow a little, feeling its satisfying weight.  Only a month ago, the archery master had given him and his friends Turgon and Annael permission to use bows this size.  It was the first bow he had owned not designed specifically for elflings.  True, its draw weight was far less than that of the bows used by his father and brothers, but still, he had a bow that could be used to hunt large game such as the deer that he and his father were now scouting.

Thranduil stopped and beckoned Legolas toward him.  He pointed silently toward a tree trunk from which the bark had been scraped, undoubtedly by a deer rubbing his antlers against it and then smiled down at Legolas. Since Legolas had gotten his new bow, the two of them had hunted deer whenever Thranduil had had time. The scrape was a sign that they were on a trail deer used going between areas where they fed and those where they slept. Legolas could feel his excitement rising.  Perhaps this evening he would bring down his first deer.

Thranduil motioned ahead, where Legolas knew a small meadow lay. If deer were going to be feeding anywhere in the area, it would be there. Perhaps the animals had already awakened from their daytime sleep and were ahead of them.  Legolas followed his father as they crept toward the meadow.  He knew Thranduil would not take to the trees because Legolas was not experienced enough to be sure of missing a deer’s shoulder blade when shooting from above and thus could not be sure of making a clean kill. So they needed to stalk and hunt the deer on the ground.  Thranduil said this was much harder than hunting them from the trees, and Legolas was both pleased that his father thought he could succeed in a harder kind of hunting and frustrated that the difficulty of hunting on the ground meant that he had not yet managed to kill a deer.

The two of them halted just at the edge of the woods.  Thranduil made a minute gesture and Legolas gazed into the meadow. Straight ahead and facing them, a medium-sized buck was grazing. Legolas raised his bow, but Thranduil put a restraining hand on his arm. As they stood there, the animal lifted its head and stared toward them.  Legolas would have sworn that the deer could not see the two green and brown clad elves, for he and his father were screened by underbrush and they stood completely still and were downwind from the deer.  And yet despite all that, the deer suddenly reared and with a single leap disappeared into the trees on the other side of the meadow.

Legolas uttered a soft, disappointed sound and his father chuckled. “Deer are clever animals,” he said sympathetically. “They sometimes know you are there before you do.”

“Why did you not let me shoot while I had the chance?” Legolas asked plaintively.

“You know why,” his father answered with a serious look.  “A head-on shot has to hit dead center or it will deflect off the bone.  You are not ready for that yet.”

Legolas sighed.  His father was right and he knew it, but he was still disappointed. His friend Annael had killed his first deer the previous week, and Legolas did not like to be outdone.

Thranduil put his hand on Legolas’s shoulder.  “We take gifts from the forest, Legolas,” he said gently. “But we must do it with care.”

“I know,” Legolas acknowledged.

“Come,” Thranduil said.  “We must be going home.”

“So soon?  Please, Adar, let us stay just half an hour more,” Legolas pleaded.

“No,” Thranduil responded firmly.  “We are some distance from home, and Ithilden will be waiting for us, and then you need to get to bed.  You have weapons training tomorrow morning.”

Legolas scowled in frustration but knew there was no point in arguing. He turned and followed after Thranduil, who had set off toward the place where they had left their horses. Suddenly his father stopped dead, looking at the ground in front of him.

“What is it?” Legolas asked.

Thranduil pointed wordlessly toward the ground and Legolas looked where he was indicating.  A very large deer print was clearly visible in the soft earth.  Legolas blinked. This track was by far the largest he had ever seen.

“This animal honors the forest with his presence,” Thranduil breathed.

Legolas’s heart quickened.  “Then this is his territory,” he said excitedly. “We can come back and look for him.”  He already knew that deer tended to be creatures of habit and stayed in the same area when they could.

“Perhaps,” Thranduil acknowledged. “But an animal who grows to this size is wily, and our presence may already have put him off.”  He glanced at Legolas and evidently read disappointment on his face for he ruffled his hair and said, “The next time we hunt, though, we will come here. Perhaps we will be lucky.”

Legolas let go of his disappointment and smiled at Thranduil.  He loved hunting with his father, whether they brought down a deer or not.  His father was so busy that Legolas had learned to treasure every moment they spent together.  Thranduil smiled back at him but then turned to look ahead of them and an instant later Legolas too knew that someone was coming toward them through the trees.

Within a few moments, two young Elves dropped from the trees to the ground, bows in their hands.  Legolas recognized them from the weapons training fields as Tynd and Riolith.  They were perhaps ten years older than Legolas, not old enough to be novice warriors yet, but not too far shy of it either. Legolas admired Tynd especially and was pleased to be found hunting deer.  Tynd and Riolith had evidently seen Thranduil and Legolas and felt it polite to greet them.

“My lord,” Tynd said hastily, and both of them bowed.  They glanced at Legolas but did not greet him.  Legolas frowned. Surely these two could see that that he was no longer a child. The very bow he carried proved that, and his twenty-seventh begetting day was only a month away.

Thranduil acknowledged the greeting.  “You look as if you are hunting,” he observed.

“We are, my lord,” Tynd agreed.  He and Riolith exchanged a look of suppressed excitement.  They hesitated but apparently could not bear to keep their news secret. “We have been scouting this area for a very large buck that Riolith caught a glimpse of last week,” Tynd confided.

Thranduil nodded and, to Legolas’s dismay, pointed at the hoof print.  “Perhaps this is the deer you seek?”

They hurried forward and looked.  “Yes,” Riolith breathed. “That is probably him.” He looked up with shining eyes.  “By your leave, my lord, we would continue looking.”

“You are not going to hunt at night by yourselves, are you?” Thranduil asked with a frown.  Legolas recognized his father’s disapproving tone, having heard it often enough himself.  Thranduil worried not only about normal night forest dangers such as wolves, but also about the creatures of shadow who were inhabiting the reaches of the forest south of his stronghold.  His father’s fears sometimes seemed unreasonable to Legolas.  So far as Legolas knew, giant spiders and Orcs, who moved by night, had not yet ventured this close to his father’s palace, but Thranduil was concerned about them anyway.

And Thranduil’s fears had unfortunate consequences so far as Legolas was concerned. He and his father had occasionally been camping, but guards had accompanied them, and Legolas had been warned repeatedly not to wander from the campsite. And Thranduil absolutely forbade him to leave the palace at night without an escort.  He chafed at being kept in because he loved the starlit sky. Indeed, he had been hoping he would be able to talk his father into hunting at night for deer because that was the time they were most active, but he assumed that Thranduil would permit it only with some fairly rigid restrictions on Legolas’s movements.  It did not surprise him that his father was concerned over what Tynd and Riolith might be doing.

“No, my lord,” Tynd hastened to assure him. “We will stop soon.”

“Good,” Thranduil approved.  “The woods grow dangerous at night.  Go.”

With a respectful nod, the two leapt back into the trees and disappeared silently in the direction of the meadow.

Legolas frowned. Neither one of the older two youths had even acknowledged his presence.  “Why did you tell them about the hoof print, Adar?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot. “That buck belongs to us!”

Thranduil put his hand on Legolas’s shoulder and steered him once again toward home. “The buck belongs to himself, iôn-nín.  You know that.  And we will come and hunt again.  This animal will not let himself be taken easily.” He squeezed Legolas’s shoulder. “Do not worry,” he jested lightly.  “There will still be plenty of deer the next time we come.”

By the time they reached the palace, it had grown late, and although they did not pause to change before they went to the royal family’s small private dining room, they found Legolas’s oldest brother, Ithilden, waiting for them.  He rose as his father entered.  “How did it go?” he asked Legolas as Thranduil seated himself and waved both of them to their chairs too.

“Still nothing,” Legolas answered, feeling again the rush of disappointment that he had thus far failed to match Annael’s achievement.

“You are very good with a bow,” Ithilden comforted him.  “One day soon, we will be eating venison you have provided.” The servant finished waiting on them and left the room.

Ithilden turned to Thranduil.  “The Dwarves’ representatives will meet with us tomorrow morning.  I assume that is acceptable.”  Thranduil nodded but made no comment.

“Are there Dwarves here?” Legolas asked in some excitement.  He had never seen a dwarf, for his father generally kept his distance from the inhabitants of Erebor.

“No,” Ithilden answered.  “Men of Dale are representing the Dwarves in negotiations about our buying weapons from them.”

Legolas was disappointed. He had seen Men before, for the Woodland Realm traded regularly with the Men of Esgaroth.  “What is wrong with our own weapons?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Thranduil crisply.  “I am not sure that we need to deal with the dwarves.”

“We need more weapons and armor than our own smiths can provide,” Ithilden said in the tone of one who has made this argument many times before.  “And the Dwarves produce blades of unmatched quality.”

Thranduil frowned and speared his fork at the fish on his plate. “We will talk of this tomorrow,” he said neutrally, a clear indication that the topic was closed.  Legolas suspected that Thranduil did not want to talk of the matter in front of him.  His father and oldest brother did not often discuss the defense of the Realm in his presence.  He had not minded or even noticed their avoidance of the topic until recently, but now that he was growing up, he wished they would tell him about what was happening.  He felt like a baby when his friends knew more than he did about battles that had occurred.

“I almost forgot,” Ithilden exclaimed.  “Legolas, a letter from Eilian came for you in the last bunch of dispatches.”  He pulled a sealed letter from his pocket and handed it across the table.  Legolas was delighted.  His brother Eilian was assigned to the Woodland Realm’s Southern Patrol, so he was seldom home, although Legolas thought Eilian should soon be due for the week of leave he got every three months. But he wrote to Legolas frequently with very entertaining stories of the oddities that were part of his days.  They were the only letters that Legolas got, and he always felt very grown up when he used his dagger to loosen the seal and opened the folded parchment.

“No reading at the table, Legolas,” Thranduil warned.

“I know,” Legolas said, although he did think the rule was rather unfair.  Ithilden often read dispatches at the table.  He put the letter away for later.  It was something to look forward to.  He settled down to eat his meal and exchange the news of his day with his family.

***

“This is silly,” Turgon grumbled under his breath. “How are we supposed to hit anything?”

Legolas’s gaze was on Annael, who, following the instructions of Penntalion, the archery master, had shut his eyes and was firing yet another arrow at a bale of hay only four feet in front of him.  The bow in Annael’s hands looked very long, for Legolas had not yet grown accustomed to seeing his friends use adult bows.  “Adult” bows.  The very idea sent a thrill of satisfaction through him.  He ignored Turgon, who tended to think he knew better than the weapons masters about almost everything.  Turgon was a good friend, but, as Thranduil had pointed out to Legolas repeatedly, he did not always show good judgment, and at the moment, he was irritated because half of his own shots had missed the hay bale.

“How does your shot feel?” Penntalion asked.  “Is it different than it is with your eyes open?”

Annael considered. “Perhaps,” he said doubtfully.

Penntalion nodded.  “It probably is.  We will do this again until they feel the same.” He summoned Legolas to take his friend’s place.

Legolas nocked his arrow and came to his full draw.  “Close your eyes but do not fire yet,” Penntalion instructed.  Legolas obeyed. “What do you notice?” Penntalion asked.

Legolas considered.  “My stance,” he said tentatively.  “I can feel how my arm is extended.”

“Keep your eyes closed and shoot,” said Penntalion.  Legolas fired the arrow. “Do not open your eyes,” the archery master warned. “Draw and fire again.”  Legolas pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocked it carefully, and fired. In all, he shot perhaps a dozen arrows.  “Enough,” Penntalion said. “Open your eyes now.”

Legolas opened his eyes. His arrows were scattered but at least they were all in the hay bale.  While that seemed a ridiculously tiny accomplishment at this distance, it was better than either Turgon or Annael had done.  “Remember,” Penntalion admonished them all, “the point of this exercise is to think about your shot, not your aim.”

“I do not see what good a shot is if you cannot aim it,” Turgon sulked.

Penntalion raised an eyebrow at him. “If your shot is good, your aim will be consistent.  You are having trouble because your bows are bigger than what you are accustomed to, but you will all master them in time.”

Turgon scowled but said nothing more.  “That is enough for today,” Penntalion told them.  I will see you again two days hence.”  They all nodded respectfully to him, and he gathered his gear and walked toward where some older students were waiting for him.

The three friends started to leave the training fields. It had been just them working with Penntalion today because they had all recently gotten the longer bows.  Until now, they had been in a large class of elflings.  Soon, they would join the older students.  Legolas was looking forward to that.

“Legolas,” called a voice, and he turned to find Riolith approaching him.  “I wanted to speak to you about that buck that Tynd and I were hunting last evening.”

“What about it?” Legolas asked.

“Are you and the king going to be hunting it?” Riolith asked.  Annael and Turgon were listening curiously.  Legolas had told them about the large hoof print earlier.  They had both been impressed, and he had not even exaggerated its size.

“Perhaps,” said Legolas cautiously.  He intended to try to talk his father into hunting again this evening, but Thranduil seldom could spare the time two days in a row.  Still, he did not want to cede the territory to Riolith and Tynd.

“I did see it first, you know,” Riolith said rather heatedly.

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Turgon jumped into the discussion.  “Legolas should be able to hunt it if he wants to.”

Riolith snorted scornfully. “Legolas could not hit it.  All he would do is chase it away by his presence.”

“Legolas is probably a better archer than you are,” Turgon asserted loyally.  Legolas flinched.  Being better than Turgon and Annael was not the same thing as being better than the older students. Legolas had seen them shoot and knew his own limits.

Riolith laughed shortly.  “Turgon, you are always amusing.”  He looked at Legolas again.  “Hunt elsewhere, elfling.  That deer is beyond you.”  He turned and walked away.

“Of all the nerve!” Turgon exclaimed. “Ignore him, Legolas.”

“Are you going to hunt that buck?” Annael asked as they started off the field again.

“I would like to,” Legolas said slowly. “But I do not think my adar will be able to.”  He was recalling last night’s conversation between his father and Ithilden about a meeting having to do with buying arms from Dwarves.  It sounded like the kind of meeting that kept his father busy and in a bad temper for days on end.

Turgon stopped dead in his tracks. “We should do it!”

The other two looked at him.  “Hunt the buck?” Annael asked doubtfully.

“Yes,” Turgon was excited now.  “Legolas knows where its territory is. We can ride out there this afternoon after our lessons and start scouting it.”

The other two considered.  Legolas felt a sudden stab of excitement. “We could do that,” he agreed.  Annael, too, was nodding, his eyes gleaming.  For an unworthy moment, Legolas wished that Annael had not been part of this conversation. He had not forgotten that his friend had already killed a deer.  He suddenly felt as possessive of the buck as Riolith had seemed to be.  They could all scout it, he vowed to himself, but he would bring the big animal down.

***

Ithilden was pleased.  So far, the meeting with the dwarves’ representatives was going better than he had hoped.  His father was unenthusiastic about buying weapons from the Dwarves of Erebor for he had been schooled by his own father in the story of the ruin of Doriath at which Oropher had been present, and Thranduil’s distrust of Dwarves ran deep.  But he had allowed the two Men from Dale to show them armor and swords whose workmanship was very fine. 

“The blade is exceptionally well-balanced,” said Rudd, who was evidently the leader of the pair.

Thranduil picked the sword up, flexed it lightly, and then laid the flat of the blade on the edge of his hand, adjusting it until the sword hung perfectly poised with his hand near the hilt.  He grunted in grudging approval and put the sword down.  “I am really more interested in the armor,” he said austerely. Ithilden grimaced inwardly. He hoped that Thranduil’s claim was just a bargaining tactic, for he believed that they needed the swords too.

Rudd’s companion, Cadoc, hurried to show off the helmet and hauberk they had brought with them. “Feel how light they are, my lord,” he told the king, who picked each piece up in turn.

“What kind of fee are the Dwarves asking for these?” Thranduil asked, sounding bored. Now Ithilden knew that his father was bargaining, but judging from the looks on Cadoc’s and Rudd’s faces, so did they.

Rudd produced a sheet of parchment and handed it to Thranduil.  “You will find what they are asking for each weapons or piece of armor listed there, my lord.”

Thranduil ran his eye down the list, irritation increasingly showing in his face. He thrust the list at Ithilden, who scanned it quickly and sucked in his breath.  No wonder his father looked irritated.

“These prices are preposterous,” Thranduil declared.  “Particularly given that our own smiths can provide us with the items just as well.”

“The prices are merited by the Dwarves’ skill, my lord,” Rudd maintained.

Thranduil snorted.  “Unless the items are made of mithril, they cannot possibly be worth what is being asked.”  To Ithilden’s dismay, his father rose, bringing everyone else to their feet too.  “This discussion is at an end,” he declared.  “It is obvious that the Dwarves are not seriously interested in dealing with us.”  He began to walk toward the door.

“My lord,” said Rudd hastily, “we are empowered to do some amount of negotiating over the fee.”

Thranduil paused and looked at him, his eyes hooded. “Do not waste my time,” he said.  “If you have a better offer to make, then make it.”

Rudd and Cadoc looked at one another, and then Cadoc shrugged.  Rudd turned back to face Thranduil.  “An amount that is two-thirds of the prices listed might be acceptable,” he allowed.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.  “When would we receive the first shipment?”

“In about two weeks, my lord,” Cadoc said, sounding relieved.  “Most of the items are already made.”

Thranduil nodded. “Very well,” he said.  “We will pay you when the shipment arrives.”

“I fear we must have the payment first,” said Rudd hastily. “Otherwise, the Dwarves will not allow their goods to be sent.”

There was a moment’s silence.  “This requires some degree of trust on our part,” Thranduil finally said, “and I fear I do not have a great amount of trust for the Naugothrim.”

Rudd smiled rather weakly. “I fear that the lack of trust is mutual, my lord.  The Dwarves made it clear that they will not send anything until they have been paid.” He hesitated. “They too remember old grievances.”

Thranduil sneered.  “Their ‘grievances’ do not concern me.”  He looked at Ithilden, who was holding his breath and then sighed.  “We will make the arrangements,” he said. “You will have the payment by tomorrow.”

Rudd and Cadoc sagged in visible relief, and Ithilden feared that he did too.  He followed his father from the Great Hall and into his office, leaving the Men scrambling to take a hasty departure on their own.

Thranduil sank into the chair behind the desk and waved Ithilden into the one in front of it.  “I do not like it,” the king declared.

“I know you do not,” Ithilden acknowledged.  “But we need the weapons and armor now and cannot wait until we have trained more of our own smiths to provide it.”

Thranduil made a face.  “We will see how this first shipment goes,” he declared moodily.

“Thank you, Adar,” Ithilden told him.  He fervently hoped that all went well, for if it did not, his father’s wrath was going to be audible all the way to Erebor.

Disclaimer:  I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him.  I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

Thanks to JastaElf, Jaded Scorpio, and fadesintothewest for information on what a kid would do to care for his horse.  Any mistakes are, of course, mine.

*******

2.  Hunting

Eilian leaned back against the trunk of the tree in which he was sitting, only half listening to the sound of the spring awakening flowing through it.  The other half of his attention was focused on Tinár, the young warrior who was holding forth near the Southern Patrol’s campfire.

“I could have told you that you would never hit that Orc from the branch you were in,” Tinár was saying.  “Not with your shot.”  Gelmir, the warrior he was addressing, regarded him with an open mouth. Tinár had been with the Southern Patrol for two months now, and in that short time, he had managed to antagonize almost all of his fellow warriors with an arrogance that was outsized even for an Elf.

“And what is wrong with my shot?” Gelmir demanded, glancing back at Eilian and rolling his eyes.

“Nothing,” Tinár said soothingly. “But you do have a tendency to raise your arms instead of tilting back from the waist. I can help you with that, if you like.”

Eilian smothered a grin.  Gelmir was going to find that remark doubly unacceptable because it was true.  He did have a tendency to raise his arms instead of tilting his body, and it shortened his shot sometimes.

“No, thank you,” Gelmir said rather huffily.  “If I were you, I would concentrate on your own tendency to waste arrows by not taking time to aim properly.”

Tinár dismissed that suggestion with a wave of his hand.  “I am fast, and that is more important than making every arrow count.  I have unusually good aim after all, even when I hurry, and there are plenty among us who are slower and can catch the things I miss. They have their place too.” He spoke this last in a charitable tone that left Gelmir gasping.

Eilian decided that, amusing as it was, the conversation had gone on long enough.  He was the lieutenant in this group of warriors, he reminded himself, and it was part of his responsibility to make sure that they were able to fight together as a unit.  It would not do to let Gelmir be driven into a rage, although the very novelty of the sight would make it worth watching.

Reluctantly, he dropped to the ground and approached the pair at the campfire.  “I think you are needed to aid those fletching new arrows, Tinár,” he said, indicating a group of warriors constructing arrows in a sunny spot to one side.  “You lost a good many last night.”  Tinár grimaced but drank the last of his tea and then started toward the group, who did not seem any happier to see him than Gelmir had been.

“Eilian, you and Todith have to do something about him,” Gelmir murmured as soon as Tinár was out of earshot.

“He is really quite good with a bow,” Eilian pointed out to his friend. “He could be useful.”

“Not if one of us shoots him first,” Gelmir replied promptly.

Eilian laughed.  “I will see what I can do.”  He looked up to see Todith beckoning him from across the camp.  “I will speak to Todith about him,” he told Gelmir and then went to join the captain.

“Have you read the message from Ithilden that came today?” Todith asked without preamble.

“Yes,” Eilian responded. His older brother had apparently had several reports from the Border Patrol that giant spiders were spreading closer to their father’s stronghold.  He wanted the Southern Patrol to clear them out of the area they defended.

“I want to start the spider hunt today,” Todith told him.  “It will be safer to search for them during the day, rather than hunt at night as we do for Orcs, I think.  The spiders are more active at night, so if we hunt during the day, we are more likely to surprise them, and we are less likely to become ensnared in the webs or miss seeing one of the spiders in the dark.”

Eilian nodded. “I agree. What are you planning?  A slow sweep through the trees?” The two of them talked about tactics for a while.

“Very well,” the captain finally said. “Call them together.”

“There is one other thing first,” Eilian ventured.  “I think you need to speak to Tinár again.  He is wasting arrows with quick shots. We can deal with that I think, for he really is a skilled marksman, but he is still alienating the rest of the patrol by failing to recognize their strengths. And if he would let his skills speak for him, rather than bragging, he would be much better received.”

Todith grimaced. “I will talk to him after we have finished today, but I think he may be a hopeless case.  I am hoping that everyone else decides to tolerate him because he is so good.”

Eilian grinned. “One can always hope, but I think you may be too optimistic.”

“Perhaps,” Todith admitted.  “Now, let us get to our task.”

Eilian summoned the other members of the patrol.  As they assembled, Gelmir came to stand on one side of him, and Maltanaur stood on the other. Maltanaur was the seasoned warrior whom Thranduil had appointed to see to Eilian’s safety when he first pledged his faith as warrior.  Eilian had resented his presence at first, but to no one’s surprise, Thranduil had not bent to his arguments, and over the years, he had come to accept Maltanaur and even to value his advice. By now, he was as accustomed to having Maltanaur by his side as he was to having a shadow on a sunny day.

“For the next few days, we will be hunting spiders,” Todith was telling the patrol. “You have all done this before, but let me remind you of what it involves.  We will be searching for them during the day, killing the spiders and clearing the webs, and then burning the bodies, the nests, the webs, and the egg cocoons.  Spiders are, of course, far less dangerous fighters than Orcs are, but you need to be careful of the webs and spider poison.  If you have any sort of open wound at all, do not handle the bodies.”

Eilian looked around to see his companions listening attentively.  He had been serving in the Southern Patrol for years now, and he still felt a swell of pride at being included. These warriors were some of the best in his father’s realm.

“We will be going northeast,” Todith said.  “That is the area in which the Border Patrol has seen increasing numbers of them.  Once we are in the area, we will spread out so that each of us is within call of another and then sweep slowly through the woods looking for signs of them. If you spot a colony, use our bird signals to summon the rest of us. Is that clear?” Apparently it was, and the patrol was soon moving through the trees to the northeast.

When they reached their target area, Eilian took his place in the long line of warriors and began to move through the trees at a far more restrained pace than the group usually used.  He scanned the branches for any sign of spiders or their webs. They had been gliding through the forest for about half an hour when he heard a signal to his left that told him that one of his companions had found what they were seeking. Along with the other Elves around him, he moved in the direction from which the signal had come.

There, he found Todith, silently pointing out their find and waving warriors into position to surround it.  Eilian studied the spider colony.  As many as a dozen nests were scattered among the trees, several of them with cocoons full of eggs suspended beneath them.  Thick ropes of web were strung between the branches and trailed to the forest floor, ready to catch the unwary.  The webs were so plentiful that they dimmed the light filtering through to the ground.  So far as Eilian could tell, the spiders were presently asleep in their nests. He caught glimpses of motionless black forms huddled down in the piled leaves. He waited for Todith’s signal with an arrow knocked in his drawn bow. He did not find fighting spiders as exciting as battling Orcs, but it was a task that needed to be done.  He had no wish to see any of these creatures get any nearer to his home.

When the signal came, he released his arrow and sent it with a hail of others into the spider nests.  The beasts roused instantly, scattering from their nests and crossing lines of webbing toward the Elves and into the trees above them.  More of them fell with every passing second, but Eilian knew that now was the time that the Elves needed to be most careful, for they had been spending the last few weeks fighting Orcs, and now they had to adjust their habits to fight foes who could operate in the trees as they themselves did.

As if to confirm his thought, a hissing sound came from above him, giving him only a second’s warning before a spider dropped onto the branch near him and began to skitter toward him on hairy legs.  He leapt to another branch and hastily shouldered his bow and seized his sword, wondering as he did so if this was what Orcs felt like when Elves dropped from the trees. 

Making an ugly clacking noise, the spider cast a line of webbing across the gap between the branches and began to approach him.  From the corner of his eye, he saw further movement but realized almost instantly that it was Maltanaur and not another spider.  Maltanaur began creeping along a branch, obviously intending to get behind the spider.  Eilian gripped his sword as it approached.

Suddenly an arrow flew past from the left. It missed the spider but a second one followed rapidly, lodging deeply in one of the spider’s eyes and sending black blood spurting.  The creature stood balanced for an instant and then toppled to forest floor below.  Eilian spun and saw Tinár some distance away, looking less jubilant than Eilian might have expected over landing his shot.  And then he realized that Maltanaur was slowly sinking to sit on a branch while clutching at his left arm.  Eilian sheathed his sword and hastened to the older Elf’s side.

“Are you stung?” he asked in confusion. He had not thought that the spider had gotten close enough to Maltanaur to bite him.

Maltanaur snorted slightly. “No. That first arrow caught my arm.”  Eilian stared at him in disbelief.  “It is not serious,” Maltanaur said through clenched teeth.  “See to the spiders.  I can wait.”

Eilian pulled Maltanaur’s hand away long enough to see that he was telling the truth; the wound was undoubtedly painful but it was not serious.  He seized his bow and began shooting at the spiders again, but he did not move from Maltanaur’s side.  Soon after, the battle was over.

With Eilian watching anxiously, Maltanaur climbed slowly toward the ground.  Already Elves were clearing a space to build a fire and beginning to pull the webs away from the trees.  Eilian could see Gelmir carefully cutting down one of the cocoons full of eggs.  The spiders’ bodies would go on the fire too, for they were cannibals and leaving the bodies would attract more of them.  Maltanaur had just reached the ground when Tinár approached.

“I apologize, Maltanaur,” he said contritely, but not contritely enough for Eilian’s taste.

“Just what did you think you were doing?” Eilian hissed.  “Surely you could see that Maltanaur and I were both there.  You might have taken more care with your aim.”

“I needed to be fast,” Tinár defended himself.  “You were grateful enough when the spider fell, I will warrant.”

“You needed to take only a second more to be sure of hitting your target rather than a fellow warrior!” Eilian exclaimed.

Todith suddenly appeared at Eilian’s elbow.  “Eilian, bind Maltanaur’s arm and then get him back to camp,” he ordered. “Tinár, Eilian and I will want to talk to you later, but not now.”  He shot a warning glance at Eilian, who bit his tongue and turned to Maltanaur.  Todith steered Tinár off to help drag spider bodies to the fire.

“Remember that you are Todith’s lieutenant now,” Maltanaur said softly as Eilian cleaned and bandaged the wound. “Tinár needs to be reprimanded, but he must not think that you are doing it because he struck me in particular. If he thinks that, he will be more likely to disregard the warning.”

Eilian looked into the older warrior’s concerned face and grimaced. “I know,” he said. Then he smiled slightly.  “Do not worry. I have been reprimanded more times than I care to think about, usually by Thranduil Oropherion.  I promise you I can be fearsome and cool at the same time.”

Maltanaur smiled back. “I have no doubt,” he said dryly. 

***

Legolas frowned over the map of Beleriand that he was drawing.  Was Taur-en-Faroth east or west of the River Sirion?  He sighed, turned to the large book lying next to him on the library table, and began to leaf through its pages, looking for the answer.  From under his lashes, he stole a look at his tutor, Galeril, who was reading peacefully near the fire.  Surely it must be nearly time for his lessons to end.  Turgon and Annael would be waiting for him, for their own lessons were shorter than his. His father said that he needed to know history and languages because he was the king’s son.  Legolas did not see the connection, but he supposed his father was right.  Even his brother Eilian said that the lessons were important, and Eilian never said things just because grown-ups were supposed to say them, even though he was grown up.

Galeril looked up at him. “How are you coming with the map?”

“Where does Taur-en-Faroth go?” Legolas asked.  “Will you show me?”

Galeril rose and came to the table.  He pointed to a place west of the Sirion. “About there.”  Legolas sketched in a circle to show where the woods had been and then looked at Galeril hopefully.

“Is it time to stop?” he asked.

Galeril smiled.  “I think you have done enough for now, but you should finish the map before I come again tomorrow afternoon.”

Legolas nodded eagerly.  Galeril almost always gave him work to do on his own these days.  He said that Legolas was old enough to be responsible for completing his lessons himself. Galeril was nice but sometimes he sounded entirely too much like Legolas’s father. He jumped happily to his feet as Galeril began to gather up the papers spread out on the table.  “I will see you tomorrow,” he cried as he headed toward the door.

“Until tomorrow,” Galeril responded.  “I will see you with your finished map of the First Age.”

Legolas escaped from the library and hurried to his own chamber to attach his dagger to his belt, strap on his quiver, and pick up his bow.  He was not allowed to carry his sword unless he was going to the weapons training fields, but he could carry these other weapons and, indeed, had been told never to go into the woods unarmed.  He retrieved the slightly shriveled apple he had left on his bedside table after midday meal and then hastened down the hallway toward the door leading from the royal family’s quarters.  Once outside, he took the path that led to his father’s stables.

“Good afternoon, young one,” called the stable master as Legolas entered.  “Sadron was out in the paddock, but I think he has been brought inside to wait for you.”  Legolas came to care for his horse and usually to ride it every day after his lessons were done.  Stable hands mucked out the horse’s stall and fed him, but Legolas was responsible for grooming him.

“Good afternoon,” Legolas responded politely and trotted down the line of stalls to find his horse.  “Hello, boy,” he called, pulling himself up to stand on the cross piece of the stall door and extending his palm with the apple on it.  The horse nickered softly and took the fruit.  Legolas jumped down, opened the stall door, and stepped inside, laughing happily as Sadron nuzzled his chest.  “I only brought one apple. The ones from last fall are nearly gone, so you have to make do,” Legolas told him, stroking his neck.  “We are going out for a ride now, but I will brush you when we get back. Would you like that?”  The horse made a noise that Legolas interpreted as approval, and he led it out into the spring afternoon.

He sprang onto Sadron’s back and urged him down the path that led to Turgon’s cottage, where he was supposed to meet his two friends.  He found them lounging in the grass with their horses grazing at a short distance.  Turgon’s two-year-old brother, Amdir, was running around nearby, waving a paper pinwheel on a stick.

“You are so late!” Turgon exclaimed as he and Annael climbed to their feet.

“I came as soon as I could,” Legolas said, his eyes on Amdir, who, still clutching his pinwheel, was scrambling into a small tree near the cottage front door.  Annael moved quickly to detach him from a branch.  Turgon looked exasperatedly at the now howling elfling.

“He should go inside,” Turgon said, “because we will not be here to watch him.”  Legolas had been at Turgon’s cottage before when they were supposed to be “watching” his little brother.  He knew from experience exactly who was likely to be doing the watching, and it was not Turgon.  Annael carted the toddler toward the door where Turgon’s mother was just emerging, probably drawn by Amdir’s cries.  She took him from Annael’s arms.  “We are going now, Naneth,” Turgon told her.

“Have a nice time,” she said as she disappeared back inside with the still screeching Amdir.  Turgon’s mother puzzled Legolas. She was nice, but she seemed to trust that Turgon would take care of himself most of the time, an optimism that Thranduil had made it clear he did not share.  Legolas was allowed to spend the night at Annael’s cottage, but not at Turgon’s.

Turgon and Annael summoned their horses and mounted them, and Legolas rode on ahead, leading them toward the place where he and Thranduil had found the large hoof print.  The area was a half hour’s ride from the palace, so they needed to be on their way if they were to have any time at all to search before they had to turn around and come back in time for their evening meals.  When they reached the area, they dismounted and turned the horses loose, knowing they would come when summoned.  Then they stood looking uncertainly at one another for a moment.

“I can show you where the hoof print was,” Legolas offered. The other two nodded.

Legolas started to walk toward where the print had been but Turgon stopped him. “Can we go through the trees? It is faster.”

Legolas hesitated. “We can,” he said seriously, “but only for scouting. My adar says we are not ready to shoot down at a deer yet.”

Turgon looked impatient but nodded. “Very well.”  The three of them moved into the trees and started working their way in the direction Legolas indicated. When he thought they had reached the spot where he and Thranduil had seen the print, he dropped to the ground, where he was joined by his friends.  They began to search and Legolas soon found the print.  It had not been disturbed since the previous evening.  They stared at it in awed silence.

Annael spoke first. “When I went hunting with my adar, we searched for more signs of how the deer might be moving between their feeding places and the sheltered places where they slept.”

Legolas nodded.  He and Thranduil had done the same thing.  He glanced at Turgon.  It suddenly occurred to him that he had not heard Turgon speak about hunting with his father.  He had assumed that Turgon had done what the rest of them had, but his friend had not said so.  Turgon looked up and saw Legolas regarding him.  His gaze hardened.  “Let us go then,” he said brusquely and started toward the meadow.  Legolas stared after him in dismayed suspicion, but then followed along with Annael, searching the ground for more signs of the large buck but finding nothing.

They paused again.  “We could go back to the hoof print and start searching off to the side,” Legolas suggested.  He was a little uncertain if that was the right course. So far, he and Thranduil had hunted for deer in general, searching the open spaces in the forest for signs of where they congregated to eat. They had not yet hunted for one deer in particular.

Apparently having no better suggestion, Annael and Turgon started back toward where the print was.  They began searching for further sign of the large deer in a line running parallel to the meadow.  A faint sound overhead made Legolas freeze, suddenly remembering every frightening story about giant spiders that he and his friends had ever used to scare one another.  He jerked his eyes to the trees and scanned anxiously, aware that Turgon and Annael were doing the same thing.  He caught a slight movement in a tree to his left and was starting to raise his bow when he realized that what he had seen was an Elf.

Riolith dropped to the ground, followed almost instantly by Tynd.  “What are you three doing here?” Tynd asked, sounding dismayed.

“We are hunting deer,” said Legolas defensively.  He and his friends had as much right to be here as Tynd and Riolith did. “And you should not sneak up on us.  I could have shot you.”

“I doubt it,” said Riolith shortly. “And the three of you have probably disturbed every deer within a league.”  He looked at Legolas. “Surely you do not imagine that you are stalking that big buck?”

Legolas flushed.  “We are,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster.  Riolith and Tynd looked at one another and, to Legolas’s annoyance, Riolith rolled his eyes and Tynd smiled slightly.

“Do your parents know you are out here?” Tynd asked.

“My adar will not mind,” Legolas asserted, “so long as I am home on time.”  He was reasonably certain that this was true, although he had not asked Thranduil for permission to make this trip.  He was allowed in the woods during the day, so long as he carried his dagger, but he and his friends had ridden farther from home than he usually went.

“It is growing late,” Tynd observed, and Legolas suddenly realized that he was right.  He had lost track of the time in the excitement of the hunt.

“We must go now,” he admitted stiffly, “but we are hunting that buck.”  He marched off toward their horses with his friends following behind.  The sound of a soft laugh reached him, and his cheeks burned.

“Stupid yrch,” mumbled Turgon, which made Legolas laugh but not much.

They rode home in shared indignation, but Legolas had no time to stew with his friends because he had to groom Sadron before he went in to get ready for evening meal, and his father did not approve of tardiness.  He got Sadron into his stall and then picked up a twist of straw and began to brush the stallion’s flank.  “Do you like that?” Legolas laughed, as the horse all but purred.  He continued cleaning and shining the animal’s coat, murmuring to him all the while as Sadron swiveled his ears around to listen.  When he was finished with the brushing, he got a pick and cleaned out the horse’s hooves.  Finally, he went to the supply of oats at the end of the line of stalls and got a handful to feed to the horse in lieu of an apple.  “I will be back tomorrow,” he assured Sadron. It was late enough when he completed his chores that he had to hurry to be on time for evening meal, but he did not mind.  Both he and Sadron had been soothed by the grooming session, and he had put Tynd and Riolith from his mind.

He hurried through the door to his family’s apartments just in time to see his father emerging from his office.  Thranduil’s face was grim but it lightened upon seeing Legolas.  “Good evening, child,” he said, putting an arm around Legolas’s shoulders and dropping a kiss on the top of his head.  Legolas leaned happily against him for a moment before he remembered that he was too old for such cuddling and pulled away, although he held on to the contentment that his father’s embrace had brought.

*******

Thank you to all who reviewed, whether on ff.net or Storiesofarda.com or via email.  I am usually a little uncertain when I’m starting a new story, so I particularly appreciate hearing from you that it is starting off well.

Feanen:  I think the hunting will be interesting as they go along.  I expect the kids will get a little carried away by their enthusiasm.

Karen:  I get most of the archery lessons off the internet.  I found this one about shooting with your eyes closed there, for instance.  I am hoping that Riolith and Tynd come across as cocky but not mean.  To them, the little guys look about like Turgon’s little brother does to Legolas and company.

Erunyauve: I need trouble or I have no plot!  If you know anything about deer hunting and find I am making mistakes, please tell me.  I am a city girl and everything I know about deer, I learned on line.

Luin:  I love your reviews.  And I did want Thranduil to be seen as a good father before the young ones get themselves into trouble and he has to go all stern again.  I don’t think that Ithilden is old enough to remember the Last Alliance.  But he was a warrior before the start of the Watchful Peace in 2063 TA. That’s a little less than 500 years before this story starts.

JastaElf:  The stuff about dealing with the Dwarves will be back soon.  I am afraid that all will not run smoothly, despite Ithilden’s hopes!

Orangeblossom Took:  I think I’m going to keep the Dwarves at a distance, using the Men as intermediaries.  It’s hard for me to imagine the Elves and Dwarves visiting one another at this point.  It would be fun though!

Legolas4me:  Thranduil is a good king, I think.  Ithilden may need to nudge him to deal with the Dwarves, but then he does it.  I hope you continue to like the story.

P.Rico:  There is no such thing as a bad reader!  A reader is a good person by definition.  I am hoping to show that Legolas and Eilian have both grown up some since the story I just finished.  But Legolas in particular has a long way to go yet.

Alpha:  I take that as a compliment!  I hope you continue to like the story.

Brenda:  The three kids are headed for trouble, yes indeed.  It’s the kind of trouble you drift into, with each step looking not so bad until you come up against a bunch of angry adults.  We shall see.

Frodo3791:  Eilian is here and will be home in a while.  He has some stuff to do first.   Turgon is still Turgon, thank goodness.  He’s a godsend to an author because he can move a plot right along.

Nilmandra:  I really liked the idea that Legolas and Thranduil would grow closer as Thranduil tried to make up for the absence of Legolas’s mother.  Thranduil is a pretty strict father, but the affection between the two of them should come through.

LKK:  I can remember getting letters as a kid and how thrilled I was.  And I think the fact that this letter comes from Eilian also makes it valuable to Legolas.  He adores Eilian and thinks he can do no wrong.

LOTR Faith:  I’m happy to oblige you by being back with another story.  Unfortunately I have gone back to work so I have less time to read and write.  In your own story, would you consider making the really bad stuff a dream?  Maybe a prophetic one or a dream that he has while he’s in captivity?  I am just reeling under the idea of what the consequences of such abuse would be.

Sekhet:  You can say anything you like and I won’t mind. I love getting reviews, which I suppose is shameless of me, but I don’t care.

JustMe:  Excellent analysis of what is likely to be happening in Thranduil’s household!  Are you sure you don’t have a way into my PC?

Naneth:  I think we can count on Legolas and company getting into mischief, yes.  Turgon is always creative in that regard.

Karri:  It struck me that being out hunting with Thranduil would be very gratifying for Legolas.  They’re doing a grown up male Elf thing and he has his father all to himself.  People hunt around where I now live too, some of them even using bows and arrows.

Disclaimer:  I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him.  I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

3.  Up and Down the River

“Here they are, my lord,” said Rudd proudly as he finished prying open the box in which five Dwarven swords were carefully packed.  He pulled one of the long, cloth-shrouded forms out and unwrapped it, revealing a gleaming, wicked-looking weapon.

Ithilden took it from him and tested the blade.  It was well-balanced enough to feel responsive, almost alive in his hand.  Moreover, it was beautiful, with a graceful tapered form and runes declaring it the work of the Erebor Dwarves running down one beveled side of the blade. Rudd’s companion, Cadoc, unwrapped a second sword and offered it to Thranduil’s armorer, who stood next to Ithilden.  He, too, looked pleased with what he held.

“Lay them all out on the table,” Ithilden instructed the two men, “the armor too.”

The men began unpacking weapons and armor and arraying it on the table in the armory. By the time they were finished, enough swords and armor to equip ten warriors lay before them.  Ithilden surveyed it with possessive satisfaction.  He had been increasingly worried about the state of his warriors’ equipment in the last years as the Shadow grew and with it the need for more and better equipped troops.  During the years of the Watchful Peace, many Elven smiths had begun making objects other than weapons or had turned to other trades. Few apprentices had been trained in crafting weaponry for over five hundred years.

And truth be told, the Elves of the Woodland Realm had never spent great effort in making weapons.  All of Ithilden’s life, he had heard tales of the inadequate weaponry that his grandfather’s forces had had at Dagorlad.  Thranduil had remedied that situation to the extent he could in the turbulent years before the Peace, but his people had been only too glad to turn to other pursuits when it seemed safe to do so. Now armorers were at work again, but they were hard pressed to keep up with the growing needs of Ithilden’s warriors.  These objects lying on the table would go immediately to young warriors who did not have suitable armor and weapons because they had been born after the need for them had dwindled.

“Are they acceptable, my lord?” Rudd asked.

“We will see,” Ithilden responded brusquely.  He had learned something about negotiating techniques from watching Thranduil.  “Check them,” he ordered the armorer, “and then come to me in my office.”

“Yes, my lord.” The armorer was already handling the precious objects, his eyes gleaming in appreciation for the workmanship.

“Come,” Ithilden said and led the two men from the armory and down a short path to his office.  His aide came to his feet as the three of them went through into the inner office.  “Bring wine, please,” Ithilden instructed him and waved the men to chairs.

They waited in silence until the aide brought cups of wine and then withdrew.  Ithilden leaned back in his chair.  He did not really believe there would be any problem with the weapons, but it was only prudent to check this first shipment well before he handed over the payment for the next one.  “You made good speed coming up the river,” he commented, seeking to pass the time until the armorer reported his findings.

“Yes, my lord,” Rudd agreed, with a smile. “The bargemen know their business and it took us only three days from the Long Lake. We were only a few miles downriver when we stopped last evening.  We will make even better time going back with the current to push us,” he added. “We should be in Esgaroth by noon tomorrow.”

“How were your dealings with the Dwarves?” Ithilden asked curiously.  His father’s reticence had meant that he had had few dealings with Dwarves, and those mostly when they passed through the woods on their way to and from the Misty Mountains and lands west.

Rudd shrugged. “They are shrewd traders.” He smiled again slightly. “But no shrewder than some Elves.”

Ithilden could not help smiling at that.  He thought he might like Rudd if he got to know him.  Cadoc, however, disturbed Ithilden a little.  He seemed friendly enough, but he was constantly scanning his surroundings as if looking for something, and he hesitated to meet Ithilden’s eyes.  Of course, many Men had trouble holding an Elf’s gaze for reasons Ithilden did not fully understand, so perhaps it was only that.

The armorer knocked on the open door and came in. “All looks well, my lord.” His face was determinedly impassive, for he too understood negotiations, but Ithilden saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.  He turned back to the Men.

“Very well,” he said.  “Then as our agreement calls for, you will deliver twice as large a shipment within two weeks.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rudd agreed.  “And the payment?”

Ithilden took a small leather pouch from his desk drawer and passed it to the Man.  Rudd spilled the golden coins onto his palm and counted them.  Ithilden stiffened at the implied insult, and Rudd noticed immediately.  “I mean no offense, my lord,” he apologized, “but if a mistake has been made, correcting it would delay the shipment.” Ithilden raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and Rudd tucked the pouch into his belt and rose.

The two Men bowed.  “We will be back in two weeks, my lord,” Rudd said and they took their leave.

Ithilden and the armorer exchanged smiles.  “Those swords are pretty things, are they not?” Ithilden asked.

The armorer nodded vigorously. “Indeed they are.”  He saluted and took his leave also.

***

For most of the rest of the day, Ithilden was busy seeing to the disposition of the new weapons and then meeting with one of the Border Patrol captains about a change in the routine for guarding the eastern edge of the forest.  It was well into the afternoon before he settled at his desk, intending to read dispatches and write responses.  But the spring air coming in through the open window soon seduced him, and he decided that it was past time he looked in on the warrior training fields.  With a half-apologetic smile, he dropped some papers on his aide’s desk and left the building. There had to be some compensation for all the responsibility he carried, he thought.

He walked briskly along the path that led to the training grounds. On the nearest one, novices were being put through a drill by the archery master. Ithilden stopped to watch for a while as they ran along, shooting at targets that were behind them.  By the time these younglings pledged their faith as warriors, Elven smiths should be able to provide for them.  It was the young warriors whom Ithilden was already sending into battle ill-equipped that he worried about. The Dwarven weapons and armor would make all the difference to them.

He started walking again toward the field that the experienced warriors used, where he knew an advanced sword drill was in progress that afternoon.  The drill was always an impressive one to watch with warriors swinging very sharp blades in a blur of very quick motion, and Ithilden wanted to see it.  The path led around a small clump of trees and as Ithilden rounded it, a movement caught his eye.  He turned to look more closely at who was in the trees and saw three small forms.

“Legolas, is that you?” he demanded sharply.  “Come out of there, you three.”  Legolas, Annael, and Turgon emerged from the shadows under the trees, looking abashed.  “You know that children are allowed here only for their own training classes,” Ithilden scolded them.

“We wanted to see the warriors with the swords,” Legolas said.  He looked uncomfortable under Ithilden’s reproof, but he could not help peering around his brother to see the drill even as he spoke.

“And besides,” Turgon added, “we are almost not children any more.”

Ithilden resisted the urge to argue that point.  “It is not safe for you to be here,” he said firmly. “The three of you need to be on your way.  And do not let me catch you here again.”

“Do not worry. We do not intend to,” muttered Turgon as the three of them trailed dejectedly off.  Ithilden snorted. He thought he knew very well what Turgon meant by that remark.  He contemplated telling Thranduil about the little incident but decided it was too trivial to disturb his father with. He knew that Thranduil periodically contemplated trying to separate Legolas from Turgon, and there were times when Ithilden thought that would be a good idea.  Unfortunately, Legolas was very fond of the other child. Moreover, such a ban would be hard to enforce in the small world around Thranduil’s fortress where they would be thrown together daily.  Ithilden turned back to the weapons drill, thoughts of his little brother temporarily forgotten in the satisfaction of seeing his troops look so deadly.

***

“Your brother is very bossy sometimes,” Turgon grumbled as they walked away.

Legolas wanted to defend Ithilden, but it was unfortunately true that he was occasionally bossy, as Legolas had more cause to know than Turgon did.  Instead he changed the subject.  “What shall we do?” he asked.

“Let us scout for the deer,” Turgon suggested.  The other two both groaned. They had scouted for the large buck on three occasions in the last two weeks and had found nothing.  Legolas and Annael were getting bored with what seemed an increasingly pointless pursuit, but Turgon was persistent.

“We do not have time before evening meal,” Annael pointed out.

“I know,” said Legolas.  “Let us go and sail our raft.” The three of them had spent a week earlier in the spring building a raft out of driftwood that they had tied together and then using poles to push it along the edges of the Forest River. The raft had been forgotten in the excitement of the deer hunt, but now Legolas’s suggestion was met with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” the other two cried, and they trotted toward a little inlet where they had last left the raft.  It was still there, although the poles had gone and they had to spend time searching for new ones.  They all shed their shoes and rolled up their leggings before scrambling on board and pushing off.  As they came out of the inlet and into the river, a barge slid past them going downstream toward Esgaroth.

“That is the Men who came earlier today,” said Annael, who often knew these things from his father, who was a lieutenant in the Home Guard. Legolas peered after the barge.  He had not realized that the Men had come back.  He wondered if they were bringing the weapons that his father and Ithilden had bought from the Dwarves.

“Let us follow them,” Turgon suggested.  They began to pole their raft along the shallows at the edge of the river, but the barge was in the current and was rapidly being swept out of sight.  “Push it out into the current,” Turgon commanded impatiently.

“The river is fast today,” said Legolas doubtfully. Recent rains had swelled the river and made the current swift. They had taken the raft into the river’s current twice before but then had stuck to the shallows after discovering that while the ride downstream was pleasant, poling the raft upstream along the river’s edge was hard work.

“We can do it,” Turgon assured him confidently, and they tentatively pushed their raft out until the current caught it and began to bear it along.  They could still see the Men’s barge ahead for a brief while, but then it disappeared and the raft was alone on the river.

None of them was particularly troubled by the disappearance of the Men, for they were now absorbed in their own trip. They sped silently along the river in effortless motion.  Ducks paddled in the shallows, and at a point where the trees came down to the edge of the river, a doe and a fawn were drinking.

Then Legolas glanced back behind them and suddenly realized that the sun was low in the sky. “We need to get out of the current now,” he told the others, scrambling to his feet. “We have to start working our way back.” The lateness of the hour had dawned on his friends as well, and they stood up and seized the poles.

Legolas glanced to either side, trying to see which way presented the most placid river edge.  The rapid current had carried them farther downstream than they had gone on either of their previous two ventures in it, and the banks here were high so that there were no shallows near the edges.  “Push to the right,” he suggested and they began to do so.

Suddenly the raft shuddered and a sickening noise came from underneath it.  It caught on something and slowly swung about. “Rocks!” Annael cried.  Legolas peered over the edge and saw that Annael was right.  They were in the midst of a clump of rocks and the raft was lodged against one.  A piece of wood abruptly broke loose from one side of the raft and they lurched free from the first rock only to strike a second one, crumpling another piece of wood.  The three of them balanced on the teetering surface.

“The raft is breaking up!” Annael cried in dismay.

“We are going to have to swim to shore,” Turgon said.  Legolas glanced at him. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself at this unexpected adventure.  Legolas was reminded suddenly of his brother Eilian.

Legolas looked over the edge again.  “I do not want to swim among these rocks!” he exclaimed.  They all swam well, but the current was likely to knock them against the rocks if they went in here, and the banks were steep. They clung to the madly tilting surface of the raft.  The current was tearing at its edges, and more pieces were breaking off as it strained against the rock that held it.  Panic nibbled at the edge of Legolas’s awareness, but he tried not to let his friends see. Then, with a ripping sound, what was left of the raft slid free of the rocks and whirled downstream and around a bend, tipping to one side and dumping them into the rushing water.

Legolas sank beneath the shockingly cold water but kicked his way quickly to the surface again.  He looked wildly around and was immensely relieved to find his two friends both surfacing nearby.  If they were together, he thought, then things surely could not be so bad.  The current dragged at him.  For a moment, he could feel panic bubbling up again, but then, in his head, he could hear the voice of his father who had taught him to swim in this river.  “Do not fight the current,” Thranduil was saying. “Ease out of it gradually.”  He began to swim slightly across the pull of the water toward the southern bank, the nearer one, and, to his great relief, he could see Turgon and Annael doing the same thing.

The bank was drawing nearer now. Turning his head toward it, Legolas almost wept with gratitude when he saw that when the water had swept them around the bend, it had also taken them to a place where the ground tapered to a beach at the water’s edge.  Then water swept over him, and he coughed as he struggled into the air again.  Think of what you are doing, he reminded himself in Thranduil’s voice, and swam with renewed purpose. Suddenly the current released him and his hand struck river bottom. He was in the shallows, he realized, and he struggled to his feet in the thigh-deep water.  He looked around and saw Turgon standing nearby, grabbing the back of Annael’s tunic and dragging him to his feet too. They all waded ashore and collapsed on the little beach.

For a few moments, the only sound was their ragged breathing.  Legolas shivered, only partly from the chill of the late afternoon April day.  It was Turgon who spoke first. “I wonder if we could go home through the trees.”

Legolas looked around. The forest came quite close to the river here and they probably could move through the trees, although the bark might be hard on their feet which had not yet toughened after a winter of wearing shoes and boots.  They would probably get home more quickly that way than they would have poling their raft back upstream. He was glad at least for that. He hated being late for evening meal because his father inevitably scolded him when he was.

“Look at all the footprints,” said Annael suddenly.

Legolas glanced at the ground. It was covered with several sets of prints made by booted feet.  The prints looked oddly heavy to him until a sudden inspiration struck.  “The Men from the barge must have camped here,” he speculated. He climbed to his feet and walked toward the trees.  The bark was slightly scraped in a circle around a sturdy oak tree.  “Look!  Here is where they tied the barge.”  Annael and Turgon were standing now too, scanning the prints with interest.  They were all learning woodcraft and they seldom saw Men’s footprints.  Suddenly, Legolas stopped and stared at a line of prints a little apart from the others.

“What are you looking at?” Turgon asked, coming up beside him.  Wordlessly, Legolas pointed. There in the mud next to the river was a line of very large deer prints.  Annael approached now too and with an exclamation dropped to his knees next to the prints.

“It is our buck!” he breathed.  He glanced at Legolas and Turgon, and for a moment the three of them were silent.

Then Turgon whooped so loudly that birds flew up out of a nearby tree.  “Our buck!” he cried.  “We have found him! And,” he chortled gleefully, “Tynd and Riolith do not know where he is.”

Legolas was looking at the nearby trees and trying to remember the shape of the Forest River.  They were, he realized, only about half a league from the part of the forest where he and his father had seen the deer’s print earlier; they had simply come to it from a different direction.

Turgon suddenly faced both Legolas and Annael, his face fierce. “We must not tell anyone that we have found it.  Not anyone!  If we do, Tynd and Riolith will hear.  And we must come back after our lessons tomorrow and hunt.”

His excitement rising, Legolas could not suppress a slow smile.  “Yes, we will be the ones to find it.”  He glanced at Annael to find him, too, smiling.  Then he was seized by a sudden shiver and realized that he was growing cold in his wet clothes.  “We should go now,” he said.

By mutual consent, the three of them moved into the nearby trees and began the long trip home.

***

“I have instructed the armorer to distribute most of the weaponry to the young warriors in the Border Patrols,” Ithilden said.  “He is to send three sets of armor and swords to Todith’s people in the Southern Patrol, too.”  His voice was firm, and he sat erect in front of Thranduil’s desk.

He is anxious that I will object, Thranduil thought ruefully. He sighed. In truth, he still did not like dealing with the Dwarves, but he also trusted Ithilden’s judgment about his troops’ need for these weapons, and he did not want his son to think that he doubted him.

“That seems sensible,” Thranduil said, and Ithilden visibly relaxed.  “When will they be back?” Thranduil asked.

“In two more weeks,” Ithilden responded quickly, “just as our agreement called for.”

Thranduil nodded. “Very well.”  He smiled and rose.  “I think we should adjourn to the sitting room and share some wine before evening meal.”

“An excellent idea,” Ithilden smiled back at him, much more at ease now.  They went out into the hall and were starting toward the sitting room when Legolas burst through the door that led to the palace’s public areas.  He skidded to halt just in front of them.

“Am I late? I am sorry, Adar,” he said hastily.

Thranduil looked at him in dismay.  His hair and clothes had obviously been immersed in water sometime recently. Although they were evidently beginning to dry, his hair was plastered to his head and hung around his face in clumps, and his clothes not only clung to him damply but were also muddy.  He was, moreover, barefoot and his feet were particularly filthy.

“What have you been doing?” Thranduil asked.

Legolas hesitated for only a split second. “We were sailing our raft, and it wrecked,” he said sturdily.

“Are you hurt?” Thranduil asked in some alarm.  He had been worried about the raft since Legolas had come home with tales of having built it.  He knew Legolas could swim well, for he had taught him himself, and he had sent Ithilden to check the general soundness of the raft.   When Ithilden had reported in some amusement that the raft was of a “unique” design but was not likely to sink immediately, Thranduil had held his tongue for he knew he tended to be overprotective of his youngest son.  Now he wondered if he should have forbidden Legolas from riding on the raft.

“I am not hurt,” Legolas maintained, watching Thranduil anxiously.  His father repressed a wry smile.  His son was only too aware of how likely Thranduil was to stop him from doing some of the more exciting things his friends were doing, particularly his friend Turgon, who, in Thranduil’s opinion, had entirely too much freedom.

“Are Annael and Turgon all right too?” Ithilden asked.

Legolas glanced at him. “Yes,” he said without elaborating.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. There was something here that Legolas was not telling them. He strong suspected that the destruction of the raft had been more frightening than Legolas was letting on.  He sighed. There was no point in pressing the matter, given that the raft was now gone. “You are not late for evening meal yet,” he told Legolas. “Go and get cleaned up.”

Relief written on his face, Legolas started along the hall.  “Wait!” Thranduil called.  Legolas turned back to him.  “Why are you limping?  I thought you were not hurt.”  He crouched down and braced Legolas on one of his knees as he inspected the bottom of a grimy foot.  The sole of the foot was scraped and, in one place, cut.  Thranduil frowned.  “Where are your shoes?”

“I forgot them,” Legolas said.

“What do you mean, you forgot them? Where are they?”

“They are on the bank near where we kept the raft,” Legolas said, pulling away from Thranduil and standing on one leg with the foot his father had just been inspecting pressed again the calf.

Thranduil glanced up at Ithilden, who gave a small smile and bowed.  “I will fetch them,” he said and went out the door.

Thranduil looked at Legolas with whom he was still at eye level.  “Go and bathe,” he instructed Legolas.  “I will send a healer to look at your feet.”

“They are not really hurt, Adar,” Legolas maintained.

“Then the healer will have nothing to do,” Thranduil answered.  He looked steadily at the thin childish form in front of him.  Legolas met his eyes and then looked away.  “You need to take care, iôn-nín,” he said. “I treasure you too much to see anything happen to you.”

To his surprise, Legolas darted forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I will be careful, Adar.”  Then he walked off gingerly toward his own chamber.

Thranduil rose.  The raft adventure must have been an alarming one indeed, he thought resignedly.  He could only be grateful that the raft was now destroyed.

I borrow characters and situations from Tolkien and they belong to him.  I make no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he hope I would gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this story.

AN:  In an effort not to mislead anyone, I need to point out a potential canon glitch in this story that I noticed only after Erunyauve tactfully gave me some information about the dwarves of Erebor.  Here’s what she tells me:  “Erebor was founded in 19, but it appears that Thorin I left and took his people to the Grey Mountains in 2210.  Thorin did not bring the dwarves back until 2590, but perhaps some remained in Erebor during that time (it is not said that Erebor was deserted).”  My story is set around 2507, so any Dwarves whom Thranduil might be dealing with are the remnants that Erunyauve kindly provides me with.  She knows a lot, and I thank her for sharing her extensive canon knowledge with me.

*******

4. Companions of the Hunt

“I am getting much better with my bow and Penntalion says that Turgon, and Annael, and I will be in the older students’ class before long. Come home soon. Your loving brother, Legolas,” Eilian read.  He smiled over the carefully formed writing, picturing Legolas laboring at the table in the library at home.  He felt a sudden pang of longing to see his little brother again.

He shifted restlessly, rubbing his back on the tree trunk he was leaning against.  He was due for a leave soon, and he was beginning to feel the need for it more sharply.  He was fortunate that his natural optimism left him able to tolerate the proximity of Shadow better than many warriors could, but even he eventually felt the oppression.  At the moment, he wished nothing more than to be near a child whose innocence had not yet been marred by the need to slaughter other creatures, even if learning to use a full-sized bow loomed large in the child’s desires at the moment. He sighed, folded the letter, and put it in his pack to answer later when he might be feeling more cheerful.  From across the camp, Todith beckoned to him, and he went to join his captain.

“Look what Ithilden has sent us,” Todith said with satisfaction, pointing to the three swords, hauberks, and helmets spread on the ground before him.  Along with dispatches and letters from home, they had been in a large bundle that a messenger had brought into camp an hour or so previously.

Eilian picked up one of the swords and feinted with it.  “What a weapon!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” Todith agreed.  He smiled slightly at Eilian.  “They are to go to our three newest members.”

Eilian felt a stab of jealous disappointment, which he quickly suppressed.  His own sword had been a gift from his father when he pledged his faith as a warrior, and it was the finest in the patrol.  Or had been until now, he thought regretfully and then gave himself a shake.  I feel this way because the Shadow is weighing on me, he reminded himself.  I will not feel so after my leave.

“I have a task for you,” Todith went on, and Eilian brought his full attention back to his captain.  He had been serving as the patrol’s lieutenant for two years now, during which time Todith had gradually been increasing his responsibilities.  He was enormously gratified by Todith’s faith in him and found that he exerted himself beyond what was easy in order to insure that that faith was justified.

“I have been thinking about Tinár,” Todith went on, causing Eilian to grimace.  The best that could be said about Tinár was that he had been more careful about shooting near other warriors since wounding Maltanaur. He had not, however, curbed his arrogant tongue one whit, and his continued boasting was beginning to hurt the unit.  “I have decided to give you the task of turning him into a useful warrior.”

Eilian blinked at his captain.  Surely he had misunderstood.  “You are joking,” he said weakly.

“No, I am not,” Todith responded calmly.  “He is good with a bow, and he is eager to fight.  The Woodland Realm has so few warriors that it cannot afford to throw such a one away if he can be salvaged.”

“Are you sure you do not want me to defeat the forces of Dol Guldur by throwing pine cones at them?” Eilian demanded.  He was dismayed and a little annoyed at what was being asked of him.  “Todith, he is completely impervious to all hints and suggestions that he change his behavior.  You are asking the impossible!”

Todith shrugged. “Perhaps.  I think that you are right that he will always be conceited, but I am still hoping that he also can be made useful. Perhaps his conceit can lead him to act differently if you appeal to it properly.  Or perhaps we simply need to find the right kind of tasks for him to do.  You are good with people, Eilian. See what you can do with him.”

Eilian smothered an exasperated sigh.  If Todith wanted this, then he would do his best.

“Start by giving him one of the swords and telling him the armor is his too,” Todith instructed. “And I believe it is your turn to hunt for meat today. Take him with you.” He began to read the dispatches in his hand.  Eilian recognized his dismissal and turned to look at the area near the campfire where Tinár, Maltanaur, and Gelmir were currently sitting.

With the new sword still in his hand, he walked toward the fire. Tinár must have been holding forth again, for Maltanaur looked ironically amused and Gelmir looked exasperated.  “Hello, Eilian,” Tinár greeted him.  “I was just telling these two about the time my adar told the novice masters not to interfere with my stance. It is quite a good story really. I had already told Penntalion that I was satisfied with my stance the way it was, but he insisted that I do something different. I cannot even remember what it was now.  I told my adar about it, and he was livid.  He marched down to the training fields and told Penntalion off.”

Eilian was speechless, although this was not the first time he had heard Tinár tell such a story.  He tried to imagine Thranduil’s reaction if he had refused to take correction from one of the novice masters. Thranduil would have been livid too, but the masters would not have been the target of his anger.  He had a sudden memory of himself impatiently telling his father that the stablemaster was wrong in his judgment of Eilian’s horse’s ability to take jumps.  Thranduil had been sharp in his reprimand at the overconfident disregard of someone else’s understanding.  So far as Eilian could tell, Tinár’s father thought he could do no wrong.  While it was true that Eilian occasionally felt that his father thought he could do no right, perhaps he had been lucky to have someone curb his own youthful misjudgments.

“I have something for you,” Eilian said, deciding that commenting on Tinár’s story would be pointless.  He held out the sword.  “There is some armor to go with it too.”  He gestured toward where the armor lay.

Even Tinár was struck wordless by the beauty of the weapon now being put in his hand.  Maltanaur and Gelmir, too, looked at the sword with professional appreciation.  “Now that is a sword worth owning,” Maltanaur said.

“Ithilden sent it and some others with the dispatches,” Eilian told them.  “Apparently he and the king have been dealing with the Dwarves.”  That fact astounded Eilian but he kept his surprise to himself.  Tinár stepped a little away from the fire and began wielding the blade, his delight in it obvious.

Gelmir edged closer.  “If I kill him, can I have that sword?” he muttered in Eilian’s ear.

Eilian smothered a laugh and then called to Tinár.   “Get your bow, Tinár. You and I are going rabbit hunting.”

Just behind him, he could hear Maltanaur snort.  “Have a good time,” he said sourly.  This time, Eilian did laugh softly.  Maltanaur did not ordinarily make remarks like that, but he was due for a leave when Eilian was.

With a final flourish, Tinár removed his old sword, sheathed the new one, and went to fetch his bow. Eilian, too, got his bow and the two of them started off into the forest, walking into the wind so as to keep their scents from reaching their prey. In this part of the woods, large game such as deer was scarce, but rabbits were plentiful and provided the main source of meat for the Southern Patrol. They also usually left fish lines set, and someone checked them daily.

They slid silently along, searching brushpiles, honeysuckle patches, fallen treetops, and other forest cover in which rabbits hid.  Both of them were good shots and they soon had enough meat to feed their fellow warriors.  They took their downed prey to the stream near which they were camped and began to clean it.

As he worked with his knife, Eilian cast about for a topic of conversation that would allow Tinár to talk about something other than himself.  He thought perhaps he could establish some sort of trusting relationship with this arrogant young fool and use it to coax him into becoming a real member of the patrol.  He seemed to recall that Tinár had a little brother not much older than Legolas.  He smiled at the memory of Legolas’s letter.

“You have a brother who is at the age to learn to hunt, do you not?” he asked.  “My little brother writes me that he has gotten his first real bow and our adar is teaching him to hunt deer.”

Tinár looked at him blankly.  “I suppose Galelas is hunting,” he said indifferently. “He does not write to me.”  Apparently, Tinár was less attached to his little brother than Eilian was to Legolas.  He finished with one rabbit and picked up another.

Eilian tried again.  “I remember getting my first full-sized bow.  I was so excited that it is a wonder I did not shoot Penntalion.”

To his surprise, Tinár bridled at this remark. “I have said I was sorry about shooting Maltanaur.  You do not have to keep bringing it up.”

Eilian was startled.  He and Todith had reprimanded Tinár after the incident, but he had not mentioned it since and, to his knowledge, Todith had not either.  “I was not talking about you shooting Maltanaur,” he protested.  “You acknowledged your mistake and are being more careful.  I have no reason to bring it up again.”

Tinár did not look mollified.  “Perhaps you are not holding a grudge, but I can tell you that others in this patrol are.  They are exceedingly unfriendly to me.”

Eilian blinked.  Suddenly he wondered if the Shadow was beginning to affect Tinár too, and perhaps make him more vulnerable.  His first leave would be due soon after Eilian came back from his. That meant he had now been on his first tour of duty in the south for two months or so.  He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for the young warrior, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. Tinár needed to be told the truth about himself as often as possible, although Eilian greatly doubted that it would make much of a dent. “Frankly, I assume that their unfriendliness is due to your constant boasting rather than to the stray arrow.”

Tinár snorted. “You mean they are jealous. All my life, I have been plagued by jealous people.  My adar has taught me to ignore them.”

“Unfortunately, you cannot ignore your fellow warriors,” Eilian said sharply.  “You depend on them as they do on you.” It was now obvious to him that he was not going to be able to do this gently.

“Are you saying I should placate them?” Tinár sneered.

“Yes,” said Eilian promptly, “but more importantly, you should begin to learn their strengths instead of just thinking about your own.  Your considerable skill with a bow has to support what other members of the patrol are doing and be supported by them, but that cannot happen if you do not recognize what others can do.”  He hoped that Tinár would notice that Eilian had acknowledged his skill.

Tinár finished washing the last rabbit and stood up, his face flushed. “I am perfectly aware of what my fellow warriors can do,” he said defensively.

“I do not think you are,” Eilian stood up next to him.  “But as your lieutenant, I am going to require you to become aware of it.  You have two days to learn the chief strength and weakness of everyone else in the patrol.  I will expect you to report to me with what you have learned.”

Tinár stared at him open-mouthed.  “Is that a joke?” he demanded.

Eilian tightened his mouth and raised one eyebrow in a deliberate imitation of his father. “I assure you, it is not,” he said coldly.  He crouched down again to gather the meat they had prepared into a sack and wash his hands.  Then he stood. “Come,” he said to an obviously smoldering Tinár and started back to camp.

Once back at the campsite, he gave the meat to the warriors who were to cook that day. Then he glanced around. Tinár still stood at the point where they had reentered the campsite, apparently struggling with himself.  Then, with a determination for which Eilian gave him full credit, he squared his shoulders and walked up to a startled Gelmir. 

***

“We found it,” the scout reported breathlessly.

“The large colony?” Todith demanded, and the scout nodded in reply, his eyes gleaming.

Eilian felt a surge of excitement.  They had been battling mostly spiders for the last three weeks, but, while they had found a number of relatively small colonies, they had not yet located the large one from which the smaller ones had to be spreading.  They had been sending scouts out to follow trails of abandoned nests and webs but had had no success until now.

“How many spiders?” Todith asked.

“I would guess at least a hundred,” the scout answered.

“Be ready to lead us there,” Todith told him and then dismissed him.  He looked at Eilian.  “We need to kill as many as possible as soon as possible to even the odds a little. Once they start to scatter, they will be dangerous because they can come at us from so many angles.”

Eilian nodded.  “We should surround them and be prepared for rapid shooting at first, of course, but then, I think, we need to have three or four of us fall back a little to watch for anyone in danger of  being surprised or for spiders that are trying to circle around to the outside of our perimeter.”  He paused.  “Tinár could do that,” he offered.  He had been harrying Tinár into considering his fellow warriors for several days and saw no reason to stop now.  The fool was really incredibly self-centered and needed to be kicked in the backside on a regular basis, so far as Eilian was concerned.

Todith considered. “Will he stay where you put him?”

“Oh, yes,” said Eilian with an evil smile. He would speak to Tinár himself and insure that it was so.

Todith smiled slightly in response. “Very well,” he agreed mildly.  “His speed should make him useful in that position.”   He summoned the patrol and gave orders for their disposition. Then, with the scout in the lead, they were under way.

But before they left the camp, Eilian caught Tinár by the sleeve.  “I notice that Todith has assigned you to be one of those who guards the periphery,” he said.  “Perhaps he has forgotten how new you are to the patrol. I can speak to him about changing the assignment if you do not feel you could hold firm in that position.”

Tinár straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. “I assure you I am as capable of picking off stray spiders as is anyone in this patrol.”

“Very well,” agreed Eilian with seeming resignation, “if you are sure.”

“I am,” Tinár huffed and they went to join the others.

As they filtered silently into the trees in the location the scout showed them, Eilian could see that he had not exaggerated the number of spiders.  The Southern Patrol warriors were spread thin as Todith set them in position around the colony. Like his fellow warriors, Eilian stood with one arrow fitted to his bowstring and others set carefully to hand in his quiver.  They waited in absolute silence and then Todith gave a long whistle; arrows flew like a swarm of bees into the spiders’ nests.

With all the speed he had been trained to use, Eilian drew and released half a dozen times before the spiders had scattered enough that he needed to slow down, take aim, and keep a sharp eye out in all directions.  He dodged to one side, as a spider tossed a thread meant to ensnare him.  Before he could take aim at the spider itself, an arrow lodged in its belly and sent it reeling with its legs waving in the air. He glanced to one side and saw Tinár set well back from the main battle and already turning to shoot elsewhere.  Good, he thought, and went back to his own part in the fight.

For seasoned warriors, the spiders were not difficult foes, but they were repulsive ones, and Eilian found that the very sight and sound of them set his teeth on edge and caused his stomach muscles to tighten.  He worked grimly with his bow and occasionally with his sword when one of the skittering creatures got too close for bow work.  As the Elves continued their deadly assault, the number of spiders in the trees gradually lessened and the ground beneath became littered with black bodies.   And then, as if panic had caught all those remaining in a single flash, the spiders fled in a wave toward one side of the circle of Elves. The warriors before them held for a moment, shooting as rapidly as they could, but then they parted to allow the spiders to sweep through with Elves from the other side of the circle in hot pursuit.

Eilian was in the group of warriors who were driving the spiders before them and as he leapt through the trees, pausing to shoot at each new branch, exultation flooded him.  These bits of shadow would soon be gone from the forest and he would have helped to remove them.  Suddenly, from one corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement, and he realized that when the line of Elves in front of the spiders had parted, one had stayed put.  In a flash, he recognized Tinár.  What is he doing? Eilian wondered frantically.  Surely even Tinár does not think he can hold them back by himself!  But he knew with a certainty that made him furious that Tinár might very well be just arrogant enough to refuse to flee when even an elfling could have seen it was the only sensible course.

The mass of spiders now swept over the spot where Tinár stood, knocking him from the tree to the ground.  Most of the beasts were too frightened to even notice him, but to Eilian’s horror, three of them dropped to the ground with him and gathered around him. Eilian frantically nocked an arrow and aimed carefully in Tinár’s direction.  If he hit him, he would never hear the end of it, but Eilian had no choice, for the young warrior lay defenseless, having had the wind knocked out of him by his fall.  Eilian rapidly loosed two arrows in a row and two of the spiders fell, but the other had crawled onto Tinár and bitten him on the shoulder before Eilian saw another arrow pierce the creature’s side with such force that it knocked it off Tinár and pinned it to the ground.  Eilian looked over and saw Gelmir ready to shoot again if need be. But there was no further need, for the few remaining spiders had now fled with Elves in pursuit.

Followed by both Maltanaur and Gelmir, Eilian dropped down beside Tinár’s inert form. While Gelmir checked to make sure the three spiders were dead, Maltanaur and Eilian examined Tinár’s wound.  “That will put the little Dwarf spawn out of commission for a while,” Maltanaur opined, “but it will not kill him.”

“I wanted that sword,” said Gelmir plaintively as he came up beside them.

Eilian grinned at them. “Give me some water,” he said, reaching for his emergency healing pouch, “and we will get some antidote into him if we can before we haul him back to camp.”  Maltanaur handed Eilian his water skin and Eilian mixed herbs into the water before propping Tinár up and dribbling as much as possible between his lips while Maltanaur and Gelmir rigged a litter from branches, vines, and a cloak.  They loaded the paralyzed, nearly unconscious Tinár onto the litter and Gelmir and Maltanaur lifted it.

“You have to admit he did a good job of keeping the spiders from surprising anyone,” Maltanaur said thoughtfully.

“My naneth says that even Orcs have their uses,” said Gelmir piously.

Eilian grinned.  He was willing to wager that when Tinár came to and ceased being sick, he would be as obnoxious as ever. But he had been useful today and that, at least, was some sort of accomplishment.

***

Legolas selected one of the training swords from the rack and then flung himself down on the ground next to Annael and Turgon to wait for the blade master to finish with the older students and begin working with his own class.  Turgon hacked idly at the ground with his sword while Annael watched the class in progress.

“Tynd is really quite good,” Annael said, with no indication at all that he might begrudge Tynd’s skill.  Legolas regarded the pairs of older students who were fencing with blunted swords under the critical eye of the blade master.  Tynd was in the pair nearest them and his opponent was having a difficult time parrying his rapid attack.  Legolas thought that Annael was generous to admire the older student, when he and Riolith had been so rude to them. But then, Annael was nearly always generous.

Turgon frowned. “He and Riolith were looking for that buck yesterday.  I heard them talking about it.”  The three of them had scouted for the buck four times in the nearly two weeks since they had found the hoof prints on the beach, but they had not yet caught sight of it.

Legolas shrugged. “They are looking in the wrong place,” he reminded Turgon.  They all wanted to find the big deer, but Turgon seemed particularly obsessed by the idea.  Legolas had wondered several times if Turgon had been deer hunting with anyone other than him and Annael and had finally concluded that he had not.  Anticipating that they would eventually run into a deer, even if it was not the one they were hunting, Legolas had been trying to explain to Turgon what Thranduil had taught him about where to aim for a clean kill.  The last time they had gone hunting, he had noticed Annael doing the same kind of thing, so he thought that Annael, too, suspected that Turgon was learning this skill from his friends instead of his father.   The idea made Legolas feel sad.

“I know they are not hunting in the right place,” Turgon answered rather crossly, “but we are, and it does not seem to be helping us any.”  He swung his sword angrily at the ground again.

“That is enough for today,” called the blade master, and the older students immediately stopped what they were doing, bowed to him, and then drifted over to where the three friends sat near the rack of practice swords.  “I will be with you shortly,” the blade master told the half dozen younger students and then picked up a straw target he had been using in an earlier drill and carried it off to the masters’ hut near one side of the field.

“Wait a minute, Tynd!” called Riolith’s voice.  He had not been in the sword class and had only just trotted up to the field.  The two of them stopped to talk and Legolas, Annael, and Turgon listened unashamedly.  “I talked to my adar about hunting at night,” Riolith was saying excitedly.  “And he says that he will take us but not for a week.  He says the deer will be most active when the moon is full and we have to wait until then.”

“Excellent!” cried Tynd and the two of them walked off.

Legolas, Annael, and Turgon looked at one another. “They still will be looking in the wrong place,” Annael offered tentatively. They were silent for a minute.

Turgon stirred.  “I have an idea,” he said a little defensively.  As he had evidently anticipated, the other two groaned. Turgon’s ideas had landed them all in trouble more than once.

“What is it?” Legolas could not resist asking, although he knew it would be wiser not to.

“We should hunt at night, too,” Turgon said, “only we should not wait a week.”

The other two looked at him open-mouthed.  “Do you mean ask one of our adars to take us?” Annael asked.  “I do not think mine would.  He does not like me to be in the forest at night.”

“Then we do not need your adar,” Turgon responded.  Legolas noticed that Turgon did not even consider that Thranduil might accompany them. Not that his father would, Legolas knew. If anything, Thranduil was less likely to take them hunting at night that Annael’s father was.  “We can go by ourselves,” Turgon asserted.

*******

Thank you to everyone who is reading this story and especially to those of you who are reviewing it.  You always have interesting things to say.

Orangeblossom Took:  If you and your brother would have made the raft, then I sympathize with your parents!  I enjoy writing family dynamics so I am glad you like to read about them.

Lamiel:  An adolescence lasting as long as an Elf’s would really discourage parents from having many children!  And I think you are right about the moment when the raft dumps them. I should have noticed that I was out of everyone’s head the minute I wrote “the three of them.”

Dy:  You waded into a swamp?  I hope you didn’t find anything too creepy!

Luin: I always smile when I get your emails.  Ithilden is a lot like Thranduil, I agree, only we can kind of see him in the making.  I’m glad that Alfirin is in his future.  Turgon makes me sad too, and I can see how Eilian might have been like him if he hadn’t had firm guidance.  A swimming lesson would indeed be interesting to write about!  I wonder if Elves even wore swim-shorts!

Dot:  I thought the “voice of Thranduil” was kind of funny too.  I think all of Thranduil’s sons have their father’s voice in their head pretty firmly.  You can sure see it in Ithilden.

Frodo3791:  It must be hard not to be overprotective of your children when they are growing up in such a dangerous time and place.  Poor Thranduil!  He has to let the older ones do dangerous things because that’s their job but he would like to keep the little one safe for a while.

Caz-baz:  I hope this arrived in time to prevent insanity!  I am not fond of rats myself.  I don’t even like to think about them.

Bluebonnet:  Legolas isn’t always in trouble; it’s just that the troublesome moments are the ones it’s fun to write about.  Just think – he could go years with no trouble but elven childhoods are so long that there’s still plenty of time for it to come along.

Karen:  You do seem to be battling with the review system!  That image of Legolas on one foot was one that several readers liked and I did too!  “Huck, Tom, and Jim-Bob” – *snerk*.

Brenda:  I have never been able to figure out how to write about Ithilden’s and Eilian’s childhoods without going too OC, but I thought about your request and I think I have idea.  I could send the two of them off to do something dangerous and have Thranduil and Legolas at home waiting, with ada telling stories about the two absent ones, sort of like Nilmandra’s Elrond is doing about his own, long-ago childhood.  Yes!  I will put it in the file next to the story idea for Eilian’s bonding with Celuwen.

Feanen:  I’m glad you liked the chapter.  What a faithful reader you are!

Naneth:  Legolas did do well swimming out the river current, didn’t he?  There’s the germ of the grown elf he will become.  I’m glad you liked it.

Jay of Lasgalen:  Rafts are sort of inherently clumsy, I think.  Where I live, they have what are called Dragon Boat races on the river.  They are big canoe type boats with elaborate dragon heads carved on the prow.  I’m back to teaching now too. I am looking forward to the next chapter of “Search.”

StrangeBlaze:  The deer hunt is about to lead the little ones into trouble they don’t even understand plus some that they do!

LOTRFaith:  Yes!  I look forward to your story.  Poor Turgon needs a firm hand to guide him and, as I have reason to know (because I killed him), he doesn’t get it.

Erunyauve: What an interesting theory about the mithril shirt!  It would fit and is kind of a fun thing to think about.  I also thank you for the information about the Dwarves of Erebor that I cite at the start of this chapter.  I groaned at my own error but really did value knowing what Tolkien said. Also you were so nice about leaving me an out!

JastaElf:  Thank you, Jasta.  I fret a little about not being explicit enough sometimes.  And Cadoc is worrisome, yes indeed.  :-)

Draekon:  Ack!  Ff.net did not send me your review, so while I read it on the site, I did not have it in my file when I wrote the review responses.  And I wanted to say thank you for the very useful list of terms to use about shooting (not firing) an arrow. You are so right!

Nilmandra: Given that, as my beta, you see my characters more often that most folks do, I really value your opinion of their continuity. And, as always, I value the support and encouragement you give me.

LKK:  Thranduil is trying not to be overprotective. He’s not likely to restrain himself over what he sees as bad behavior though!  Legolas is heading for trouble.

Just Me:  You know, Ithilden scares me a little too.  I would not want to have him angry at me, either.  He is way too much like his father.

Legolas4Me:  You have hit the nail on the head. Legolas and his friends want to be grown up but they are not really ready, especially in a dangerous place like Mirkwood.

Sekhet:  Believe me, I understand what it is to be so absorbed in creating your own characters that it’s hard to focus on anything else!  I think Cadoc is worth taking note of.  It seems to me that it’s the Noldor who love making things, including weaponry. I’m not sure the Silvan elves would have cared about it as much.  Thank you for your enthusiasm. It made me smile.

Tigerlily713: Tsk! Tsk!  In church!  “Bad Lily” is right.  Thranduil would not approve.  I was actually kind of caught by the idea of the three friends sailing their raft all the way to Esgaroth.  I can picture them among the men and then the elves searching for them.  And I can certainly picture Thranduil’s reaction to the whole thing!  What a good idea.

Tapetum Lucidum:  The raft thing would give most parent heart attacks, I think.  And you are the first reviewer who has mentioned that the kids will be hunting near the men’s campground.  Clever you.

Disclaimer:  I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him.  I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

5.  Young Companions of the Hunt

“We do not need your adar,” Turgon asserted.  “We can go by ourselves.”

The other two stared at him open-mouthed.  “How would we do that?” Legolas demanded.  “I am not allowed out by myself at night, and the guards would see me.”

Turgon did not even need to pause to think of an answer. He was always frighteningly quick in planning mischief.  “You could stay at Annael’s for the night, and then both of you could sneak out after his parents go to sleep.”

“My parents would be furious!” Annael protested.

“Your parents would not know,” said Turgon practically.

“We would not be able to take the horses,” Legolas heard himself saying and knew that he sounded as if he was seriously considering how to sneak out and go hunting at night.  He was suddenly aware of a horrible certainty that they were going to do what Turgon suggested.  Turgon always sounded so plausible and so certain he was right that he was hard to resist.

“You could leave your horse at Annael’s too,” Turgon proposed.

Legolas shook his head. “I have to put my horse back in the stable every night, unless the stablemaster says he can stay out in the pasture.”

“We can go on foot then,” Turgon said, surrendering the possibility of riding.  “We came home that way when the raft was wrecked, and this time, we will be wearing shoes, so it will be easier.”

Annael and Legolas looked at one another, and Annael finally shrugged.  “When shall we go?” he asked resignedly.

“Soon,” said Turgon. “We have to go before Tynd and Riolith do.”

“I am allowed to stay at Annael’s only when we do not have training the next morning,” Legolas volunteered.  Annael’s parents and Thranduil all seemed to believe that the two of them did not sleep properly when they spent the night together, and Legolas had to admit that sitting up late playing and telling stories was part of the fun of staying with Annael.

Turgon thought for a minute. “So three days from now, you should stay at Annael’s. The moon will be bright then, even if it is not completely full.”  His eyes were gleaming with excitement.  “Do you think we could actually shoot the buck?” he asked, and Legolas was struck by his friend’s uncharacteristic lack of certainty.  Turgon needed to go hunting, Legolas decided. He and Annael should help him. They were, after all, encouraged to hunt and their parents’ fears about the night woods would surely be lessened if they knew that all three of them were together and were all carrying their weapons.

“I think we could,” he reassured Turgon.

“Come along you three,” called the blade master. Legolas looked up to see that he had returned to the fields and that the other students in their class were already ranged around him. They had been so absorbed in their plans that they had not noticed. “Bring your training swords and break into pairs,” the master ordered, “but not the same pairs you worked in last time.”  They scrambled to obey and spent the next two hours working hard. But at every break in the action, Legolas’s mind turned to thoughts of the deer hunt, and each time, he felt the same mixture of excitement and apprehension. Perhaps his father’s fears would be lessened by knowing that the three friends were hunting together with their big bows, but Legolas had no wish to try asking him if that would be so.

***

Ithilden stood on the dock and watched as the Men unloaded the boxes of swords and armor.  “When you get them to the armory, open the boxes and make sure everything is there,” he told the armorer who was also watching the proceedings. “Then distribute it according to the plan I gave you.”  The other Elf nodded and moved off to supervise the transport of the weaponry to the armory. Men continued unloading other goods that Thranduil’s steward had ordered in Esgaroth and that were now being delivered.  Among those on the deck, Ithilden saw Cadoc.  He beckoned and the Man leapt lightly from the barge to the dock.

“Where is Rudd?” Ithilden asked him. “I hope that he is well.”

“He is, my lord,” Cadoc answered.  “But he has other tasks for the Trade Council and thought that our dealings had been set on a firm enough footing that he could be more useful elsewhere.”

“Will you be here for a while?”

“We hope to be underway as soon as we have unloaded and received payment for the next shipment of Dwarven goods,” Cadoc answered.

Ithilden nodded. “Assuming that all is well, I will send you the coins shortly.  And you will be back in two weeks?”

“Yes, my lord, with the same sized order again.”

“Good.”  Ithilden moved off toward his office, thinking with satisfaction of the young warriors who would be safer and the enemies who would be in more peril because of the business that he was conducting this day.  He was grateful that things seemed to be going so well because he had had to argue long and hard to convince his father to take this step, and Thranduil was still not entirely happy about it.  Ithilden valued his father’s trust in his judgment and would have been most distressed to have to go to the king and admit that he had been wrong about the Dwarves’ reliability as providers of weapons.

***

Annael’s mother put the platter of fried fish on the table and sat down.  His father began putting fish and mushrooms and asparagus and bread onto Legolas’s and Annael’s plates.  Legolas usually liked eating at Annael’s house, although it was so different from eating at his own home.  At home, Legolas never knew what was going to be served for evening meal until it was put on the table in front of him.  In contrast, he and Annael had been sent to cut asparagus in the garden, and they had watched Annael’s father, Siondel, clean the fish he had caught.  Here they ate in the kitchen, where their evening meal had been sending increasingly tempting odors into the air for the last hour, and they did not have to wait for servants to leave before they could talk about anything.

Tonight, however, he felt tense enough over what he and Annael were going to do later that he was not very hungry and poked at the food on his plate without interest.

“How are you doing with your new bows?” Siondel asked.  He was a lieutenant in the Home Guard. Indeed, Legolas sometimes saw him checking on the guards at the palace. So he knew about archery and always asked how Legolas and Annael were coming along.

“Legolas put an arrow into the center of the target at the other end of the field today,” Annael piped up.

“Did you now?” Siondel asked, and Legolas blushed and nodded. “That is very good. Penntalion will have you in the older students’ class in no time at all.”  Legolas was pleased by that idea although he did not want to go to the other class without his friends and he did not think that Penntalion would send him alone anyway.

Annael’s mother had been watching them closely. “Is something the matter?  Neither one of you is eating.”

“Nothing is the matter,” Annael answered hastily and began shoveling fish into his mouth.

Siondel frowned at them too.  “You are not rebuilding the raft, are you? Remember, Annael, that you and I agreed you would keep it in the pond if you did.”

“We are not building one,” Annael protested.   Legolas glanced at his friend. He suspected that Annael had told his father more about the loss of the raft than Legolas had told Thranduil. But then, Siondel hardly ever lost his temper and took unexpected events in stride more easily that Legolas’s father did.  Legolas wondered how successful Annael would be at keeping the raft in the pond if he and Turgon and Legolas decided to rebuild it. Legolas would not mind; when he had had time to recover, he had felt proud of himself for handling the wreck of the raft well, but he did not want to repeat the experience any time soon. Turgon, however, was unlikely to agree to anything as tame as pushing a raft around a pond.

“Good,” Siondel said.  “Eat your meals.” Both of them made an effort to eat the food on their plates, and it really would have been quite good, if Legolas’s mouth had not been so dry.

Annael’s parents talked to one another about the events of the day as they finished the meal and then Legolas and Annael dried the dishes after Annael’s mother had washed them. When they were finished, Annael said, “Legolas and I are going to my chamber now, Nana.”

“Very well,” his mother said.  “Legolas, I found one of your undertunics in the laundry.  You probably mixed it up with Annael’s and wore his home the last time you stayed here.  Yours is on top of the chest in his chamber.”

“How do you know it is mine?” asked Legolas, to whom all undertunics looked pretty much alike.

She smiled at him.  “By the material from which it is made.”

Legolas frowned. “I do not know where Annael’s is,” he said with some concern.  He put his dirty clothes in a basket at home, and clean ones reappeared periodically. If Annael’s undertunic was among his things, he did not know it. “Perhaps he could just keep this one?” he suggested hopefully.  “I have others.”

Annael’s mother studied him with a small smile on her face.  “Very well. But if you find his, then we will trade back again. How is that?”

“Good,” Legolas agreed with relief and the two friends started toward the doorway but Annael’s mother called her son back and kissed his forehead, causing him to make a face at Legolas.

“Do not stay up too late,” she admonished fondly.

They looked at one another and made no response but made their way down the little hallway to Annael’s room.  Legolas was beginning to wish he had not agreed to this hunting trip, but it seemed too late to back out now. Turgon would be waiting for them an hour after moon rise.

“Should we try to sleep a little?” Annael asked tentatively.

“I am afraid we would not wake up in time,” Legolas answered.  They sat side by side, on the floor next to the bed regarding their big bows, which they had left in one corner of the room when they had come in earlier.

“We could read or draw,” Annael offered, and Legolas accepted the offer of drawing paper and charcoal.  They both lay on their stomachs sketching. Eventually they heard Annael’s parents go into the room across the hall and shut the door.  Gradually, the cottage became quiet, and at some point, moonlight began to filter in through the window.

Legolas turned his head to look at the window.  His own home was in a cave and it seemed to him that Annael was incredibly lucky to have a window through which he could look at the stars, and if he left it open, he could smell the night smells and hear the night birds and insects and the night song of the trees.

“It is time,” Annael said.  They looked at one another.  Were they really going to do this? Legolas wondered.   Of course they were, he admonished himself. Turgon was waiting. He got to his feet and picked up his bow.  After a second’s hesitation, Annael did the same thing. Then he opened the window and the two of them climbed over the sill and out into the night.

They slid noiselessly along the path leading eastward until they reached a stand of pine trees, where Turgon emerged from the shadows.  “I have been waiting forever,” he complained.

“Then you must have been early,” Legolas told him, a little annoyed.  Turgon made no protest, for he was obviously excited and eager to get on with things. By unspoken agreement, they leapt into the trees and began the long trip to the point where they had seen the deer prints near the river.  The trip took less time than Legolas had expected for they stopped in the woods a mile or so short of the water. They had come by horseback and scouted unsuccessfully here before, but tonight seemed full of promise.  Legolas suspected it was the dazzling array of stars overhead that was making him feel so exhilarated. He was allowed out at night so seldom that he really relished the experience now.

They dropped quietly to the ground. “Let us go toward the clearing we found last time,” Annael suggested and they began to move silently through the forest, checking for signs of their prey as they went.  The clearing was empty of deer, but they knew of another one and started toward it.  For an hour or more, they searched, gradually moving farther from the river, but they found nothing.

“I know we have to shoot from the ground,” Turgon finally said in a low tone, “but can we not at least search from the trees?”

Legolas blinked. “That is a good idea,” he said, wondering why it had not occurred to him before.  He supposed it was because Thranduil had never allowed it, for he had wanted Legolas to learn to track a deer and that was impossible to do in the trees. Tonight, however, they were simply looking in the spots where deer were likely to feed. “We can go through the trees toward the small meadow.”  They all moved into the branches and worked their way east.

They had just come within sight of the meadow when Legolas froze, causing the other two to halt beside him.  There in the meadow stood the largest deer Legolas had ever seen. He stood still as a statue, looking straight toward them and pitching his head to sniff at the wind currents.  Legolas had never seen a deer at night before and was struck dumb by the way the moonlight washed over him, giving him an ethereal quality.  He was alert though.  His ears rotated and, even from where Legolas crouched motionless, he could see that the hair on the deer’s back was standing up.  Legolas held his breath, willing the buck to relax and look away so that they could drop to the ground and draw their bows.

Suddenly, a faint sound reached Legolas’s ears.  Instantly, the buck made one leap, landing in a dense thicket and then melting away into the surrounding cover.  “No!” Turgon moaned.  He started to move forward to pursue the animal, but Legolas had been listening to the growing noise of someone approaching with heavy tread, and he put out a hand to restrain his friend.

The three of them had to wait no more than half a minute before a darkly cloaked figure came into the clearing.  With a suppressed start, Legolas realized that it was a Man who was now walking without hesitation to a fallen log on one edge of the meadow.  The Man crouched and seemed to grope around before pulling a long, cloth-wrapped bundle out from behind the log.  He fussed with the cloth for a moment, and Legolas caught a reflected gleam of moonlight and then a clash of metal that reminded him of noises from the training fields.  Then the Man clutched his bundle to him and disappeared again back the way he had come.

“Who was that?” Annael murmured.  Legolas shook his head. He did not know and he did not care.  Whoever the Man was, he had frightened the deer away and they were not likely to see it again this night.

Evidently Turgon had come to the same conclusion. “We might as well go home,” he cried unhappily.  “But did you see it?” he asked, turning to them. “Did you see how,” he groped for a word, “how kingly it was?”  Legolas stared at him.  Turgon sounded as if he had seen something magical, and perhaps he had, Legolas admitted to himself.  “We have to come back,” Turgon urged.  “Let us promise to come back.”

Turgon sounded so desperate that Legolas could not help himself. “Very well. We will come back.”

“We should go,” Annael said. Reluctantly, they shouldered their bows and began the trip home.  When they neared Thranduil’s stronghold, they slid down to the path again, and with a silent wave, Turgon went toward his own cottage.  Legolas and Annael crept silently around to where the window of Annael’s room still stood open to the darkened room within.  Annael scrambled over the sill first and then reached a hand down to haul Legolas in behind him. They stood together in the silent darkness.

Suddenly Legolas heard flint strike against tinder, and a lantern flared revealing Annael’s father sitting grim-faced in the chair next to the bed.  Legolas’s stomach tightened, and he felt Annael grip his arm convulsively.

“Where have you two been?” Siondel demanded, his voice harsher than Legolas had ever heard it.  Legolas blinked.  Siondel was one of Ithilden’s warriors, so Legolas knew he had to be brave, but just now, Legolas thought he looked as if he might be frightened.  Legolas glanced at Annael, who was licking his lips.  His friend’s face was pale but he answered steadily enough.

“We have been hunting, Ada.”

Siondel rose to his feet, frowning at him. “Hunting?  The two of you alone?  At this time of night?”

Annael took a step forward.  “Yes, for the big buck I told you about,” he said with an appeal in his voice that his father ignored.

“You crept out without telling anyone to go hunting in the forest at night?”  Siondel’s voice was sharp and Annael winced.  “Your naneth and I have been worried sick! I have been out looking for you and had no idea where you were.”   He scanned the two of them, with his hands clenching and opening again.  “Go to bed,” he said abruptly. “We will talk about this in the morning, Annael.”  He started through the doorway.

“Siondel,” Legolas called to him, and he looked back over his shoulder. “Are you going to tell my adar?”

Siondel gave a small, unpleasant smile. “No, I am not.”  Legolas sagged with relief, but it was short-lived.  “Tomorrow morning I am going to take you home, and you are going to tell him.”  Siondel left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Legolas and Annael looked at one another, dismay on both their faces.  “He is so angry,” Annael lamented, sitting forlornly on the edge of the bed.  He still clutched his bow, seeming to have forgotten he had it.  He looked worried and Legolas patted him on the shoulder.  But he could not keep his thoughts from what his own father’s reaction was likely to be to the account he would have to give in the morning.

He took Annael’s bow, unstrung it, and propped it together with his own in the corner.  Somehow what he and his friends had been doing had not seemed so bad to him.  They were allowed to hunt, even encouraged to.  And they could go into the woods if they were armed, although Legolas knew that he was not supposed go there at night, because Thranduil was convinced the woods were dangerous then.  But Legolas had never taken his father’s fears very seriously, for he had never heard of anyone being attacked in the woods so close to his home. And indeed, he thought, he and his friends had not seen anything dangerous. He supposed he had known from the start that sneaking out of Annael’s cottage was wrong, but it, too, had seemed a minor infraction until Legolas had seen how angry Annael’s normally easy-going father was.  If Siondel was so angry, what would Thranduil be like?

Annael had risen and was now stripping off his clothes.  Legolas did the same and then, still without speaking, Annael climbed sadly into bed.  From under his friend’s bed, Legolas dragged the pallet upon which he slept when he stayed here and lay down on it to try to sleep.  The question of his father’s reaction was one it was better not to think about.

***

Thranduil broke from his conversation with Ithilden, as the door to the dining room opened and Legolas came in, accompanied by Annael’s father. They stopped just inside the doorway and Siondel rested his hand on the child’s shoulder.  Legolas’s face was pale and apprehensive.

At the look on Legolas’s face, Thranduil half rose and he could see Ithilden, too, start in alarm. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“Legolas is well, my lord,” said Siondel hastily, “but he has something to tell you.” He glanced at Legolas, who looked back at him pleadingly.  Thranduil sank back in his chair.  Ah, he thought, he has been in trouble.  “I think it is better if I leave now, my lord,” Siondel said.

“Thank you for bringing Legolas home,” Thranduil said.  Siondel bowed to both Thranduil and Ithilden and left the room.

Comprehension had dawned on Ithilden’s face too. He rose. “Perhaps I had better go now, too, Adar.”  Thranduil gestured his permission and Ithilden left the room, patting Legolas sympathetically on the shoulder as he passed.  Thranduil found the gesture touching.  There were centuries between Ithilden and Legolas but when trouble came along, even trouble of their own making, they were brothers.

The door closed quietly behind Ithilden and Thranduil studied Legolas, who was chewing on the inside of his cheek and not meeting his father’s eyes.  Thranduil did not invite him to sit.  His experience as both king and father had taught him that it was wise not to encourage miscreants to make themselves too comfortable.   He let the silence stretch to an uncomfortable length.

“Come here, Legolas,” Thranduil commanded and the child came hesitantly forward to stand just in front of him with his eyes still on the floor. “Look at me,” Thranduil bid, and Legolas obediently raised his eyes. He looked frightened.  What could he have done? Thanduil wondered.  “What is this about?”

Legolas opened his mouth as if to answer but no sound came out.  He tried again. “We, that is, Turgon and Annael and I, we went hunting,” he finally managed to stammer out.

Thranduil raised one eyebrow.  “Is that what Siondel wished you to tell me?”

Legolas bit his lip.  “No. Yes. It is part of it.”

Thranduil waited, drumming his fingers on the table. “And what is the rest of it?”

Legolas looked down again and his answer was soft.  “We went out at night to hunt.”

Thranduil straightened in his chair.  “Siondel took you hunting at night?” he demanded in disbelief.

“No.”  Legolas looked as if he was going to burst into tears at any moment.  He drew a deep breath and suddenly spoke in a rush of words.  “We went out by ourselves. We climbed out Annael’s window and we went hunting for that big buck whose hoof print we saw. You remember, Adar.  The one you said honored the forest with its presence. And we saw it!” He looked up with something like awe in his face.

Thranduil sat immobilized by fear for a fleeting moment.  His sheltered, trusting child had deliberately walked into the dark woods that Thranduil’s warriors were unable to keep safe no matter how hard they tried. Then hot anger boiled up from his gut.  “Allow me to be sure I understand you correctly,” he said in a tight voice. “You snuck out of Annael’s house and went into the forest at night, something you are forbidden to do.  Moreover, in doing so, you committed a breach of trust against Annael’s parents, who were kind enough to have you as a guest in their home and trusted you. Is that correct?”

Now tears were flowing down his son’s cheeks. “I am sorry, Adar,” he said, his voice trembling.  “But we could not find the deer during the day, and we thought it would be out at night, and Tynd and Riolith are hunting it too.  We wanted to get it first.”

“Stop making excuses, Legolas,” Thranduil said sharply.  “Your behavior was inexcusable.”  He regarded the weeping child and then delivered his sentence. “You are confined to your chamber for a week, except for lessons, training, and meals. And tonight, when Siondel is likely to be at home, you and I will go to Annael’s cottage so that you can apologize to his parents.”

Legolas suddenly hurled himself at Thranduil and flung his arms around his father’s neck.  “Please do not be angry, Ada!” he pleaded, sobbing in earnest now.

Thranduil felt the anger seep out of him and he gathered his youngest son close.  “There, there,” he murmured.  “You frightened me, little one.  You will learn your lesson and then it will be over.”

Legolas said nothing, but only burrowed closer.

*******

Again, I thank everyone who is reading and especially those who review, whether from ff.net or www.storiesofarda.com, or via email.  I really enjoy knowing that you like the story.

Brenda G:   I think that Eilian and Legolas both see in their age-mates what happens when young Elves have inattentive parents. I suspect that Thranduil is not much fun sometimes, but he cares about the people they are becoming.  Thank you for the review. I love hearing from you even if it is “on the fly.”

Karen: Sorry, the swords are all spoken for! And Gelmir gets any that might not be claimed.  I think that all of Thranduil’s sons can probably channel him when they want to Well, maybe not Legolas yet.  It will be a few more years before he can stare down people like Turgon, I’m afraid.

Naneth:  If I were Eilian, I’d like getting letters from Legolas. He is a very sweet (if naughty) kid.

LKK:  Legolas is maturing pretty nicely, but he’s still a kid.  Turgon just makes it all seem so logical.

Bryn:  You’re right. Turgon may be whispering the ideas in the other kids’ ears but they seem to think those ideas sound like a good time.  And to me, Tinar is just an example of the natural arrogance of elves run amok.  Eilian is right. He needs to be kicked in the rear end regularly.

Nilmandra:  I’m glad you’re amused!  I spent years as one of very few women teaching in an engineering school.  Left to themselves, guys wouldn’t exactly wish Tinar harm, but they wouldn’t fall all over themselves to sympathize either.

Dot:  Yes, as you see, Thranduil was not amused. And I don’t actually know anyone as bad as Tinar. He is kind of fun to write because I can exaggerate his ego and have everyone’s jaw drop.

JustMe: My beta told me this chapter was funny, so I am glad you agree. I can never tell.  Thranduil’s sons’ friends provide much of the entertainment here.  I have decided that one reason I have trouble bringing Ithilden’s personality out is that I never gave him a friend.  But did you notice that the only one who didn’t get caught here was Turgon?

Dragon-of-the-North:  You must be almost done!!  I am afraid there is Orc fighting to come yet, but in the meantime, the warriors are joking around with one another.

Orangeblossom Took: The 100 spiders creeped me out. And you were right: the kids were headed for trouble. And actually, I think they may not be done yet. ;-)

Alice:  Thank you so much for saying that about the change in voice when I change point of view.  I have been trying to do that when I change to a child’s point of view and I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel that you noticed.

StrangeBlaze:  My beta said the chapter was funny too, and although that wasn’t exactly what I intended, I don’t mind.  I think the warriors are funny. They are so snarky!

Jebb:  Turgon is just full of bad ideas, isn’t he?   Thranduil must just rue the day that he and Legolas became friends. Ooh. A plot bunny! The day they met!

Caz-baz: You were right that it was Legolas and Annael who got caught!   Turgon just waltzed on home.

Karri:  Eilian is getting to be a good leader, which is nice to see.  He has to be captain of that patrol by the time Legolas becomes a novice because that’s how I wrote it.

Erunyauve:  Oh, good analysis of Turgon and Tinar. Tinar is lonely (and no wonder really).  And you are also right that Todith is deliberately developing Eilian’s leadership skills.  Clever reader!

Frodo3791:  So you must think that Eilian was restrained with Tinar, since he did not actually shoot him?  LOL  And you see here that Turgon’s idea has gotten Legolas and poor Annael into trouble (but not himself).

Bluebonnet:  I’m glad you like the Eilian chapter. I always hesitate to write these all OC chapters.  I wonder what someone who is new to the story must think.  And I am afraid that you hoped in vain that Legolas and Annael would resist Turgon.

TigerLily:  I don’t think that Tinar can blame his problems on Eilian. He was an idiot and everyone knows it, probably even the spiders.

Tapetum Lucidum:  The description you give of multi spider babies running off the mother is very disturbing!  And I’m glad you like good big brother Eilian.  He really does love the brat. It’s one of his more endearing qualities (and there are lots!).

Feanen: I’m glad you liked the Eilian stuff.  I always worry about the chapters that are mostly OC.

Draekon:  You cannot imagine how hard it was to stamp all the “fires” out of this chapter. My beta liked your suggestions so she looked for them (and found them) and I had tried to avoid them too. In the long run, I had to run a global search. Eilian is safe, at least for a while. I have a nice sexy bonding fic planned for him.

JastaElf:  Tinar is a real pain in the butt.  And I too am charmed by the idea of Eilian doting on Legolas. I think of Eilian as someone who loves easily and I think kids can sense that. He’s maternal (in good, non-Mpreg way!).

Legolas4me:  I, too, believe that Legolas comes from a loving family. I don’t think he would be the person he is in the books if he had not been raised with love.

Fadesintothewest:  It’s so good to have you back on line!  I have never been hunting and have no wish to go, but I think that the elves lived off the forest and perhaps had a reverent relationship with it, like some Native American tribes are said to have had.

Dy:  You were right to have a bad feeling about the hunting trip.  But at least they did not get far enough from home to run into the Southern Patrol.  That would have been very bad!

Luin: You are much too conscientious.  Reading at work is probably good for morale. ;-)  I’m glad you noticed the slightly more angsty Eilian. Shadow is weighing on him and the others and they use humor to combat it.   As for the little guys, well, it was Turgon’s idea, so you knew what would happen.  And I think that in Turgon’s case, hacking at the ground is good, because the blunter his sword is, the better!

LA:  It would be very interesting to write about Legolas’s family during the time of the quest. We know that Sauron’s forces attacked Mirkwood and burned a lot of trees, so Thranduil and Legolas’s brothers had problems of their own. It would make a powerful and grim story, I think. Thank you for letting me know you enjoy the stories.

Yllyn:  Thank you for the kind words. They mean a lot coming from you.  In all truth, the Legolas I like to write about the best is an adolescent.  That seems to me to be a time of possibilities and problems.  And that’s odd, actually, because I have no desire to be around an adolescent for very great stretches of time, I must admit.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him and not to me. I gain nothing other than the enriched imaginative life I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

6.  Negotiating

Legolas straightened his back and loosed the arrow.  It flew straight and true far down the field to hit the target dead center.

“Good!” called Penntalion.  “Annael, you are next.”

Legolas went to stand next to Turgon, while Annael took his place on the small training field where Penntalion was working with them today.  “That really was a very good shot,” Turgon told Legolas rather wistfully.

Legolas nodded his thanks.  About two weeks previous, he had suddenly found that the big bow felt more comfortable in his hand, and he had been able to control his shots far more consistently.  He had surged ahead of his two friends and was now by far the best of them with the adult bows.  Even as he watched, for instance, he saw Annael send an arrow wide of the target that Penntalion had moved farther away today and then blow out an exasperated breath.  “Try again,” Penntalion encouraged him and Annael fitted another arrow to his bowstring.

“Can you play this afternoon?” whispered Turgon. They were not really supposed to be talking to one another but rather were to watch the lesson and listen to what Penntalion was saying even when he was not speaking to them, so Turgon kept his voice low.

Legolas shook his head.  “I have to stay in my room for one more day,” he murmured regretfully.  He had found that staying in his room all the time was so boring that, inspired by his father’s recent dealings with Dwarves, he had actually asked his tutor if he could begin learning to write and read Dwarvish runes. He had then amused himself in his room by drawing the angular shapes and forming simple words.

Turgon frowned impatiently.  He had returned to his own room safely after the night hunting and was the only of the three of them not to get in trouble.  Annael now had to leave his bow in his parents’ keeping except when he was at the training fields, and Legolas had heard the scolding Siondel had given him the morning after the hunt.  Legolas knew that Annael found it painful to be out of his parents’ good graces and felt sorry for his friend.

“Can you not ask your adar to let you out one day early?” Turgon demanded.

“Do you have a question for me, Turgon?” Penntalion asked sharply, making them both jump.

“No,” Turgon answered sullenly.

“Then stop talking to Legolas and pay attention,” the archery master admonished.

Legolas waited until Penntalion had turned back to Annael and then shook his head. No, he could not ask his father to end his punishment one day early.  His father was no longer angry, but Legolas did not want to provoke him again and was being very careful around him.  Asking to be let off from a day of his confinement to his room would be sure to lead to a lecture and would almost surely not lead to early release.  Turgon did not seem to understand this at all.  Of course, Turgon’s father never seemed to disapprove of anything he did, Legolas thought with some jealousy.

Legolas had lost track of what Penntalion was saying to Annael but it must have been good advice because Annael hit the target twice in a row.  Legolas and Turgon both cheered for him, and he turned to smile at them with his face a little flushed. Penntalion smiled at them all.  “That is enough for today,” he said. “You are all getting better as your arms get stronger.”  He paused and then added, “I think we will plan on a week more of these separate lessons and then you can all join the older students’ class.”

“Yes!” whooped the three of them simultaneously.  Legolas’s heart lifted and Annael too looked gleeful.  Here was news good enough to make them forget about being in trouble.

Penntalion laughed. “You still have to work hard for the next week,” he reminded them.

“We will,” Legolas assured him happily.  Penntalion picked up his gear and started off toward his next class, and the three friends skipped off the training fields and along the path toward their homes.

“I heard Tynd and Riolith talking,” Turgon began without preamble. “They did not even catch a glimpse of the buck on the nights they hunted.”

“They are hunting in the wrong place,” Legolas reminded him, a little dismayed at the way Turgon was refusing to let go of the idea of hunting the big deer.

Turgon paused for only a second.  “We should look for it again,” he affirmed.

“No,” said Annael, sounding exasperated. “I am sick of looking for it.  And I am not allowed to use my bow off the training fields right now anyway.”

Turgon said no more, but he looked thoughtful.  Legolas bit his lower lip.  A thoughtful Turgon was almost always a prelude to trouble, and Legolas did not need any more trouble right now.

Annael’s cottage was closest to the training fields.  “I will see you after lessons, Turgon,” he called as he started along the side path that would lead him home.  “Good bye, Legolas.” They waved back at him.

It did not take Turgon long to announce what he had been thinking about. “When you can go out again, we should hunt for the buck.”

“Without Annael, you mean?” Legolas asked, frowning.

“Yes. You heard him. He does not want to go.  He cannot use his bow now anyway, and besides, he has already killed a deer but we have not. We do not need to share this with him.”

Legolas thought about it, and a small, unworthy part of him responded to Turgon’s argument.  “I could probably go tomorrow afternoon,” he said slowly, “but I do not want to hurt Annael’s feelings.”

Turgon shook his head impatiently. “No, we need to go at night again. That is the only time we have had any success in scouting it.”

Legolas spun to face him with his mouth hanging open.  “I cannot do that,” he sputtered.  “My adar would -- I do not know what he would do, but it would be bad.  And I do not want to fool Annael’s parents again.”  Legolas had found night in the forest to be beautiful rather than frightening, but during the long hours in his room, he had realized that he was ashamed of having deceived Annael’s parents, who had always been kind to him.

“We would be more careful this time,” Turgon urged. “You would not get caught.  Besides, you promised we would go again.”

“No!” Legolas exclaimed frantically.  He needed to squelch the idea of night hunting now or Turgon would nag him mercilessly.

Turgon made a frustrated noise.  “Legolas, I do not think that I can do this without you,” he confessed. “You know things about hunting that I do not know, and you are much better with a bow than I am.” 

Legolas blinked in surprise at Turgon’s admission.  He rather thought that his friend’s assessment was accurate, but he would not have expected Turgon to be so honest about his own limits.  He could feel himself weakening at the appeal for help, but he also shuddered at the idea of his father’s wrath if he gave in to Turgon’s plea and his father found out.  He and his friends might not have found the woods to be dangerous, but Thranduil was still convinced they were.  “I will go with you tomorrow afternoon,” he finally said.  “We can take the horses and Annael can come too if he wants to.  He does not need his bow to help us scout.”

“Very well,” said Turgon reluctantly.  “But if we do not find it, we need to think about going out at night again.”

Legolas was determined not to give in to Turgon’s urging, but he did not have time to argue. Even now, he was going to have to run in order to reach home at a time that would count as coming straight home after training.  He would deal with Turgon’s further arguments about going out at night when and if the need arose.

***

Ithilden paused in the open doorway of the infirmary room, not wanting to disturb the healer if she was examining her patient, but both the healer and the young warrior in the bed turned to him. “Come in,” the healer invited.  “I am just finishing, and this young fellow needs someone to talk to.”  She patted her patient on the arm and made as if to withdraw.

“How is he?” Ithilden asked.

“He will be fine,” the healer assured him. “He is taking the antidote for the spider poison, and the bite is healing nicely. You can have him back in a day or two.”

She left the room, and Ithilden approached Anandil’s bedside.  As Ithilden insisted that most new warriors do, Anandil was serving in the Home Guard until he had enough experience to make it safe to send him to one of the Border Patrols or even to the more dangerous Southern Patrol, which operated closest to the stronghold of the enemy at Dol Guldur.  It was Anandil’s misfortune to have unexpectedly encountered one of the giant spiders that had been approaching Thranduil’s stronghold in recent days. Ithilden fervently hoped that the efforts of his more experienced warriors had now driven the beasts further away.

Anandil struggled to at least sit up in the presence of his commanding office, but Ithilden placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and sat in the chair beside his bed.

“I am very sorry, my lord,” Anandil apologized, looking shamefaced. “I know I should have been aware of the spider’s presence, but I just did not see it until it attacked me.”

In theory, of course, Anandil was right. He should have detected the spider, but Ithilden was an experienced enough warrior to know that warriors often failed to find what they were not expecting to see.  “You will not be caught unaware next time,” he said, meaning it as both comfort and admonition.

“No, my lord, I will not,” Anandil responded fervently.

Ithilden turned to the real reason for his visit. “Deler tells me that you had a problem with the Dwarven sword.”

Anandil flushed angrily. “It broke,” he said bluntly. “It just shattered when I fell and caught it against the branch.  I thought the thing was brittle from the start, but I had convinced myself I was just overly suspicious because it was of Dwarven make, but that weapon was useless.  I am lucky I did not try using it against an Orc.”  He stopped, and Ithilden could see him suddenly recalling that he was talking to the Elf who had probably supplied him with the “useless” weapon. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said stiffly.

Ithilden sat for a moment, worrying away at the story the warrior was telling him.  It was essentially the same tale that Deler had told him just an hour ago. It had made Ithilden deeply unhappy and apprehensive then, and he felt no better now.  Perhaps one inferior sword had gotten into the second shipment, he thought. The armorer had checked every item in the first shipment, so it could not have been in that one, but they had not been so careful in checking the second one, because the first one had been so satisfyingly good.  He turned his attention back to Anandil, who was watching him closely, probably afraid of having given offense.

“We will get you a better weapon,” he pledged, rising to go.  “And I am sure you will use it to strike fear into the next spider or Orc you run into.”  He smiled at the dismayingly young Elf in the bed and took his leave.

The healer was in the hallway talking to a maiden whose back was to Ithilden.  His eye was caught by the braid of gleaming hair hanging thick as his wrist almost to her waist. They turned when he came through the doorway.  “May I present my daughter, Alfirin, my lord,” the healer introduced them, and the maiden made a quick curtsy and then began to take her leave.

“I will see you at home, Naneth,” she said and then left the infirmary, with Ithilden’s gaze following her.  He felt a sudden longing for the end of worry and the comfort of a simple domestic life.  He sighed and turned to the healer.

“Is there enough of the spider poison antidote that we could distribute more to warriors on patrol?” he asked.  “I am afraid this is not going to be the last bite we see, and most of those bitten will not be as close to home as Anandil was.  Thank the Valar the spiders seldom come this close,” he added.

“The supply is limited at the moment,” she answered, “but we are making more.” She smiled. “Tell your warriors to stay away from spiders for another week or two.”

He smiled weakly back at her. “I wish that were an option.”  He bid her good day and left the building to go to his own office, wondering as he went what he was going to do about the defective sword.  He needed to send word to every warrior who had gotten one of the Dwarven swords, of course, because they had to be warned to test their weapons for the same kind of defect. Ithilden did not believe that there could be many inferior swords among those they had distributed because if there were, the armorer would have noticed them.  But even if Anandil’s sword had been the only badly tempered one in the shipment, its maker had to have known that there was something wrong with it and shipped it to the Elves anyway.  Anger burned within him at the thought.  For the sake of money, someone had been willing to put one or more of his warriors in mortal danger.

And yet, despite his own anger, he wanted to be careful how he told his father about the brittle sword.  If Thranduil became too incensed at the bad faith displayed by at least the Dwarven smith, his father might stop dealing with the Dwarves altogether.  But his warriors needed weapons and Ithilden genuinely believed that the defective one was a fluke.  And he did not want to have to tell his father he had been wrong to argue in favor of dealing with the Dwarves.  Moreover, he did not think he had been.

As he entered his aide’s office, intending to go through to his own, the aide looked up. “My lord,” he said, his face serious, “a dispatch has come from one of the Border Patrols that you should see right away.  I am afraid that one of the Dwarven swords has proved defective.”  Ithilden stared at him in dismay.  The conversation he and his father now needed to have at once had just become much more complicated.

***

“How many of them are defective?” Thranduil demanded, his face flushed with anger.

“I do not know,” Ithilden answered unhappily.  “We are checking now.”

Thranduil jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor of his office in the family’s private quarters.  “I knew we should not have been so trusting,” he fumed.  He turned toward Ithilden, who had risen when he did, and now stood twisting the unwelcome Border Patrol dispatch in his hands.  “How could the defective ones have gotten by our armorer?” he demanded.  “Is he incapable?”

“No, my lord,” Ithilden replied.  He took a deep breath.  “This was undoubtedly my fault. I had him check every item in the first shipment, and it was all wonderfully made.  But I told him only to count the second shipment to be sure it was all there. It never crossed my mind that the workmanship would be so much worse the second time.”  He met his father’s hard glare steadily for a moment, and then Thranduil turned away to lean a hand on the mantle and kick at the grate.  Ithilden stared wretchedly at his back.  Thranduil was apparently too furious even to look at him.

Finally, having evidently gained control of himself, Thranduil turned back.  “As I recall, we have already paid them for the third shipment.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“This will be the end. Check that shipment well, and then we will buy no more from them.  I will send a messenger demanding that they return our payment for the useless weapons once we know how many there are.”  He seated himself behind his desk, his face grim.

Ithilden stood before his father and his king, trying to decide whether he wished to argue.  He had never before challenged one of Thranduil’s decisions once they had been made, and not simply because his father was intimidating, but because he normally agreed with Thanduil.  But Ithilden’s sense of what it meant to command the Realm’s troops had been changing as the Shadow grew in the south and his responsibility deepened.  He believed very strongly that he knew what his warriors needed better than his father did, and, he decided, he was willing to risk his father’s wrath to get it for them.  “Send the messenger by all mean, my lord,” he said in a tone that was as respectful as he knew how to make it, “but I ask you to reconsider your decision to buy no more.”  Thranduil’s expression darkened and Ithilden hurried on before he could speak.  “We should certainly be sure we get what we need and have paid for, but we still need the weapons and armor.”

“They have insulted us, Ithilden,” Thranduil’s voice was sharp.  “They have assumed that they can take advantage of us and that we will be too simple to notice.”

“You do not know that,” Ithilden argued, growing heated himself. “The smith must indeed have known that the weapons were ill-made, but it is possible that no one else did.  Send them word about the brittle weapons.  Have the messenger take the pieces even.  But give them a chance to right the wrong they have done us.  If they refuse, there will be time enough to break off trade.”  He was breathing hard and his heart was pounding almost as it did when he was in battle.

His father stared at him for a long moment of silence, his face impenetrable. What could he be thinking? Ithilden wondered.  And then he wondered, what does he think of me?  He pushed the last thought aside as personal and trivial compared to the matters over which they argued.  Finally, Thranduil let out a sharp breath. “Very well,” he said. He eyed Ithilden, his face still impassive.  “If you think that the Dwarves can be reasoned with, then I will send a messenger.”  Ithilden felt relief and then his father went on, “The messenger I will send is you.”

Ithilden blinked.  “You wish me to go?”  He was cautious.  His father was trusting him, but he was also making Ithilden responsible for something he thought would probably go wrong.

“Yes.  This matter is important to the Realm and the Naugrim are likely to take you seriously when you speak for me.”  Thranduil sounded calm now.  “But I warn you, Ithilden, that I do not intend to let these Dwarves trifle with us.”

“I do not expect you to,” Ithilden responded, glad of his father’s decision but aware that matters between Thranduil and himself were now less easy than they usually were. He drew himself up. “I would be happy to go, my lord, and I thank you for the opportunity.  I will leave as soon as I have heard reports on all the weapons we distributed from the second shipment.  That should not take more than three days, I think.”

Thranduil looked at him for a moment and then he gave a half smile and rose.  “Let us go to the sitting room and have some wine before evening meal,” he said rather stiffly.  Ithilden interpreted the invitation as an attempt to smooth matters between them and was grateful.

“I would like that,” he said, and the two of them went to the other room, where his father was pouring out wine when Legolas came into the room.  Ithilden was happy to see him, for Legolas had been released from his room only the day before, and Ithilden had missed his uncomplicated presence in the evenings.  Moreover, his father would certainly not talk about the defective swords or treacherous Dwarves in front of Legolas.  Thranduil went to great length to avoid disturbing his youngest son’s childhood innocence.

“Hello, little one,” Thranduil said fondly and drew Legolas into an embrace which Ithilden was amused to see that the child bore with patient dignity.  “Did you have a good day?”  He poured a few drops of wine and great deal of water into a cup and offered it to Legolas, who took it with obvious pleasure at being treated like one of the adults.

“Yes,” he said judiciously.  “We went looking for the deer again but we did not find him.” He eyed his father carefully and Ithilden wondered what was on his mind now.  “Adar,” Legolas asked, “would you take me and Turgon hunting for the buck at night?”

“No, I would not,” Thranduil’s response was immediate and sharp.  “I have told you that the woods are dangerous at night, Legolas.”  Ithilden thought briefly of the young Home Guard warrior who had been bitten by a giant spider within three leagues of Thranduil’s stronghold and had to agree with his father that the idea of Legolas being in the woods at night was a bad one. “Moreover,” Thranduil went on, “I cannot say that I am eager to have Turgon as my responsibility. Hunting is something his own adar should do with him.”

“But he does not,” Legolas pleaded, and Ithilden grimaced inwardly at his little brother’s mistake in tactics.  Thranduil was already on edge tonight, although Legolas could not know that, and he was unlikely to respond well to being gainsaid.  “And we would be safe with you, Adar.”

“No!” Thranduil exclaimed. “I have said I will not take you at night and that is the end of it.”  Legolas subsided unhappily, frowning to himself.  Thranduil sighed.  “You and I will go one afternoon again soon,” he promised, “as soon as some other things have been taken care of.”

Legolas nodded, but his mood did not appear to lift.  Ithilden remembered how happy Legolas had been at the idea of hunting with Thranduil only a few weeks ago and wondered at the apparent change.  Ah, well, he thought, Legolas’s moods are short. He will be eager again before long. And he took a drink of the excellent wine.

***

With two of his warriors as escort, Ithilden left for Erebor shortly after midday three days later.  By then he knew that five of the twenty swords in the second shipment had proved defective, and he carried the two swords that were still intact and pieces of the three others in a pack slung over his horse’s back.  They rode as far as they could that day and all of the next, approaching the town of Dale by starlight.  They chose to camp in the open rather than sleep in the town of Men. In the morning, they skirted the town, although Ithilden was sure the Men were watching them, and then rode along the Running River between arms of the mountain that rose on either side of them.  They were within half a mile of the Front Gate of the Dwarven kingdom when sentries emerged from the underbrush on either side of the road.

“Halt,” called one of them in Dwarvish, his axe at the ready. “Who are you and what is your business here?”

Trust a Dwarf not to use the common tongue, Ithilden thought wryly, and then drew on his own reasonably fluent Dwarvish to answer.  “I am an emissary from King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and I have business with Master Glesur regarding trade between our two peoples.” 

The dwarf eyed him hostilely.  “We were not told to expect you.”

Ithilden smiled at him blandly. “But you see me nonetheless.”

The Dwarf scowled and then hesitated. “You may follow me,” he finally said reluctantly.  “Your horse and your escort will wait here.”

Ithilden dismounted, took the two defective swords and the pack carrying the broken ones, and told his warriors to wait. They were obviously unhappy at the idea.  “Keep your sword to hand, my lord,” muttered one, as he slid from his horse, and Ithilden nodded. He believed that the Dwarves were trustworthy, but he had spent too many years as a warrior to relax fully in this unfamiliar place. The Dwarves did not need to know that however, for his experience had also taught him that a certain amount of arrogance could be useful in encouraging others to heed him.  His guards sent all the horses to graze and swung themselves into nearby trees, leaving the Dwarven sentries looking both astonished and disapproving.

“Come,” said the one who was apparently in charge, and he led Ithilden along the edge of the river toward the gate from which it flowed. With the river still running beside them, the Dwarf escorted him through a carved archway and along a paved road into the caverns. They passed occasional Dwarves along the way and Ithilden was amused to see his presence evoking repeated stares and startled looks.  His escort turned aside and Ithilden followed him into a small room with doors that evidently gave onto a greater one.  “Wait,” the Dwarf commanded and then went forward to speak quietly to one of the sentries on duty at the doors and then disappear within.  He returned shortly, looking sour.  “You may go in,” he said and stepped aside.

Ithilden walked into the room with all of the considerable confidence he was capable of radiating.  A Dwarf wearing a heavy gold necklace sat in a carved chair at the other end of the room with attendants on either side of him. Ithilden approached and bowed.  “Master Glesur,” he acknowledged the Dwarven leader, “I am Ithilden Thranduilion, and I come as an emissary from the King of the Woodland Realm.”

Glesur’s eyebrows had risen slightly when Ithilden identified himself.  With characteristic Dwarven bluntness, he came immediately to the point.  “And what troubles Thranduil enough that he sends his son to parley for him?”

Ithilden blinked.  Thranduil would not be pleased if he knew it, but the Dwarven leader’s manner struck Ithilden as being much like his father’s.  And if Glesur was like Thranduil, then Ithilden knew exactly how to approach him.  “These are what trouble my king, Master Dwarf,” he said and laid the two intact defective swords on the floor before the leader’s chair.  Then he emptied the pack on top of them. One of the pieces of sword shattered further when it hit the stone floor.  Glesur and his attendants stared at the useless weapons.

“What are these?” Glesur asked.

“They are five of the swords that your weapons makers sent us,” Ithilden responded.

“That is not possible,” Glesur declared flatly.

One of the attendants stepped forward, picked up a sword, and struck it against the floor, shattering it.  “These are not of our making,” he sniffed and dropped the hilt.

“Nonetheless,” Ithilden persisted, “they were in the second shipment you sent us and, as you see, they are marked with your runes.”

Glesur narrowed his eyes, and he and Ithilden looked steadily at one another for a moment. Then he spoke to the attendant. “Fetch Noisil.”  The attendant left the room and Glesur turned to Ithilden. “Noisil is our chief armorer.  He will, no doubt, know if these objects were made in his forge.”  They waited in silence until a commotion at the door announced the arrival of the armorer.

Ithilden assumed that the large, irritable looking Dwarf who now bowed to Glesur was Noisil.  “What is this I hear about ill-made swords carrying our runes?” he demanded, but he did not wait for an answer before he crouched to examine the rubbish on the floor.  He glared up at Ithilden.

“Where did you get these?” he demanded.

Ithilden repeated his tale.  “They were in the second shipment we received from you.”

“They are forgeries,” Noisil snapped, rising to his feet and stepping toward Ithilden menacingly. “They do not come from our forge.  Anyone who says they do is lying.”

Ithilden stood his ground and looked down his nose at the fuming armorer. “Then we need to identify the liar,” he said, biting off each word.

For a perilous moment, he and Noisil glared at one another.  “Peace,” Glesur intervened.  “The Elf is correct.  We need to identify the liar.”  They all looked at one another.

“What about Rudd and Cadoc?” one of the attendants ventured. There was silence as they all evaluated this possibility.

“Summon them,” Glesur ordered sharply.

Noisil shook his head. “The third shipment has already gone down to the Long Lake. They will have gone with it.”

Glesur turned to Ithilden.  “I suggest that you question these Men when they arrive at Thranduil’s hall.  This is not of our doing.”

Ithilden considered.  Instinct told him that the Dwarves were telling the truth, but he was not sure that he could read Dwarves well and thus he was not sure he could trust his instinct. In addition, his father’s instructions had been explicit.  “We will question the Men,” he responded slowly, “but there is the matter of the weapons we have paid for but not received.”

“I repeat,” said Glesur, sounding heated, “this is not of our doing. We sent sound weapons. We have earned our payment.”

Studying the Dwarf, Ithilden came to the reluctant conclusion that he would get nowhere in demanding that some of his father’s money be returned.  Thranduil was not going to like it, but there seemed to be no help for it. “We will investigate further,” he said coolly, “and inform you of our findings.  With your permission, I will take my leave.”

Glesur made no pretense of inviting him to enjoy Dwarven hospitality.  “Send word to us when you have found the liar,” he said austerely.  “We, too, have business with him.” Ithilden bowed and left to begin the long journey home.

*******

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.  I love hearing from you via email, www.storiesofarda.com, ff.net, or carrier pigeon.

Antje:  I am glad you enjoy the stories.  If you are “delighted,” then believe me, so am I.

Camp6311:  Legolas cannot seem to stay out of the doghouse for long.  But really, he probably does. It’s just that it’s more fun to write about the times he doesn’t.  I liked your idea of having Annael visit Legolas too and am thinking about whether I can squeeze it into this story. There aren’t many more chapters, I’m afraid.

Karen:  I love your sympathy for Legolas. “Poor little guy” indeed.  He seems to be doing all right with his father and brothers, but the loss of his mother has to affect him anyway.  And that is an excellent point about the kids not being able to drag the deer home even if they do shoot it.  It would be a wonderful moment to write when they realized it. PS. Are you going to post?  ;-)

Luin: Legolas is a loyal friend, which gets him into trouble with Turgon, but also makes him an ideal member of the Fellowship, I think.  And I think that Ithilden is a typical oldest child in his desire to please his father. I hope you had a good time on the Southern Patrol. ;-)

Kay:  Legolas’s biggest problem is neither men nor spiders but his own tendency to get suckered into doing what he knows he shouldn’t!  Poor Thranduil.  As a parent, I sympathize.

Lamiel:  I think Legolas is on the verge of adolescence and Thranduil will rue the day. But at the moment, he still slides back into little boyhood when he’s under stress and wants someone to comfort him.  Thank you for the kind words.  I appreciate your taking the time to notice the little stuff.

Caz-baz: Yes, there’s nothing like an irate parent to make the kids band together!

Tapetum Lucidum:  The dinner table scene turned out to be one a lot of people liked. I was uncertain about it because it really didn’t advance the plot, but it was fun to write.  Legolas is really lucky to be included in Annael’s family some times, I think.

White Wolf:  I sympathize with Legolas and his friends for wanting the deer, but I’m not sure I can let them get it!  I can’t imagine writing about it.

Coolio02:  Turgon must give Thranduil nightmares.  And yet, I like him. He makes me sad.

Bluebonnet: I like Annael’s parents.  I liked his mother being such a mommy when Legolas’s mother had recently died and I liked his father deliberately making them sick when they drank too much as “teenagers.”  They are good parents.

Jambaby1963:  I’m glad you like the stories and I very much appreciate your taking the time to tell me.

Erunyauve:  Legolas did not like being in trouble but I’m afraid his memory is short. ;-)

Karri:  Poor Turgon!  He’s like something out of one of those stories in which kids go feral and band together with other kids only.

Alice:  It is true that the three elflings are not exactly going to win any merit badges for citizenship.  Can you imagine chasing around after clever, energetic little elves for years and years on end? No wonder elves had small families.

TigerLily:  The stranger in the woods will soon get what is coming to him.

Frodo3791:  I suspect that the worst part of this for Legolas was having to spend the night knowing that he was going to have to confess to Thranduil in the morning.  Ick.

Legolas4me:  It is funny that kids want to be grown ups, although I have to admit that I find being an adult much better than being a kid.  I have at least some control over my life now whereas kids have none! Of course, Legolas’s only responsibility is to take care of his horse and do his lessons, so I guess it evens out.

Feanen:  The man is up to no good.  He will soon be sorry he ever lived.

JastaElf:  They should have told their parents about the man, but seeing the deer and then getting caught drove the idea of him right out of their heads. Nilmandra pointed out to me that if they were a little older, they’d have been savvy enough to use the tale of the man to distract attention from their misbehavior. But they’re too little.

Jay of Lasgalen:  Annael’s father would indeed have had some explaining to do if he had lost Legolas!  And you are right, the kids feel invulnerable.

Naneth:  Oh yes, Legolas is feeling that Thranduil is making too big a deal over danger in the forest.  After all, what does Thranduil know?  ;-)

Sekhet:  Legolas should be able to resist Turgon, but his own soft heart works against him. It must drive Thranduil crazy.

Rorrah:  What a formula!  And it’s so accurate.

Dot:  Legolas seems to thwart his family’s best efforts to keep him safe.  And the undertunic thing grew out of a joke my husband constantly tells about how the laundry basket is “magic” because it transforms dirty clothes into clean ones. At least, I think it’s a joke. And I’m glad I surprised you when Annael’s father caught the three kids.  He must have scared the daylights out of them, but turnabout is fair play.

Mirkwoodmaiden:  I’m glad you like these characters.  I can’t seem to shake them. ;-)

BrendaG:  OK. This made me drool: “He is like a fiery, well-bred stallion, restrained for the moment by bridle and rein, crown and throne, but beneath that smoldering surface, trembling for release.”  Ahem. I think I need a shower.

Nilmandra:  I’m afraid you’re right. Legolas did not like being in trouble, but he still thinks that Thranduil is exaggerating the danger.  What’s a few thousand years of experience and wisdom compared to the logic of a kid?

StrangeBlaze:  See you were right! Turgon did not get in trouble. Sometimes there is no justice.

JustMe:  I will send Little Legolas to your house for milk and cookies but he has some trouble to get into first.

LKK:  I don’t want the deer to die either!  But the kids are so hot for it.  And Turgon really can convince Legolas to do things against his better judgment.  Smarten up, Legolas!

LOTRFaith:  Turgon does need a firm hand and he’s not going to get one, poor thing. He’s actually not a bad kid, just completely undisciplined.  I wait for your next chapter.  ;-)

Disclaimer:  I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him.  I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

*******

7.  Battles

Eilian crouched motionless on the branch, watching the Orcs pass beneath him.  His pulse quickened as the stream of Orcs continued to flow. This was by far the largest Orc band he had seen since the Southern Patrol had retreated north of the Forest Road.  Moreover, this band was exceptionally well armed, and at least half of them were archers. Taking on this group would not be easy, he thought grimly, and yet they certainly could not allow them to pass because several Elven settlements lay in the direction the Orcs were traveling.  Next to him on the branch, he heard Maltanaur let out a soft sigh.  He, too, evidently anticipated a nasty fight and, like Eilian, he had less heart for it than usual, for they were both weary. The two of them were due to go home on leave the next day and they were both craving the respite.

What did the presence of this large Orc band mean? Eilian wondered.  Were the Orcs on the move, trying to push the Elves back yet further toward Thranduil’s stronghold?  Had there been some change in their strategy?  Even as he speculated about the reasons for the Orcs’ massive presence, he saw something that made him come to full alert.  A group of archers had come into sight, one that was obviously some sort of guard for the two big Orcs in their center.  The presence of the guards alone would have told Eilian that these Orcs were some sort of officers or other leaders of importance, but the elaborately worked armor of the two made the conclusion inescapable.  Could the presence of these two be the reason the band was so large? Eilian thought.  Could they possibly be important enough to command such a large force or, perhaps, merit such sizable protection?

He glanced cautiously at Maltanaur, who was staring after the now departing Orc leaders.  With a tiny nod of his head, Maltanaur acknowledged his glance and indicated that he, too, saw the presence of the two big Orcs as significant.  Neither one of them moved, however, until the whole band had disappeared into the woods.  Then they both rose and began a rapid passage through the trees to where the Southern Patrol was camped.  Tonight’s scouting trip had been richly rewarded, indeed almost too richly.

At the edge of the campsite, they leapt to the ground and ran forward, causing a stir among the warriors lounging around the camp. Todith had risen to his feet at their arrival.  “You have found something?” he demanded.

“Indeed we have,” Eilian said, his voice tight, “a large band of Orcs, perhaps as many as a hundred.  They are well-armed, about half of them archers. And,” he added, “they have two Orcs with them who appear to be of some importance.”

Todith grimaced at Eilian’s description. It occurred to Eilian that Todith, too, looked more bleak than usual, and yet he had been home only a month ago.   The Shadow was becoming stronger here, Eilian thought unhappily, even though they had moved north.  “Where are they?” Todith asked. “Which way are they headed?”

“They are west of us, heading northeast.”

The three of them looked at one another. “We cannot let them near the settlements,” Todith said slowly, “but given how many there are, I do not think we are going to be able to wipe them out, either.  Our goal should probably be to turn them aside, back south again preferably.”

“And take out the two important ones,” Eilian urged.  “If they are leaders of some sort, removing them could cripple their forces for a time.”

Todith nodded. “Agreed.”  He looked thoughtful.  “Where are the two we want in relation to the rest of the band?”

“When we saw them, they were near the back, but not all the way at the end,” Maltanaur answered.

Todith thought about this, frowning. “I see nothing for it but to split our forces,” he said reluctantly.  “We need about half of us to be more or less in front of them to keep them from advancing and the rest of us ready to attack them at the point where the leaders are.”

Eilian grimaced.  Splitting one’s forces was always dangerous because battles were unpredictable and, when the unexpected occurred, it was harder to coordinate the actions of forces that had been divided.  It was the kind of situation in which he was normally good, however, because he had always been able to improvise quickly when the need arose.

“I will lead the group that goes at them head on,” Todith went on. “You take the one that attacks their midsection.”  Eilian nodded with satisfaction.  He liked the idea of confronting the group around the leaders. Todith smiled at him slightly. “You can have Tinár,” he added.

Eilian smiled back at his captain. “It would be a pleasure.  His speed should make him useful in getting rid of all those archer guards.”

“Get them ready,” Todith ordered, and Eilian walked away, calling orders to various parts of the camp.

“Tinár,” he barked, “you are going to have a chance to show that you are as good with that bow as you are constantly bragging you are.”

The young warrior looked annoyed but had by now learned not to object to Eilian’s needling, knowing that if he did, Eilian would stand intimidatingly close and snarl a reprimand at him.  “I will do my best,” he responded rather woodenly.

Eilian bared his teeth at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “That is the spirit!”  If Tinár could learn to confine himself to comments like that one, Eilian thought, he might actually become marginally tolerable to his fellow warriors.  Eilian would have to remember to clamp down hard on the boastful little fool as soon as the battle was over.

He took a minute to speak to Maltanaur and Gelmir.  “Our personal charge is to make sure the two leaders do not survive this fight.  Stay to my right and concentrate on whichever of the two is nearer you. I will keep Tinár with me, and we will be responsible for the other one.”

“I do not think so,” said Maltanaur easily.  “Gelmir can mind Tinár, and I will stay with you.”

Eilian snorted with exasperation made sharper by the grin on Gelmir’s face.  “I am this group’s lieutenant now,” he told Maltanaur. “What makes you think you can question my orders?”

Maltanaur smiled indulgently at him.  “You are a very fine lieutenant, but I am afraid I take my orders from my king, and questioning those orders is beyond even me.”

Eilian knew when he was defeated. He looked at Gelmir.  “Do not worry,” Gelmir told him happily. “I am looking forward to telling Tinár that he is much too slow and inaccurate.” Eilian laughed and dashed off to gather his own weapons and then check to be sure that everyone else was ready.

The experienced warriors of the Southern Patrol needed little preparation and within a short time, they were underway, moving swiftly through the trees.  Eilian soon found himself waiting tensely in the branches of an oak tree, with Maltanaur at his side and about half of the Southern Patrol warriors nearby.  They were far enough from the group that Todith led that they had needed to place an Elf between them to pass signals between the two groups.

The plan for this battle was like that of scores of others that Eilian had fought in the last few years: get into position, wait for the Orcs to arrive, use the first few rounds of arrows to kill as many of the Orc archers as possible, and then use bows and, when necessary, swords to take on the remainder.  The only variation was that in this case, they would be trying to stay north of the enemy so that those who would inevitably escape would flee south, away from the areas the Elves were trying to protect.  They had waited perhaps fifteen minutes when the wind brought the sound of heavy, clumsy feet followed by the stench of Orcs. Eilian sounded a call that was he knew would be quickly passed along to Todith and then he waited, his fingers twitching slightly on his bowstring when the enemy began to filter through the trees and sweep past them.

Eilian and Maltanaur had tried to estimate how far behind the first Orc warriors the leaders were so that they could be in position to attack them when Todith engaged the vanguard, but they could not know if the Orc forces were still spread out in the same way.  Thus Eilian was not completely surprised that the leaders had not yet come into sight when Todith’s signal was passed along the line of Elves, but he did feel a sharp twinge of disappointment. If they did not manage to kill the two leaders, then they would have accomplished little of any lasting value tonight.  He closed his mind to the thought that none of their efforts lately seemed to have much lasting effect anyway.  It is the Shadow weighing on me, he reminded himself resolutely, and tomorrow I will go home.

At Todith’s signal, the warriors around Eilian rose in a single fluid movement, loosed their arrows, and then swiftly shot again.  Speed mattered here because, when they were so outnumbered, they needed to eliminate as many of the Orcs as possible before they were forced to engage them with swords.  Eilian drew and released and drew and released in a rapid, steady rhythm that left little time for anything other than dodging the arrows the Orcs were now sending into the trees.  From the corner of his eye, he could see Tinár in the next tree doing the same, and Eilian had to admit that he was quick and deadly with a bow.

Orcs were still swarming up to join the battle scene beneath him, but the leaders were not yet in sight. The band must have become more spread out than it was when he and Maltanaur had seen it earlier, Eilian realized. He took a moment to glance around and check on the positioning of his warriors, for the direction of this group was his responsibility once the battle had started. All the plans that he and Todith had laid ahead of time were open to change once the enemy had been engaged.

With alarm, he realized that the Orcs had fanned out and that some were now approaching from behind the line of Elves.  He began frantically signaling for a group of his warriors to block these Orcs’ approach, and Elves moved swiftly to do his bidding, but not without cost.  A green and brown clad warrior fell from the trees with a black-feathered arrow in his side. Eilian did not need to issue an order before two of the Elf’s companions had dropped to the ground to wrestle the wounded warrior back into the trees as those above them shot a rain of arrows to keep the Orcs away.

“Eilian!” called Maltanaur, and he turned to see the two Orc leaders running into sight, with their escort now sending heavy volleys of arrows into the trees around them.  Eilian dodged but not quickly enough to avoid the arrow that barely creased his left shoulder.  He swore at its bite but knew immediately that it was not a serious enough wound to put him out of the battle or even to stop him from using a bow. His supply of arrows was running low though, and he was soon going to have to take to the ground and continue the fight with his sword.  He took careful aim and put an arrow through the neck of one of the leaders’ guards.

To his right, he could see Tinár leaping to the ground, his sword flashing, and Orcs closing in on him. Of course, Tinár would be out of arrows before anyone else was, Eilian thought in exasperation.  He wasted far too many of them.  Gelmir loosed two rapid shots and then followed Tinár.  Eilian used his last three arrows to kill Orcs who were attacking Tinár and Gelmir, looked around to be sure that his warriors were where they should be, and then he, too, was on the ground, swinging his sword and hacking his way toward the Orc leader who was his designated target.

For what seemed like an eternity, he stabbed and slashed at Orcs, with Maltanaur at his back. The stink of the enemy was in his nostrils, and their blood discolored his blade and stained his clothes. The clash of weapons was all around him.  Sweat stung his eyes and his sword arm began to ache from the force of blows given and blocked.  And then, surprisingly, he was face to face with the Orc leader.

The two of them circled warily, with their swords raised before them.  And then Eilian grinned.  The Orc blinked in surprise and Eilian stabbed at the fingers of the Orc’s sword hand, causing his opponent to jerk the hand aside. With a speed that came from hatred, Eilian leapt forward into the opening, brought his sword down onto the side of Orc’s neck and then drew the edge toward him, slicing deep into the vein.  Black blood spurted. The Orc clapped his left hand to his neck and then slowly crumpled to the ground.  Glee bubbled up in Eilian’s throat, but he had no time to indulge it, and he spun toward where Gelmir and Tinár were closing with the other leader.  He was in time to see Gelmir drive away two guards as Tinár shoved his blade up under the leader’s chest armor.  As the leader fell, Orcs who had been running to his aid froze.  A ripple of dismay flowed through the Orc forces, and suddenly they were on the run with Elves in pursuit.

Eilian joined in the chase, but when it became obvious that many of the Orcs were going to escape, he signaled for his warriors to pull back and begin sweeping the woods looking for stragglers.  He himself returned to the battle site to meet with Todith and assess what the battle had cost them.  He found the captain busy ordering the emergency treatment and removal of wounded Elves.

“How did we fare?” Eilian asked, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.

“We succeeded in driving them off,” Todith answered grimly, “but I estimate that at least half of us have some sort of wound.  Three of the wounds that I have seen are probably serious enough to require that the warriors be sent home.  And,” he drew a deep breath, “I fear that Córion is dead.”

Eilian winced.  Córion was young, having come to the patrol when Tinár did.

Todith glanced at him. “Have someone see to your shoulder,” he ordered and then moved off.  As if Todith’s words had brought his wound to life again, Eilian’s left shoulder began to ache.

“Eilian!” called Maltanaur’s voice, and he turned wearily to see Gelmir and Maltanaur bending over the Orc leader whom Eilian had slain.  He walked toward them.  Gelmir had a cut on his thigh, Eilian noted. They could tend to one another. It would not be the first time.  “Look at this,” Maltanaur said.  He had rolled the body over and the Orc now lay outstretched with his sword on the ground near his hand.  It took Eilian a moment to realize that it was the sword that Maltanaur wanted him to look at.  He blinked and then looked up quickly.

“Tinár!” he called sharply, and after a moment, the young warrior appeared at his side.

“That big Orc turned out to be less fearsome than he looked,” Tinár babbled. “I was able to dispose of him in sort order.”

“Shut up,” Eilian said automatically. “Give me your sword.”

“My sword?” Tinár asked uncertainly.  He glanced at Gelmir, who grinned wolfishly at him.  He evidently knew quite well that Gelmir lusted after the weapon.

“Yes,” said Eilian. “Hand it over.”  Tinár pulled the sword from its sheath and handed it to Eilian, who crouched and placed it on the ground next to the Orc’s sword. They all stared. The two weapons were identical.  Eilian handed Tinár’s sword back to him and picked up the other one, running his finger thoughtfully along the Dwarven runes on the blade.  His Dwarvish was rusty, but he could certainly read this declaration that the weapon was the work of the Dwarves of Erebor.

“How do you suppose an Orc came to be in possession of a Dwarvish weapon?” Maltanaur asked slowly.

“A very good question,” Eilian responded soberly.

“I do not suppose you are going to let me have it,” Gelmir mourned.

Eilian sighed. “No, Gelmir. I think the sword needs to go home with me tomorrow.  I suspect that Ithilden and the king will also ask how it came into Orcish hands.”  He rose with the weapon in his hands.  If the Dwarves were selling weapons to the Orcs, he thought, his father was going to descend on them with all the fury of a vengeful dragon who has been roused by thieves.  The very thought of war with the Dwarves made him want to weep.  My despair is caused by the Shadow, he told himself, but this time, he was not sure he believed it.

***

Feeling weary to the bone, Eilian crossed the bridge and entered the palace.  An hour ago, he and Maltanaur and two other warriors had arrived home with their three seriously wounded companions and the body of Córion.  Eilian had sent Maltanaur and one of the others to take the wounded to the infirmary, while he and the remaining warrior had gone to the cottage of Córion’s family to break the news of his death and return his body to his devastated parents.  It was the first time Eilian had ever had the task of telling a warrior’s family that he had died.  He felt as if he had been flayed raw by the grief he had brought to the little cottage.

Then he had stopped in Ithilden’s office to leave the dispatches that Todith had sent with him only to find that his brother was away in, of all places, Erebor, although the aide had discreetly refused to tell Eilian why.  Eilian had immediately wondered if Ithilden’s journey could be connected to whatever had put a Dwarven sword into an Orc’s hand, but that was only part of why he had been dismayed to find Ithilden gone. His absence meant that Eilian now had to tell Thranduil about the sword without his brother there to act as a calming presence. Eilian had not realized how much he was counting on Ithilden until the aide said he was gone.

“Is the king within?” he asked the guard at the doors of his father’s Great Hall.

“No, my lord. He is meeting with his advisors in the Council Chamber.”

Eilian hesitated but decided not to disturb the meeting.  The matter of the Orc’s sword was far better discussed in private.  “Pray tell him I would like an audience with him when he is free,” he told the guard and went on to own room, where he dropped his belongings onto the floor near the door.  He looked longingly toward his bathing chamber but decided that a wallow in hot water would have to wait until after he met with Thranduil.  His father would expect him to be available when he was summoned.

“Eilian!” Legolas burst through the open door behind him, and he turned with a grin to embrace his little brother, who, given the bow clutched in his hand, had probably just come from the weapons training field.

“You are growing again!” he laughed, ruffling the blond hair that now came up well past his elbow.

“I started in the middle archery class today,” Legolas crowed, “and Penntalion said I did well.  I can always hit the target when I am standing still, even when it is at the other end of the field.  I was as good as anyone in the class at doing that, but we are going to learn to shoot while moving, and I cannot do that yet.”

Eilian smiled at the flood of enthusiastic words. “You are going to be a very good archer, I think.”

A servant appeared at the door. “My lord, the king will be in his office momentarily and asks that you join him.”

Eilian nodded. He picked up the sheathed Orc’s sword, and he and Legolas moved out into the hall to find Thranduil coming through the doorway to the family’s quarters.  He smiled broadly at them and came forward to embrace Eilian and then exchange a warrior’s armclasp with him.  “Welcome home, iôn-nín. We have missed you.”

“And I you, Adar,” Eilian murmured, suddenly feeling more light hearted than he had in weeks.

Thranduil shifted his glance to Legolas, who was bouncing on his toes, plainly bursting to speak. “How did the archery class go?” Thranduil obligingly asked.

“Adar, I did very well!  And we will learn how to shoot while moving and from horseback too!”

Thranduil smiled at him.  “May I come and watch you one day?” he asked.

“Yes! Come!  Eilian, you come too while you are home.”

“Put your bow away now, Legolas,” Thranduil broke in. “I need to talk to Eilian.”

“Yes, Adar,” Legolas obediently responded and trotted happily off down the hall.

Eilian followed Thranduil into his office. “How long has he been doing that?” he asked in amusement.

“The mid-level archery class?  He started today,” Thranduil told him, as he sat behind his desk and motioned Eilian into the chair in front.

“No, I mean how long has he been calling you ‘adar’ instead of ‘ada’?”

Thranduil smiled wryly and sighed. “Since he got the bigger bow about two months ago.  He is firmly convinced that he is no longer an elfling.”

Eilian grimace slightly. “I suppose he is not.  I am a bit sorry for that, I have to admit.”

“I also,” his father agreed. “But this is not what you wanted to see me about, I assume.”

“No, Adar.” Eilian paused and collected his thoughts.  “First, I have to tell you that Córion was killed in a battle with Orcs three nights ago.  We brought the body home.”

Thranduil was immediately sober.  “Tell me about how things stand with the Southern Patrol,” he commanded, and Eilian gave an account of what had been happening, although he knew he was probably repeating what was in the dispatches that Todith had sent to Ithilden.

“But, Adar, there is something else I must tell you,” he finished. He drew the sword from its sheath and laid it on Thranduil’s desk.  “One of the Orc chiefs was carrying this.”  He watched his father with anxious eyes.

Thranduil stared at the sword for a long minute.  Then he picked it up and flexed it lightly, making its sinewy length send forth a small musical sound. Color began to rise from his neck into his face.  “I should have known,” he spat.  “The Naugrim would betray their own children for gold.”  He looked up, his eyes blazing.  “Send for Deler,” he ordered. “I want the Home Guard and any border guards he can muster to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Eilian hastened to the door and sent one of the warriors on watch after the captain of the Home Guard.  He came back into the room, where Thranduil was now on his feet, pacing like a caged mountain lion.  “Adar, what is Ithilden doing in Erebor?” he asked.  “Does it have something to do with this?”

“I would be very much surprised if it does not,” Thranduil bit out each word.  “The Dwarves have been sending us defective weapons.  I now begin to see what they have done with those for which we have paid.”

“When will he be back?” Eilian asked.  The confidence he felt in planning and leading battles with Orcs and spiders had fled in the face of this larger problem, and he was feeling out of his depth.  He did not doubt Thranduil’s wisdom and skill, but he knew of his father’s deep distrust of Dwarves and fervently wished for his older brother. Ithilden was the only person he knew whom Thranduil trusted and listened to, who was also experienced enough to understand what might be happening.

“I do not know,” Thranduil answered grimly. “I only hope he has not come to harm at the hands of these treacherous minions of Sauron.”

Deler appeared in the doorway and saluted.  “You sent for me, my lord?”

Thranduil began issuing orders for readying a war party.  “You will not set out yet,” he finished, “but you will be ready. In the meantime, send a small party toward Erebor to see if Lord Ithilden and his companions are on their way home.”

Deler saluted again and hurried from the room.  Eilian felt as if the Shadow and despair under which he lived in the south had followed him home.

***

Legolas carefully poured water from the bucket to fill the cracked bowl they had suspended between two rocks.  “Go,” he said, and Annael flashed him a grin and then ran off into the small woods behind his home while Legolas sat down next to Turgon and watched the water drip from the bottom of the bowl.  They were playing a game they had made up, in which one of them hid and the other two tried to track him after all the water had run out of their improvised water clock.  Legolas knew they would have a long hunt this time because Annael was very good at this game and, indeed, at woodcraft in general.

“When do you think that Penntalion will have us start shooting from horseback?” Turgon asked.  The three of them had been talking about their new archery lessons off and on all afternoon.

“He did not say, but soon I hope,” Legolas answered.

There was a brief pause.  “Legolas,” Turgon asked, “what about the night hunting?”

Legolas groaned.  “Turgon, I cannot.  My adar would be so angry if he found out that I do not want to think about it.”

“But you promised,” Turgon insisted.  “You said we would go again. And you know that your adar is being too careful.  Did you see anything dangerous the last time we went?”

“No,” Legolas admitted.  “But Adar will not listen to me when I tell him that.”

Turgon’s face set in a stubborn expression that Legolas knew only too well. “If you do not come with me, I will go alone.  The hunt would go better if you came, but if you do not, I will do it by myself.”

Legolas blew out his breath in exasperation, and Turgon turned to him to make a last plea.  “The night was beautiful, was it not?” he coaxed.  “The stars were so thick. Surely you do not intend to stay locked away from them forever?”

Legolas stared at him, feeling his resolve weaken.  “I will not trick Annael’s parents again,” he declared, clinging to this decision with unshaken determination.

“You do not have to,” Turgon answered. “Annael does not want to come anyway.  I will think of a way to get you out of the palace.”  He glanced at the bowl, from which the last water was now running, and jumped to his feet.  “Come on. Time is up.”  Legolas stood and followed his friend into the woods, foreboding and exhilaration warring in his heart. Turgon was right. Night in the woods had been unbelievably beautiful.

*******

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.  Writing would be lonely without you!

Bryn:  I think you are probably right at Ithilden being a little dense on the subject of love.  He will need to discover his feelings for Alfirin and learn to believe in hers for him.  And Thranduil was indeed “wicked” to send his oldest son as the messenger. What’s more, Ithilden knew it!

Camp6311: Well, the material I had planned for this chapter has spilled over into another one so maybe you are right and the story will last for more chapters than I had originally thought.  The threads are coming together though!

Orangeblossom Took: Legolas will be lucky if getting sent to his room is the worst that happens to him!

Angaloth:  I loved your review.  Your appreciation for all those stories really made my day.  Legolas is a little bratty, I have to admit.  He’s not exactly spoiled, but he certainly is his family’s baby and knows in his bones that he will be forgiven no matter what he does.

White Wolf:  Well, Legolas’s resistance to Turgon seems to be weakening.  What is he thinking?!!

Legolas4me: I am so glad you were offended on Thranduil’s part.  The nerve of those dwarves!  And you’re right that Thranduil wishes Legolas were not in such a hurry to grow up.  He was a very cute elfling who is now getting ready to bring his father’s wrath down on his head.

Dragon-of-the-North: I picture Thranduil as indeed believing that his kids should obey him without question. I think parents’ willingness to explain their orders is a relatively recent phenomenon.  “Because I said so” was an acceptable declaration even when I was a kid.  Sorry about the Orc carnage here.

Erunyauve:  I think there will be at least one more glimpse of Alfirin but not much more than that here.  There isn’t really room for romance in this story, I’m sorry to say.

Alice:  Ithilden has a tough job, trying to use his own judgment while working closely with his father whose centuries of wisdom are also worth listening to.  And I’m afraid Legolas is not so resistant to Turgon as he should be.

Dot:  My thoughts about Penntalion are that he is the bravest elf in my story. Can you imagine getting onto a training field with a lot of excitable elflings holding bows and arrows?  The scene between Ithilden and the Dwarves was fun to write.  I could put in all the snarky dialogue I wanted to.

Tapetum lucidum:  Annael does have good parents and Turgon’s are apparently on another planet.  Elflings running into spiders in the woods?  What an idea!  Your 5 year old sounds wonderfully persuasive!

Tiger Lily:  Yes, all will be cleared up soon, but it’s fun to watch Thranduil get all excited in the meantime.

JustMe:  You made me laugh with the lecture to Legolas that you knew would go in one ear and out the other.  And I doubt very much if Ithilden will be telling his father how much the Dwarf leader resembled him. Although that would be amusing!

Lamiel:  I’m guessing that Thranduil’s wife was Silvan, although, as you know, Tolkien doesn’t tell us much.  A face off between Turgon and Thranduil would be very amusing.

Frodo3791:  I would not want to be led into a room containing Thranduil and Ithilden if I were the one taking the swords.  Those two together would scare me silly.

Marnie:  Thank you. I was a little hesitant about sending Ithilden into Erebor because I wasn’t sure what it would be like, but it was fun to write all the offensive dialogue.

Brenda G:  Poor Ithilden is right. He is caught between his father and the dwarves, neither one of whom is well known for reasonability.  And you wanted more Eilian, so that’s pretty much all this chapter is.  I also think he’s the most openly passionate of Thranduil’s sons.

Feanen:  I’m glad you liked the chapter.  Hope this one appeals to you too.

Fadesintothewest:  I feel really sorry for Turgon. Nilmandra says that if I had written this story before the one in which he dies, everyone would be most upset with me!

StrangeBlaze:  Turgon was always a tragedy waiting to happen, I’m sorry to say.

The Karenator:  I picture Turgon’s parents as self-absorbed.  They love him but they barely notice him. If they caught him coming in late, they’d probably say “That’s unsafe!” and go back to what they were doing.  And what a great comparison between Thranduil’s use of Ithilden as a messenger and his later use of Legolas when Gollum escapes.

Nilmandra:  I think of Turgon as being kind of like the kids in “Lord of the Flies.”  He seems to have very little adult influence on his, so his loyalty is to his friends and the world of kids and, of course, he lacks judgment.  Thank you for all your help with this.

JastaElf:  Legolas does have a wonderful family that cares for him enough to discipline him when he needs it.  I feel sorry for Turgon too.

Disclaimer: I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him. I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.
 
*******

8.  In the Dark

Legolas stirred the stew in his bowl, letting the conversation between Eilian and his father flow over his head unheard.  At weapons training this morning, Turgon had made another plea for Legolas to go hunting with him. He planned to go that night and had declared that he would do it whether Legolas came or not, but every time the weapons master had turned his back, he had coaxed relentlessly for Legolas’s company.  He had even proposed a way for Legolas to slip out of the palace, and Legolas had to admit that Turgon’s plan might work.  Turgon would want to know what Legolas had decided when he and Annael came to play at the palace after lessons this afternoon.

Legolas was not sure what he was going to do.  He, too, wanted to hunt the big deer and he had loved being in the woods at night, but his stomach tightened with fear of his father’s wrath every time he was tempted to give in to his friend’s urging.  The tension was making him irritable and robbing him of his appetite.

“Eat your meal, Legolas,” Thranduil’s voice drew him out of his reverie. He looked up to see his father’s shrewd blue eyes upon him, and he immediately began spooning stew into his mouth and swallowing it despite the tightness in his belly.  He did not want to have to explain what was on his mind.  To his relief, Thranduil watched him for only a moment longer and then turned toward Eilian again.  “It is up to you, of course, but I think that the roan is a better choice.”  Eilian was getting a new horse to take back south with him because the one he had been riding was unhappy there.

Legolas studied his father and brother.  Something was the matter.  He knew it because they had both been preoccupied and more silent than usual at evening meal last night, and his father had been on edge.  Moreover, they had stopped talking when Legolas had come into the dining room a little while ago.  Sometimes they did that when they were quarreling, which they did rather often, much to Legolas’s dismay, but he did not think they had been quarreling today, for their voices had been tense but not angry.  No, something was the matter and they were not telling him, which meant that it probably had to do with warrior things like battles and Orcs. He frowned into his stew.  Annael might be able to tell him what was going on because his father often explained things to him, but Thranduil evidently still thought that Legolas was a baby and told him nothing.

The door opened suddenly and Ithilden strode into the room. “Ithilden!” exclaimed their father in a voice filled with relief, and Eilian, too, relaxed in his chair and smiled.  Legolas looked at them alertly.  They had been worried about Ithilden, then.  Legolas knew that his oldest brother had gone to visit the Dwarves, but he had not thought that the visit was dangerous. He felt a flash of resentment that this important fact too had been kept from him.

“Adar,” Ithilden bowed respectfully and then ruffled Legolas’s hair on his way to embrace and then clasp arms with Eilian, who had risen from his chair.  “When did you get home?” he asked, as servants scurried about, setting a place for him and putting food in front of him.

“Yesterday,” Eilian answered and then added, “We brought -,” he hesitated, his eyes flicking in Legolas’s direction. “I brought dispatches for you,” he finished, although Legolas was sure that was not what he had meant to say.

Ithilden nodded but said nothing. The servants withdrew.  “I have much to tell you, Adar,” Ithilden said, “and I know you would probably prefer to wait until we are finished eating to discuss matters in any detail, but you will be relieved to know that I do not think the Dwarves are the source of the brittle swords.”

“I am not so sure. Events have occurred that you do not yet know about,” Thranduil answered shortly.

“So I gathered when you sent warriors to meet me,” Ithilden answered.  “What has happened?”

“We will speak about this later,” Thranduil declared, glancing at Legolas.  Ithilden opened his mouth and shut it again.

Hurt by being excluded and stung by what felt like an insult, Legolas could not keep himself from speaking heatedly.  “You all act as if I am still an elfling, but I am not,” he cried. “You do not have to stop talking because I am here.”

“Watch your tone of voice, Legolas,” said his father sharply.  Legolas bit his lip unhappily, and Thranduil’s face softened a little.  He drew a deep breath and spoke more gently.  “I know you are growing older, iôn-nín, but this is not for you just yet.”  He smiled at Legolas.  “You should tell Ithilden about the new archery class.”

Legolas knew that he was being placated, but he could not help responding.  The new archery class was so exciting that that he could not pass up the opportunity to tell his brother about it, forgetting, in the sheer joy of the promise of new skills, all worries about Turgon’s coaxing and the secrets his family might be keeping from him.

***

Ithilden stared at the sword that lay on Thranduil’s desk and listened to Eilian’s account of where he had gotten it.  When Eilian had finished, he regarded Ithilden anxiously, and Ithilden was aware, as he had been since they entered the office, that Eilian was worried. Ithilden looked up at his father.  “I can see that this is a Dwarven sword, Adar, but I do not think it was the Dwarves who gave it to the Orcs.”  Beside him, he heard Eilian let out his breath, as if in relief.

Thranduil snorted. “The Dwarves would not give a sword to anyone, but they would certainly sell it, and if they can collect payment both from us and from whoever is supplying the enemy, then so much the better.”

Ithilden shook his head. “The Dwarves denied any involvement, and I believe them,” he insisted, ignoring his father’s skeptical look.  “You did not hear them, Adar. They were outraged that anyone would pass off the inferior swords as of their making.”

Thranduil made an impatient gesture.  “Of course they would not admit to anything!”

Exasperated by his father’s stubbornness, Ithilden glanced at Eilian and found his brother looking at him with something akin to hope in his grey eyes.  “What do you think happened then?” Eilian asked, and Ithilden was grateful for the trust in his judgment that Eilian seemed to be showing.

“I think we need to question the Men who are acting on the Dwarves’ behalf,” Ithilden argued, “Rudd and Cadoc or perhaps the bargemen who deliver the shipment. Any of them could have had an opportunity to take some of the Dwarven weapons and substitute something cheaply made.  Then they could sell the Dwarven swords to whoever paid them the most.”

“That is possible, of course,” Thranduil acknowledged brusquely, leaning back in his chair, “but I do not see that anything you have told me clears the Dwarves.  For all we know, if the Men are giving us shoddy goods and selling the weapons elsewhere, they are doing it at the Dwarves’ behest.”

“I do not think so,” Ithilden could feel himself becoming heated and knew that he needed to keep a firm grip on his temper if he was to have any chance at all of making his father listen to him. He paused briefly to get himself under control and then went on.  “I do not know yet if the Men are involved, although I suspect they are, but I am almost certain that the Dwarves were not lying to me. I think I would have been able to tell.”  He met and held his father’s sharp gaze.  For a moment, Thranduil’s face was enigmatic, and, then, to his relief, his father seemed to reluctantly grant him his point.

“We will question the Men, of course,” Thranduil said with a sigh, “but we will keep the Dwarves in mind when we do.  I want this decided soon, however.  When will the Men be here again?”

“Judging from when they left Dale, I would think it would be any day now,” Ithilden answered, trying not to show how relieved he was.  “By your leave, Adar, I can go and find out if the border guards have seen them yet.” He rose and waited for permission to leave.

“Wait,” Thranduil held up a hand, and from the grim look on his face, Ithilden knew immediately that he would not like what his father was going to say.  “You should know that I asked Deler to ready a war party to be ready to leave whenever I give the command.”  Dismay swept through Ithilden as he stood gripping the back of the chair from which he had just risen until his knuckles went white.  Thranduil had the right to do whatever he liked with the Realm’s troops, of course, but Ithilden was appalled by his father’s readiness to take action when they were not yet certain of what had happened. But then, he reminded himself, his father believed he did know.

Ithilden was groping for words that would not offend his father and yet would say how reluctant he would be to send his warriors into battle without more certain knowledge, when, surprisingly, Eilian came to his rescue.  “The Valar grant that we will be able to settle this without unnecessary slaughter,” he said simply.

Ithilden looked at him gratefully and, after a second, Thranduil rubbed his hands over his face and suddenly looked weary instead of angry.  “Indeed,” he agreed.  He waved his hand in Ithilden’s direction. “Go,” he said, and Ithilden bowed and then hurried off to his office, wondering what other unpleasant events might have taken place in his brief absence and unable to see how he would ever dare to go away again.

***

Legolas inspected the hook at the end of his line and then dropped it back into the water and sat down next to Turgon and Annael again.  They were fishing in a little pool that had been formed in the palace gardens by diverting water from the nearby Forest River.  Fish did make their way into this pool, but none of them had yet succeeded in catching any.

“Annael,” he asked, “did your adar say anything about Ithilden’s trip to see the Dwarves?”

“No,” Annael looked surprised at the question. “He is very busy right now.  The Home Guard might be going somewhere, and he has to help get ready.”

“Where are they going?”

“I do not know.  He did not say.”

Legolas turned this piece of information over in his head, but he did not see that it got him very far.  Finally, he gave up.  He had more important things to worry about.

“You must make up your mind, Legolas,” Turgon said.  “I am going tonight. Are you coming or not?”

“Do not do it,” Annael advised, ignoring the scowl that Turgon sent his way.  “You will just get in trouble.”

“Annael, you are being a baby about this,” Turgon snapped. “Besides, it is easy for you to say do not go. You have already killed a deer.  I am tired of having Tynd and Riolith call me an elfling.”

“I am not being a baby,” Annael protested with dignity.  “My adar says that I am very grown up and that if the Home Guard does go away, I should help my naneth.”

Turgon ignored him and turned back to Legolas.  “Have you decided?”

Legolas thought about it. He, too, was tired of being treated like an elfling, not just by Tynd and Riolith but by his family.  And despite all his father’s warnings, he and his friends had not seen the slightest sign of danger the last time they had gone hunting at night. Indeed, Legolas had concluded that what his father must have really been angry about was his deception of Annael’s parents, and he did not intend to do that again.  And yet even though he thought that Thranduil had been exaggerating the forest’s dangers, he did not like the idea of Turgon going hunting alone.  Turgon was not an experienced hunter and anything could happen.  He hesitated and then he thought about the star dusted sky and the fall of moonlight on the deer’s back, and his heart rebelled.  That beauty was in the forest every night.  Surely he was entitled to see it occasionally.  He turned to Turgon.

“Yes,” he said. “I have.”

***

Legolas lay on the floor of the family’s sitting room reading the last few pages of the book his tutor had told him to finish that evening.  He was having trouble concentrating because he knew that he needed to get started soon if he was to be on time in meeting Turgon.  He glanced over to where Eilian sat with a book in his lap, but his brother was preoccupied with staring into the fire rather than reading.  His father and Ithilden were elsewhere, summoned to speak to one of Ithilden’s messengers who had come a few moments ago.  Legolas thought that Eilian might be worried about the messenger.  Not that any of them would tell Legolas what the matter was anyway, he thought.  He scrambled to his feet.

“I am going to bed now,” he told Eilian, who looked up from his musing in surprise.

“I guess it is nearly time,” Eilian said with a smile, “but you are being very good to go now without Adar here to tell you.  When I was your age, I hated going to bed and was always begging for five more minutes.  I think I believed that all the exciting things were happening after I went to sleep.”

Legolas shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.  “Good night,” he said and started for the door, but Eilian caught at him and pulled him into an embrace.

“Good night, brat. Pleasant dreams.”

Legolas fled from the sitting room to his own chamber.  In his room, he closed the door and leaned back against it for a moment, composing himself. He wished that Eilian had not been so nice.  Drawing a deep breath, he pushed away from the door, went to his bed, and arranged the pillows under the covers so that it would look as if he were asleep there. Then he put out the lanterns, picked up his book again, and cracked the door open to look up and down the hall. No one was in sight, so he slipped out of his room and hurried quietly toward the door leading from the family’s private quarters.  He avoided looking at the guards on his way out and went down the short hallway and through the antechamber into the Great Hall.  To his relief, he did not think that anyone had paid any attention to him.  He had not thought that they would, for he had gone to the Great Hall in the evening before to read and listen to Thranduil’s minstrels.

In the Great Hall, he sat on a bench near the back and let his heart slow down.  He looked around.  A few Elves were gathered near the fireplace but they were absorbed in their own music.  When he was certain that no one was paying any attention to him, he slipped the book down behind the bench and retrieved the cloak that he had hidden there earlier that day.  He rose, donned the cloak, and crept out of the Great Hall to go to the main doors.  This was the part of Turgon’s plan in which he was least confident, for the guards at the doors were unlikely to let him walk off into the night by himself without a plausible explanation.  Think of the starlight in the forest, he reminded himself and, taking his courage in hand, he walked boldly out between the guards and paused on the top step, looking around in the gathering spring twilight.

“Have you seen my friend?” he asked one of the guards.  “He is coming to walk me to his cottage, so I can stay with him.”  At that moment, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the trees at the far end of the bridge and waved to him.

“That is probably him now,” said the guard.

“Good night,” Legolas said and ran across the bridge to meet Turgon.  The two of them hastily scampered along the path that would take them most quickly out of the sight of the guards.  They stopped near a clump of hawthorns, and Turgon crouched to retrieve their bows and quivers from their hiding place among the bushes.

“I cannot believe it,” Legolas said a little breathlessly, as he strapped on his quiver.

Turgon laughed.  “I knew my plan would work,” he gloated.  Then he moved off toward the forest. “Come,” he called, “our buck is waiting for us.”

The two of them leapt into the trees and began to move swiftly through the branches. By now, they knew exactly where they were going because they had come this way several times during the day.  As they went, dusk deepened into night, and more and more stars opened overhead.  Legolas reveled in the feeling of moving freely under their silvery light.  How could he ever have hesitated to come out into this?

As they approached what they thought was the deer’s territory, they slowed their pace and finally stopped next to one another, high in an oak.  “Where shall we look first?” Turgon asked.

“We should probably just start with the clearing that is closest,” Legolas said, and they began their search. An hour later, they still had found nothing and Turgon was growing impatient.

“We should go to the clearing where we saw him the other time we came at night,” he asserted, “even if it is farther away.”

“Very well,” Legolas agreed. He was enjoying being out at night so much that he was not particularly concerned about whether they found the deer tonight or not.  He knew enough not to tell Turgon that however.

They turned away from the river and began moving toward the clearing where they had previously seen the deer.  Suddenly, Legolas halted his progress.  Were those sounds the noise of someone moving through the woods toward them?  Turgon came to rest beside him. “Someone is coming,” he murmured.  They listened for a moment. “It sounds like a Man,” Turgon added in surprise.

A few seconds later, a Man came into view on the path beneath them.  “It is the same Man we saw before,” Turgon whispered angrily, and before Legolas could stop him, he had scrambled down through the branches and dropped to the ground in front of the startled Man. The Man grabbed for his sword but took his hand away from its hilt when he saw Turgon.  Still hidden in the tree, Legolas quietly fitted an arrow to his bow string.  The excitement of seeing the buck and his dismay at being caught returning from their previous night hunt had driven all thoughts of this Man from his head, but seeing him here now made Legolas uneasy.

“What are you doing here?” Turgon demanded.  “With your heavy Man steps, you are going to frighten away every deer within a league.”

The Man’s opened and shut his mouth wordlessly for a moment, plainly taken aback by Turgon’s accusation.  Then he laughed.  “I beg your pardon, young Master Elf,” he said with an exaggerated bow.  His Sindarin was slow and awkward. “You are right. I will be on my way and leave the woods to hunters such as you.” He started forward but Turgon stood in his path.

Turgon glared at him for a moment, and Legolas fervently hoped he was not going to do anything stupid.  Then, grudgingly, he stepped aside and let the Man pass.  Legolas waited until the Man was out of sight before he dropped quietly onto the path next to Turgon.  They stood for a second staring in the direction the Man had taken.

“I wonder what he was doing here?” Legolas mused.  He turned and looked back up the trail the Man had been following.  He was reasonably sure it led to the clearing where they had seen both him and the deer the last time they had been out at night.  “Come,” he said and started along the path.

“The deer will not be there now,” Turgon complained, “not after all the noise that Man was making.”

“Then let us see what is there,” Legolas said simply.

Turgon scowled at him.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean he had to have been doing something out here and he was not hunting.  The last time we saw him he took something that had been hidden in the clearing.  Maybe he hid something this time.  Are you not curious?” Legolas asked.  He had remembered the clanking noise they had heard when the Man had unearthed the cloth-wrapped bundle.

Turgon said nothing but his scowl faded into an interested look, and he trotted along after Legolas without further complaint.   They reached the clearing quickly, for they had not been far away, and it took them only a moment to locate the log from behind which the Man had taken a bundle the last time they had seen him.  Legolas began to dig in a pile of leaves that were heaped there.  He snatched his hand back with a shake as something crawled across it, and then both of them gave a snort of laughter at his reaction to an insect.  He pushed aside more of the leaves and this time his fingers brushed against rough wool.  “There is something here,” he said, and Turgon began pushing leaves aside too.

“What is it?” Turgon asked, as the two of them stood looking down at a long bundle wrapped in a grey cloak.

Legolas twitched aside the edge of the cloak and blinked.  “Swords!” he exclaimed.

The two of the looked at one another, and then Turgon reached down and picked up one of the weapons.  “It is beautiful,” he said in awe.

Legolas had to agree as he too picked up a sword.  Starlight reflected off the rune-marked blade and, although the sword was longer than the one he used on the training field, it felt responsive in his hand.  He stepped away from Turgon and swirled the weapon about him.  It felt like a natural extension of his arm and its blade sang slightly as he swung it.  He lowered it reverently and peered more closely at the runes to see what magic they might be invoking.  The shapes looked familiar, but they were not Elvish and abruptly he recognized them as Dwarven.

Memory stirred.  His father and Ithilden were buying weapons from the Dwarves.  And what had Ithilden said at mid day meal?  Something about brittle swords.  He frowned.  Was there something wrong with these swords?  They did not look brittle but, then, he did not know how to test for that.  He was suddenly struck by the oddity of these wonderful swords being here in the clearing.

A short distance away, Turgon was trying to swing his sword in one of the drills they had learned on the training field.  The sword was too long for him though, and he was awkward.  “Be careful,” Legolas admonished him.

Turgon laughed and lowered the blade.  “You sound like one of the weapons masters,” he teased. Even in the dark, Legolas could see that his eyes were shining. He turned to Legolas. “Do you think we could keep them?” he asked hopefully.

“No!” Legolas exclaimed immediately. “They are not ours.”  Reluctantly, he put the sword he was holding back with the others.

“Whose are they then?” Turgon demanded. “Do they belong to the Man? Why would he leave them here?”

“I do not know,” Legolas said slowly.  He looked at his friend.  “I wonder if I should tell my adar about them?”

Turgon’s mouth fell open. “How could you do that?  He would know you had been out at night.  And besides, the swords probably do belong to the Man.  Why would your adar care about them?”

Legolas hesitated.  Turgon was right.  Telling Thranduil that they had found swords in the forest would necessarily lead to all kinds of unpleasant explanations.  And besides, he told himself, Turgon was undoubtedly right.  His father had bought weapons from the Dwarves; the Man had probably done likewise.  Why he would choose to keep them in the woods was a puzzle that Legolas did not have to solve.  He stepped back from the enticing bundle of swords and gestured to Turgon to return the one he was holding to the pile. With an audible sigh, his friend complied.

“What shall we do now?” Turgon asked.

Legolas was looking toward the other side of the clearing, where the deer had disappeared the one time they had seen him.  He and Turgon and Annael had explored that side of the clearing in daylight and had found nothing, but it was the most promising direction he could think of. “Let us search for signs of the buck over there,” he suggested, motioning in the direction he meant.

They crossed the clearing and set out along the faintly defined path, watching the ground for signs of the large buck. The path soon divided, but they knew that the two arms would rejoin after a quarter of a mile or so.  Legolas motioned silently, and the two of them divided so that each could follow one of the arms.  Legolas had gone only a hundred feet or so before he stopped dead.  There before him on the ground was one of the large buck’s prints.  His heart beginning to quicken, he hastily scanned the area and found two more prints showing that the deer had actually crossed this path, although he had apparently not followed it.  He could scarcely contain his exultation as he sounded the bird signal to summon Turgon.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, he heard a low growl.  He froze in place but turned his head toward the direction from which the sound came.  There, visible through the trees, was a wolf, her glittering eyes fixed on him and another low growl sounding deep in her throat.  He stopped breathing and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.  It was rare to see wolves in the forest, for they tended to flee when people were near.   Her cubs must be nearby, he thought frantically.  He had been taught that wolves were unlikely to attack people but that a she-wolf who thought her cubs were being menaced was dangerous indeed.  His fingers tightened on his bow, and his arm inched toward his quiver.   The wolf had crept one step closer to him and was crouching when, suddenly, Turgon could be heard approaching through the woods.  The wolf hesitated and then backed off into the shadows, and Legolas took advantage of her retreat to back away hastily himself.

“Turgon, there is a wolf here,” he shouted.  “Go back to the clearing.”  Judging by the noise of his progress through the woods, Turgon paused and then began to move toward the clearing, much to Legolas’s relief. He had feared that his friend might find the news of the wolf’s presence enticing. Turgon usually loved anything that smacked of danger, but perhaps Legolas’s tone of voice had affected him, for, to his shame, Legolas knew that he had sounded frightened.

He retreated as far as he could down the path, not wanting to turn his back on the wolf before he had to, and then he turned and ran.  If he got far enough from her den, she would lose interest in him anyway, he reassured himself, hoping he was right. He burst into the clearing to find Turgon waiting for him with every sign that he had been about to start after him.

“What happened?” Turgon demanded.  “Did you see the deer?  What is this about a wolf?”

“The deer’s prints were there,” Legolas managed to gasp out, trying to control his shaky breathing, “but there must be a wolf den because a she-wolf threatened me.”

Turgon looked back down the path, and for a moment, Legolas was afraid he was going to suggest going back, but he did not.  Instead he looked back at Legolas. “You are shaking,” he observed in surprise.

“I am cold,” Legolas asserted crossly.   And indeed he was, although he knew that was not the reason he was shaking.  While they had been stalking the deer, clouds had blotted out most of the stars and a cold wind had come up.  Legolas realized that he smelled rain approaching.  “It is going to rain.  We should go home,” he said, trying to make it sound as if the changing weather was the only reason.

Turgon looked at him steadily.  “Very well,” he finally said and leapt into a tree. He waited to be sure that Legolas was following and then the two of them started toward home.  Before they had gone very far, however, the clouds opened and chill spring rain began, scattered at first and then increasingly heavy.  They put their hoods up, but Legolas’s cloak was soon soaked through so that his clothes, too, became wet and his skin began to prickly unpleasantly from the damp.  As they neared Thranduil’s stronghold, they dropped to the ground and stood uncertainly in what shelter they could find under a dense fir tree.

They had planned that when they returned from their hunt, Turgon would go home and Legolas would sleep in a sheltered spot until dawn, when he would simply walk back into the palace, past guards who would be different from those who had stood there the night before.  Somehow, it had not occurred to them that it might rain.  Legolas shivered slightly.  He was cold, he knew, and wet and rather miserable, but it was the thought of the she-wolf that had actually drawn forth the shudder.  He did not like to think of what might have happened if the wolf had not heard Turgon coming.

“I can sleep here,” he asserted with as much bravado as he could muster. “It is not very wet.”

“Very well,” said Turgon, and he sat down on the carpet of needles that covered the ground under the tree.

“Are you not going home?” Legolas asked, puzzled.

Turgon shook his head. “I will stay with you,” he said simply.  Legolas considered protesting but changed his mind, for if he was honest, he had to admit that Turgon’s company would be very welcome.  He sat down next to his friend. They removed their cloaks and then lay down, nestled together in the damp needles with the cloaks thrown over them.  The cloaks were wet, but they were better than nothing.  To his embarrassment, Legolas gave another shudder. Without a word, Turgon threw his arm over him.

The rain stopped soon after they had bedded down, and gradually, the shared warmth of their bodies eased their discomfort and they drifted off to a light sleep.  When Legolas’s eyes snapped back into focus, he realized that dawn had broken.  He prodded Turgon.  “We have to get up,” he mumbled, and Turgon stirred.  “We have to go home,” Legolas urged.  He rose and drew his still damp cloak around him. He inspected his bow, which he had sheltered under the pine needles as much as he could. It was damp, but he did not think it was permanently harmed.  At any rate, he hoped it was not.  Yawning hugely, Turgon, too, now came to his feet.  He regarded Legolas sleepily.

“I will see you later at training,” he said. Legolas flinched at the thought that they would both have to be back at the training fields in a very few hours.  He was exhausted.  Turgon hesitated a moment but then trotted off toward his own home without another word.

Legolas hurried toward the palace.  His breath quickened, but neither the guards at the Great Doors, nor those at the doors to the family’s quarters so much as blinked when he walked past them.  His heart was in his throat when he entered the family’s quarters, but the hallway was empty and he was able to creep along it and back into this own room.  He closed the door quietly and then stood for a moment in his damp clothes.  He had done what he had set out to do the previous evening, but he found that he felt no triumph, only a deep gratitude to be safely home again.

*******

As always, thank you to all readers and reviewers.  You encourage me and tell me interesting stuff.

WhiteWolf:  They are all working on solving the mystery and I hope they do too because writing another bunch of battle scenes would wipe me out!

TolkienFan:  Thank you so much for all your kind words.  You made my day.  I am afraid that Turgon never does get very much sense, but I like him anyway, although I can understand Thranduil’s exasperation with him.  Poor baby.

Dot:  I really do think that Eilian respects Ithilden.  He may not have realized how much he did until he had to deal with Thranduil on his own! And Maltanaur does, indeed, drive the brothers Thranduilion crazy sometimes.

Dy:  Well, he may have learned something from the little excursion in this chapter.  And if his father finds out, he may have more to learn yet!

Camp6311:  I figured that only one of the Orc leaders had a Dwarven sword.  I also thought that it might not have been uncommon for the leaders to have better weapons so Eilian might not have noticed the difference in the heat of battle.  I think you are right about Legolas. No good will come of this little excursion. At least, not for him.

Caz-baz: Legolas did not heed your advice, I am sorry to say.   But  Thranduil is being remarkably patient.

Legolas4me: It is sad to see the trusting, cuddly elfling grow up.  I felt that way when Dragon Confused ended “Elrond’s Boys” talking about how the twins belonged only to themselves now.

Mer:  I have a list of stories I want to write and some adult Legolas ones are in there but I don’t know if I will do one of those next.  I am grateful to be able to have my stories serve as your fix when you NEED something to read.

Antigone Q:  You can take your hands away from your face now. He’s already bad things.  I think it might have dawned on him that Adar is right about the woods being dangerous.

Coolio02: Turgon IS a good friend, as you can see in this chapter. I am very fond of the poor kid.

Frodo3791:  I moan and groan to my beta every time I have to write a battle sequence and then I cheer when it’s done, so I am glad that you liked it.

Luin:  It was interesting to try to think about how the shadow would affect the warriors in the south and how the elves might try to deal with it by sending people home periodically and so on. As you see, even the horses suffer!  And I have to confess, it’s tricky to write about Thranduil so that he still seems wise, even though he is dangerous.  He’s still keeping himself under control but he really is ticked off.

TigerLily:  I love the idea of a consultant getting all these people together and making them communicate.  Maybe we can get Sauron too.  ;-)   And I am afraid you were right, Legolas folded. Turgon is very persuasive.

Naneth:  Poor Thranduil. He has no little one left to call him Ada.  I know the pride he will take in Legolas as an adult, but still, he has to feel some loss.

Lamiel:  Eilian can indeed be bloodthirsty.  He’s so easy going most of the time, but he enjoys kicking Orc butt.  And, indeed, Thranduil will not be kind to whoever has double crossed him.

Feanen: Serious trouble for Legolas coming right up!

Dragon Confused:  Ithilden has been the brother I have developed the least, so sending him off to Erebor on his own was useful for me.  He’s a very good leader but probably needs a good massage to lower his stress levels. A nice thought.

Fadesintothewest:  I’m glad I surprised you!  I needed to draw the two stories together and a Dwarven sword in Orc hands was how I always intended to do it, so it’s nice to know I didn’t telegraph my move ahead of time.

StrangeBlaze:  In my own head, I can see the appeal that Turgon has for Legolas and it’s not just that he’s manipulative.  He can really be loyal and kind to his friends. He just has no sense and no respect for or fear of adults.

Karenator:  I have come to love Maltanaur too.  He really leaves the Thranduilion brothers with their mouths agape sometimes as he merrily does whatever he thinks he should be doing.  And I think that Eilian is growing but he was in over his head with the dwarven sword.  I am afraid no excuses for getting him naked are coming to mind!

Angaloth:  Well, your hope was in vain.  Legolas did go out, the fool.  If only he would stay as the sweet elfling all excited about his new archery class!  But no.

FirstMate:  Thank you for the kind words. I am shamefully fond of my OCs.  And I’m glad you liked the battle.  I find battle scenes hard to write but you can’t get away from them in Tolkien.

JastaElf:  Now, Jasta, as a parent, you know that kids don’t always listen to their inner good elfling.  Legolas has done a stupid thing and Ada, excuse me, Adar, will certainly not be please when he inevitably finds out.

Kay:  Maltanaur is just an immovable object.  Neither Ithilden nor Eilian can budge him an inch and I, for one, think that’s a good thing. Eilian might not have lived so long otherwise.

Nilmandra:  Yes, Legolas doesn’t think of himself as bad.  His actions make sense to him even though any adult could tell him he’s out of his wood-elf mind.

Alice:  Well, I updated. Did I leave you at a better place this time? ;-)

Karri:  Yes, and Adar is not going to be pleased with his growing up elfling.

Brenda G:  It is hard to have too much sympathy for Legolas. He digs his own grave here.  I’m glad you liked the battle.  I always dread writing battle scenes and am very happy when they are done.

Jay:  Yes, being “hasty” would not be a good idea.  Thranduil is ticked off but he’s still managing to stay in control for now. I would not want to be the culprit once he’s decided he knows who that is, though.

LKK:  Gelmir does deserve a new sword.  Maybe one of the ones from the woods can be shipped to him.

Tapetum Lucidum:  Yes! Eilian is becoming a good leader and he will be rewarded. ;-)  I don’t have a military advisor. Everything I think I know I learned from the internet.  A real military strategist would probably laugh.

JustMe:  Legolas could not have picked a worse time to defy his father.  Thranduil is ready to do some damage and Legolas better hope he’s not the target of choice.

Disclaimer: I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they belong to him. I gain no profit from their use other than the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.
 
*******

9.  Confession

Legolas entered the dining room and hastily took his place.  “I am sorry I am late, Adar,” he apologized.

Thranduil frowned at him.  “You look tired.”  He shifted his frown to Eilian. “Did you let him stay up late last night?”

“No,” Eilian protested. “He voluntarily went off to bed when he was supposed to.” He, too, looked at Legolas and his brow puckered.  “You do look tired though, brat.  Did you stay up reading?  Your tutor is not giving you too much to do, is he?”

“No. I just did not sleep very well,” said Legolas, alarmed by this probing.

“Are you worried about something, iôn-nín?” Thranduil asked, in concern. “Are you having nightmares?”

“No!” Legolas glanced at his father and was dismayed to find Thranduil regarding him closely.  Thranduil was opening his mouth to speak again when Ithilden entered.

“I beg your pardon for being late, Adar,” he said, “but a messenger has just arrived to tell me that the border guards have reported that the arms shipment should be here around mid day.”

“Good,” Thranduil responded grimly, his attention diverted.  “We will settle this matter of the swords once and for all.”

Legolas eyed them cautiously. “What about the swords?” he asked.

There was dead silence for a minute as Ithilden and Eilian both looked at their father, obviously deferring to whatever answer he might choose to give.  “This is not something you need to worry about, Legolas,” Thranduil answered. “Eat your porridge or you will be late for training.”

Legolas scowled in frustration.  He really did not want to have to tell his father about the swords he and Turgon had found in the woods, but he was worried that perhaps he should.  Yet how could he know what to do if his family would not tell him what the matter was?  He struggled with the matter for a moment longer and then gave up and began to eat his morning meal.  If they would not tell him, then they would not tell him. 

***

Ithilden found himself gripping the edge of his father’s chair as they waited for the Men to be shown into the Great Hall.  Hastily, he dropped his hand to his side and schooled his face to impassivity.  Thranduil looked calm enough, but Ithilden knew from the stiff set of his shoulders that he was seething.  Now that they were about to confront the Men, he had allowed his temper to come to the boiling point again.  Ithilden had seen Thranduil do this before and then use his anger as a terrifying weapon against whomever he was questioning.  Ithilden had no doubt that if these Men were guilty, his father would soon know it.

Off to one side, Eilian stood with several other warriors at his back, holding the sword he had found in the Orc’s possession.  Ithilden knew that Eilian had been worried about the possibility of war with the Dwarves, although his tension had been easing as he gradually shed the burden that Shadow had laid on him in the South.  Now, however, he seemed to be the most relaxed of the three of them. Ithilden smiled wryly to himself. Eilian was probably hoping for a brawl. He had always been most comfortable when he could act.  Eilian caught Ithilden’s eye upon him and grinned broadly.  Thranduil frowned disapprovingly, and Eilian obediently adopted the expressionless mask that seemed to be so disconcerting to Men.

The doors opened.  “Master Rudd and Master Cadoc, my lord,” the guard announced, and the two Men walked into the Great Hall, each dropping to one knee before Thranduil.

“My lord,” said Rudd.  He looked at Thranduil quizzically. They usually met only with Ithilden, so he must have been wondering what had led to their being summoned before the king. 

Thranduil kept the Men kneeling for just a second longer than normal before indicating that they might rise.  “I trust you had a pleasant journey,” he said in an ostensibly amiable tone that made every Elf in the room cringe inwardly.

“We did, my lord,” Rudd answered cautiously.  He may not have known what the matter was, but he seemed to be able to sense the atmosphere in the Great Hall.

“The cargo you bring us from the Dwarves is one we had been looking forward to receiving,” Thranduil went on.

“We are glad to have been of service.”

“Do I understand that you have had charge of the weapons and armor all the way from Erebor?” Thranduil leaned toward the Men in apparent interest.

“Yes, my lord.  The responsibility has been ours.”

Thranduil smiled unpleasantly.  “Then perhaps you would care to explain this,” he said, reaching out his hand to accept from an attendant one of the swords that his armorer had brought to the Hall not fifteen minutes earlier.  He raised the sword slightly and then struck it against the floor, shattering it into several pieces, one of which Rudd had to dodge as it flew past his right elbow.  As the Men stared at the broken bits of blade, Thranduil opened his hand and dropped the hilt on top of them.  Even Ithilden flinched slightly at the clatter it made when it landed.

Thranduil now stretched his hand out toward Eilian, who stepped forward to give him the Orc’s sword.  “And perhaps,” Thranduil said, his tone shifting gradually from a purr to a snarl, “you would also care to explain how this sword came to be in the hands of an Orc who was using it against my people in the south.”  He drew the sword from its scabbard and extended it toward the Men for a moment before resting its length lightly across his lap, with its point still suggestively aimed at them.

Rudd and Cadoc both stood frozen, their eyes on the hard steel blade from which reflections of light now glittered.  Then Rudd looked up into Thranduil’s equally hard, equally glittering eyes.  “My lord,” he said, “I do not understand.”

Ithilden caught his breath in dismay.  He could swear that the Man was telling the truth.  He slid his gaze sideways toward his father’s face and saw a flash of uncertainty there too.  Surely Ithilden had not been mistaken about the honesty of the Dwarves?  Then Thranduil’s eyes shifted, and his face suddenly set in a look of fierce satisfaction.  Ithilden looked back at the Men.  Rudd continued to look puzzled, but Cadoc stood staring at the floor, and even from where he stood, Ithilden could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead.  “Ah,” he thought. “There.”

***

“Please let me in,” Legolas pleaded with the guard.  “I left my book in there, and I need it for my lessons. My tutor sent me to fetch it.”

The guards at the doors to the Great Hall exchanged a glance, and then one of them smiled sympathetically.  “Very well,” he said.  “But you must creep very quietly and come right back out. Your adar is -- ,” he stopped himself. “He is in the middle of a meeting,” the guard finished and the other guard grinned.

Legolas sighed in relief. His tutor had been very unhappy with him when he had come to the library without the book he had been told to finish the night before.  Of course, he had not quite finished the book either, so the tutor might very well be displeased even when he returned with it, but perhaps he would not realize that Legolas had not read the last few pages and, anyway, Legolas would deal with that when it happened.  The guard cracked the door open, and he slipped inside and moved toward the bench behind which the book lay hidden.

A group of people was gathered around his father’s chair at the other end of the room speaking in the Common Tongue, but he paid them little attention until his notice was caught by the icy menace in his father’s voice.  Legolas’s Common was just good enough that he could understand what was being said.

“And you, Master Cadoc?” Thranduil asked. “Do you understand why badly-made swords have been delivered to us and Dwarven weapons have appeared instead in the hands of the enemy?”

Legolas stared at his father, transfixed by how frightening he looked.  Legolas knew that people were afraid of his father, and indeed, Legolas was sometimes afraid of him too, but he had never seen Thranduil with his eyes so hooded and hard.

“I assure you, my lord, I know nothing of the matter about which you are asking.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted to the speaker, whose voice had quavered slightly.  To his surprise, he recognized the Man whom he and Turgon had seen in the forest.

“And yet Master Rudd tells us that the swords have been in your keeping since they left Erebor,” Thranduil said.  “How would you explain the fact that five of them seem not to be of Dwarven make?”

“I cannot explain it, my lord,” the Man answered, his voice now steadier. “I know nothing about it.”

“My lord,” interjected the other Man, “are you accusing us of dishonesty?”  To Legolas, he sounded indignant.

Thranduil’s gaze flicked to him and then back to the first Man, and he rose to his full, impressive height.  “I am accusing you of nothing, Master Rudd, but I find I am accusing your companion of dishonesty and indeed of something even more loathsome.  Whoever has been putting weak weapons in the hands of my warriors and good ones in the hands of the enemy has committed a treason for which I intend that he shall pay.”

Everyone in the room stood immobile, and Legolas found that he was holding his breath.

The Man his father was accusing was the first to recover.  He took a single pace backward and then said, “I assure you, my lord, I have faithfully delivered to you the weapons that the Dwarves have given us.”

His companion now spoke up too.  “What proof have you that Cadoc has meddled with the weapons, my lord? Surely you do not mean to condemn him based on your suspicions alone!”

He was answered by a moment’s silence.  “I have no proof yet,” Thranduil said coolly, “but I have no doubt I will be able to find some.”

Before Legolas realized what he intended to do, he had walked toward the tense group around his father’s chair.  “Adar,” he heard his own voice say.   For a second, no one reacted, and then they all turned toward him.  Legolas could see surprise quickly replaced by irritation in his father’s face.

“Legolas, what are you doing here?” Thranduil spoke in Sindarin.  He glanced toward the door, where one of the guards had now appeared and was moving hastily toward Legolas.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” the guard said and caught at Legolas’s arm.  He frowned at Legolas reprovingly and began to draw him toward the door.

“No!” Legolas jerked his arm free and started toward his father again.  “Adar, I have something to tell you about the swords and this Man.”  He pointed toward Cadoc with his chin. The guard hastened after him and caught at him once more.

“Leave him,” Thranduil ordered, and the guard stepped back a foot or two and waited uncertainly.

“What is he saying?” asked Cadod, who was apparently not able to follow the rapid flow of a language not his own.

Rudd apparently understood enough Elvish to be able to interpret. “He says he has something to say about you and the swords.”  He looked at Cadoc with a raised eyebrow, and the Man turned back to Legolas looking startled.

“This is a serious matter, Legolas,” Thranduil said.  “Whatever you have to say had better be important.”

Legolas swallowed hard.  “I have seen this Man with Dwarven swords in the forest,” he finally said.

Thranduil blinked. “What do you mean? When have you seen him?”

“I saw him at night when Turgon and I were hunting. He had swords hidden in a clearing not far from where the Men tie up their barge at night.”

The group around his father stirred, and Legolas could see Ithilden signal the warriors who were standing to one side. They moved quietly toward the Men.  Rudd began to murmur in Cadoc’s ear, apparently translating what was being said.

“Do you mean you saw him two weeks ago?” Thranduil asked.

Legolas hesitated and then resigned himself to the answer he had to make.  “Yes, and last night too.”

Thranduil stared at him, disbelief written on his face. He took a single step toward Legolas with his right hand lifting in a gesture Legolas could not read.  From the corner of his eye, Legolas could see Eilian stirring slightly. Then Thranduil turned and walked back to sit deliberately down again, gripping the arms of his chair.  “You were out in the forest last night?” he asked, his voice tight.

“Yes, Adar.”  Legolas bit his lip in misery but did not drop his gaze before his father’s angry glare.

“My lord,” said Cadoc indignantly, “I have never seen this child before in my life. He could not possibly have seen me anywhere.”  To Legolas’s dismay, he sounded as if he were telling the truth.  All of the adults looked at Cadoc and then at Legolas.

“I mean no disrespect, my lord,” said Rudd hesitantly, “but the lad’s claim to have been out last night seems to have surprised you.  Is it possible he is making this up, perhaps to draw attention to himself? Children do such things sometimes,” he added apologetically.

“I would not lie!” Legolas exclaimed.

Thranduil regarded him steadily.  “You and I will discuss your honesty at a later time,” he said forbiddingly.  Legolas flinched.  His father’s tone suggested that retribution for his disobedience and deception would be swift and unpleasant.

Suddenly Eilian spoke up. “My lord, if Legolas can show us where the swords are hidden, perhaps that will help to settle the matter of whether he saw what he claims to have seen.”

“Indeed it might,” agreed Thranduil.  “Take two warriors with you and get Legolas to show you where they are.”  Gratefully, Legolas realized that his father seemed to believe that he really had seen the swords in the woods.

Eilian touched his shoulder lightly, and Legolas looked up to find that his face was grave.  “Come, Legolas,” Eilian said. Legolas took one last look at his stony-faced father and then followed Eilian from the room.

***

Eilian led Legolas through the garden and toward the king’s stables. They were to meet the warriors who would accompany them outside the warriors’ stables, but right now, Eilian had something he needed to say to his brother. He stopped just inside the gate that opened on the path to the stables and turned to lift Legolas onto a bench that was nestled in a rose arbor there.  Now more or less on the same eye level, Legolas looked at him in surprise.

“The guards will be waiting,” he protested.

“Let them wait,” Eilian responded.  “Legolas, did you really sneak out of the palace and go hunting in the woods last night?”

His face clouded with misery, Legolas nodded.

Gripped by something between irritation and alarm, Eilian grasped his little brother’s shoulders. “What possessed you to do such a thing when Adar had just punished you for it?”

“Turgon needed to hunt,” Legolas said earnestly, as if this answer were obvious, “and the night is very beautiful.”

Eilian groaned.  When Legolas had been small, Eilian had often been unable to understand how Thranduil could bear to discipline him. In recent months, however, as his brother had begun to lose his childhood sweetness and turn prickly, he could sometimes see why his father took the measures he did.  Still, he did not want Legolas to get into more trouble than was needful. “Legolas, you are pushing Adar beyond what he will bear.  When we get back, you need to be very respectful and beg his pardon.  Moreover, it would not hurt to kneel while you do it.”

Legolas looked uncertain. “You mean like petitioners do?”

“Yes, and errant sons too,” Eilian told him, speaking from experience he did not intend to share with Legolas.  “You need to be genuinely sorry for what you have done, not just sorry you were caught.”  He looked with exasperation at the stubborn set of his brother’s mouth.  “He was tempted to strike you, brat.”  He could almost have laughed at the astonishment on the child’s face.

“Adar would not do that,” he protested.

“He would not usually,” Eilian agreed, “but he can be provoked into it, especially if he despairs of keeping you from rushing into danger in any other way.”  Legolas frowned at him, and before he could ask any questions that Eilian did not want to answer, Eilian lifted him down from the bench again. “Come,” he said. “Let us go retrieve those swords.”

*******

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Only one more chapter. I thought I could do it all in this one but it was just getting too long, so I broke it in two.

Luin:  I think you’re right that Legolas would behave better if he understood more about the reasons behind Thranduil’s rules.  And I also think that if their mother had lived, she would have done things differently with Legolas. But Thranduil cannot help who he is. (Nor would you want him to!)

WhiteWolf:  Thranduil may not have been waiting in Legolas’s room, but the sky is falling now!

The Karenator: Turgon is such a bad influence and yet so hard to stay mad at.  I liked the idea that Thranduil eventually learned to check carefully to see if his youngest is indeed home in bed.  You would think he would!

Frodo3791:  One of the frustrating things about writing this story was that I spent most of it putting the pieces out there and then had them all fall together in one fell swoop.  So it was like all preparation for a short payoff.

Dot:  You are so right. If Thranduil hadn’t been distracted, the chance of Legolas even getting out of the palace would have been far smaller.  And yes indeed, I think Legolas has concluded that Ada may have been right and there are dangers in the forest after all.

Antigone Q:  All three of Thranduil’s sons seem to have inherited some of his less desirable traits.  Surely the scene in the Great Hall here is enough to scare Legolas into behaving himself for a while.

Camp6311:  Cadoc is in a world of trouble. And Legolas is in a fair amount too. :-)

Caz-baz: Well, Legolas finally told his father about the swords.  Covering for other folks who are off getting in trouble is never fun, I guess.

Bryn:  Legolas may have gotten home safely but then, as you see, he had to confess. Scary Thranduil is now ready to do damage.

Legolas4me:  I think that attention is just what Turgon needs.  That’s why he’s so loyal to his friends.  Poor thing.

Brenda G:  No, Legolas is responsible for his own problems, it seems to me.  And Ithilden is exactly the person I would want interacting with the king if I lived in Mirkwood.  Thranduil is scary and Ithilden is no pushover, but he is a little calmer.

Nilmandra:  Your analysis of Legolas is so good. Yes, he does need to understand ‘why.’  It will help him.

Kay:  I too was amused by the thought of Legolas regarding Turgon as an ‘inexperienced’ hunter.  Compared to who, elfling?

Erunyauve:  You’re right. Legolas can probably feel the tension and it would be better if he knew what it was.  He’s young, not stupid.

Karri:  Legolas and Turgon were very lucky to come back from the woods in one piece.  Now let’s see if Thranduil lets them stay that way!

LOTR Faith:  Legolas made an extremely bad choice and Thranduil is about to make sure he understand that. ;-)

Naneth:  Oh yes. Really, really ugly describes the situation nicely. Thranduil must be having trouble deciding where to bring the smackdown first.

JastaElf:  Ithilden and Eilian do quite well with their father actually.  He should be very proud!  They can usually manage him nicely.

Tapetum Lucidum:  “Of course Thranduil wants to kick some Dwarven butt - at least he won't have to kick very high.”  I actually had to think about this for a minute and then it made me laugh.   My days of deceiving my parents are long gone, but deceiving the kid still takes some effort sometimes.

JustMe:  You are so right. Legolas would have behaved better if he had known what was going on.  And now Thranduil is a little irritated!

StrangeBlaze:  Turgon makes me sad.  But Legolas is responsible for his own problems here, I think.

LKK:  I am growing increasingly fond of the two older brothers who seem to make a wonderful team in managing their difficult father.  Legolas just seems to provoke him.

Lamiel:  That lie to the guards was bad.  And he probably could have avoided it, although he would be telling a Clintonesque kind of truth I guess.  “I am staying with my friend (in the forest)”

Alice:  A quicker update this time.  Ithilden is good to have around although he himself needs some down time, I think, and now he’s afraid to go away!

Feanen: Thank you. Hope you like this chapter too.

I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien but they are not mine. I draw no profit from them other than an increased imaginative life.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading the chapter.

*******

10.  Just Deserts

Ithilden came suddenly to attention as Eilian entered the Great Hall followed by Legolas and two warriors, one of them with his arms full of swords.  Thranduil put down the scroll he had been pretending to read.  “What did you find?” he asked.

Eilian took the swords from the warrior and came to lay them at his father’s feet. “They were right where Legolas said they would be, my lord.”  He picked up one and flexed it lightly.  “They are wonderful weapons,” he said with reverence in his voice.

Thranduil glanced at Legolas. “Go to your chamber and stay there until I come to speak to you,” he commanded.  Legolas hesitated for a moment, evidently curious about what was going to happen.  “Now!”  Thranduil snapped, and with a last look backwards, Legolas fled from the room.  Ithilden felt a moment’s sympathy his little brother, who could not have picked a worse time to defy their already enraged father.  Unfortunately, Ithilden knew that Thranduil was highly unlikely to feel equally sympathetic.

Thranduil looked at Ithilden, his eyes gleaming.  “Send for Rudd.  Eilian, take warriors with you and fetch Cadoc from wherever they put him downstairs.”

The brothers rushed to obey.  Rudd would be nearby in one of the comfortable reception rooms, Ithilden knew, but at Thranduil’s orders, Cadoc had been locked in one of the strong rooms on a lower level.  He had protested at this treatment, but Rudd had not. He had apparently begun to develop some doubts about his companion.  “The guards downstairs will know which room he is in,” he told Eilian, and Eilian and the two warriors strode off the retrieve the unfortunate Man.

“Bring Rudd into the Hall,” Ithilden commanded one of the guards and was turning to go back to his father when his eye was caught by the sight of a maiden sitting on one of the benches where petitioners waited to be admitted to Thranduil’s presence.  It was Alfirin, he realized, the healer’s daughter he had met when he had visited the young warrior with the spider bite.  She was making notes of some kind on a bit of parchment. He paused for only a second before approaching her.

“Good day, my lady,” he greeted her and was charmed when she smiled at him.  She had a dimple in her right cheek.  “Are you waiting to see the king?”

“No, my lord. I am waiting for my Naneth. One of the cooks burned his hand, and she is treating him.”  At that moment, the healer herself emerged from one of the hallways.

“Good day, my lord,” she greeted him. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Alfirin.”

The maiden rose.  “That is quite all right.  I had an idea for the hanging I am making.”

“My daughter is a weaver, my lord,” the healer said with obvious pride. From the corner of his eye, Ithilden could see Rudd waiting for him, and he reluctantly prepared to bid goodbye to the healer and her daughter, who had moved into the center of the antechamber.

A sudden commotion drew everyone’s attention.  The warriors who had gone with Eilian were leading Cadoc into the antechamber, and he was not coming quietly.  Eilian trailed behind looking grim. The seriousness of Cadoc’s plight had evidently dawned on the Man and Ithilden could almost feel sympathy.  Being dragged before Thranduil for judgment would be a terrifying fate.

“You have no right to hold me,” he was shouting. “I am a citizen of Dale. I am not subject to your laws.”  Ithilden doubted that that argument would make much difference to Thranduil.

He glanced toward Alfirin and her mother, who had both stopped almost directly in the warriors’ path to stare at the obviously terrified Man. It would probably be best if they left before Thranduil took any action, he thought, and started to move toward them.  Suddenly, Cadoc lunged and before even the Elven guards had time to react, he had seized Alfirin and was backing away, keeping her in front of him like a shield. He had no weapon, but he had wrapped his arm around her throat and was tightening his hold.

“Move away or I will snap her neck,” he cried.

Ithilden stared in horror. Beside him, the healer had cried out when Cadoc had first seized the maiden and then clamped her hand over her mouth from which small moaning sounds were now escaping.  Alfirin’s face was turning bright red as she struggled to claw Cadoc’s arm away from her neck. Then, evidently surprising the Man with her strength, she managed to grasp the arm and tug it down far enough that she could draw in a ragged breath.  From the corner of his eye, Ithilden caught a glimpse of swift, sinuous movement, and suddenly Eilian was behind Cadoc. The Man gave a startled gasp and then, with agonizing slowness, he crumpled to the floor with one of the Dwarvish swords lodged in his back and Eilian standing over him with his eyes narrowed to focus only on Cadoc and his face looking savage and strange.  Abruptly released, Alfirin stumbled forward into Ithilden’s arms.

Pandemonium broke loose in the antechamber.  Warriors leapt forward to make sure that Cadoc was dead or at least no longer capable of harming anyone.  Rudd, too, rushed toward the other Man, just as Thranduil emerged from the Great Hall, drawn by the commotion.  The healer took one moment to reassure herself that her daughter was not seriously harmed and then she, too, started toward Cadoc.  “Get out of my way,” she demanded imperiously. “He needs a healer.”

Ithilden kept hold of Alfirin with one arm and grabbed at her mother with the other.  “My lady,” he commanded, “wait until we are sure it is safe.”  He fervently hoped that Cadoc was beyond any healer’s help, for such an outcome would simplify his life immeasurably.

The healer shook off his restraining hand.  “I will be the judge of where I am needed as a healer, my lord,” she snapped. “Get these people out of my way now!”

“The Man needs help,” Alfirin insisted, frowning into his face.  “You should not stop her.”  Ithilden stared at her.  Her mouth drew into a small pout when she frowned.

“Allow the healer to approach,” Thranduil commanded.   As the warriors stepped aside, it was obvious to everyone in the room that Cadoc was unlikely to benefit from anything the healer could do, and she crouched to touch the point on his throat where his pulse should have been and then stood up.  Ithilden was profoundly glad that Thranduil had sent Legolas away.  Keeping hold of Alfirin, he turned her away from the sight of the dead Man in the slowly spreading pool of blood.  He looked across the room at Eilian, whose face now looked familiar again. Eilian moved forward and took the healer’s arm.

“Come away, my lady,” he said gently and drew her toward her daughter.

Thranduil gestured to one of the guards.  “See to it that my palace is cleaned of this refuse,” he ordered and went back into the Great Hall.

His face pale, Rudd turned away from the body of Cadoc, and after a brief hesitation, followed Thranduil.  Ithilden was suddenly aware that he had duties to attend to that did not include continuing to hold on to the healer’s daughter.  With a hasty bow, he surrendered her to her mother.  “Look after them,” he told Eilian and went to attend on his father.

He found Thranduil seated in his carved chair with Rudd on one knee before him.  “I swear to you, my lord, that I knew nothing of Cadoc’s traitorous behavior.  Indeed, I find it almost inconceivable that anyone who has seen what the forces of darkness are doing to the land could have provided them with weapons.  I beg that you not judge the Men of Dale by one such as Cadoc.”  Ithilden had to admire the steadiness of the Man’s voice. Rudd was obviously shaken by what he had just witnessed in the antechamber, but like Ithilden, he had evidently decided that duty continued to govern him.

Thranduil studied the Man.  “What I am really curious about,” he finally said in a deceptively casual tone, “is what involvement the Dwarves may have had in this scheme.”

Rudd looked surprised. “I assume none, my lord.  For the most part, I was the one who dealt with Dwarves.  The Dwarven smith had taken a dislike to Cadoc and would not have him anywhere near his forge.”

Ithilden quickly suppressed a flash of triumph as both unworthy of him and likely to inflame his father.  He glanced at Thranduil to find that the king had turned to him with one eyebrow raised in wry concession.  “As I recall, we had contracted to buy two more shipments of arms,” Thranduil observed.

“Yes, my lord,” Ithilden confirmed, scarcely daring to trust the hope that had blossomed at his father’s words.

Thranduil turned back to Rudd.  “I will hold you personally responsible for those two shipments, Master Rudd.”

“Of course, my lord,” Rudd answered hastily.  “I would stake my life on the quality of weapons the Dwarves will send you.”

“That is only too true,” Thranduil answered, with an underlying note that made Rudd stiffen slightly.  “You may leave us.” The Man rose, bowed, and with a quick nod to Ithilden, left the Great Hall.

Thranduil turned his gaze thoughtfully on Ithilden.  There was a moment’s silence, and then Thranduil asked, “Have I told you how fortunate I feel to have you at my side, iôn-nín?”

Ithilden fumbled for an answer.  “I am honored to be of service, my lord.”

Thranduil rose, advanced toward him, and embraced him.  “You are of service not just to me, Ithilden, but to all of those around you. You are a formidable warrior, a troop commander who is respected by those who served under him, and a shrewd advisor to your king.  I find that my respect for you has grown to match the love with which I have always treasured you.”

Ithilden blinked in astonishment and gratitude.  “Thank you, Adar,” he managed to say.  “There is no one whose opinion I value more than yours.  I have always felt blessed to be your son.”  And to Thranduil’s obvious satisfaction, he kissed his father’s cheek.

***

Legolas lay on the floor, listlessly rearranging his toy warriors so that the one with the shiny silver sword could knock them down again.  Usually the captain was named ‘Eilian,’ but lately, he had begun to be called ‘Legolas.’

He had been in his room for what seemed like hours and his father had not yet come to see him.  He wondered what would happen to Cadoc.  Perhaps his father would keep him locked up in one of the strong rooms in the lower levels.  Or perhaps Thranduil would throw Cadoc out of the Woodland Realm and tell him never to come back.

He rolled over on his back and hopped the toy warrior captain across his own chest. He hoped that Turgon would not be angry with him for telling his father about the hunting trip.  Thranduil had needed to know about Cadoc and the swords, and truth be told, Legolas would not mind very much if his father prevented him from going hunting at night again for a while.  The trip with Turgon had not been nearly as much fun as he had thought it would be.  A snarling mother wolf had appeared in his dreams the previous night.  He frowned and sat up.  He wished his father would come.  At least then this terrible waiting would be over.

As if in answer to his wish, a knock sounded at his door, but whoever it was waited to be asked to enter, so it was not his father.  “Come in,” he said, and Eilian entered the room, carrying a tray that he placed on the table.

“I brought your evening meal,” Eilian said and then sat down in one of the chairs and waited for Legolas to put down the toy warrior and join him.  Legolas climbed slowly to his feet and then sat down at the table and picked up his fork.  He discovered that he was hungry. He must have been waiting for even longer than he thought.

“Is Adar coming to see me soon?”

Eilian shook his head. “He is too angry.  He will wait until he calms down a little.”

Legolas stared at him, with a forkful of venison paused halfway to his mouth.  He had seen how angry Thranduil was in the Great Hall, but it had never occurred to him that his father might be too furious to even talk to him.  “Why is he so very angry?” he cried.

“Think about it,” urged Eilian gently. “Are you not ashamed of at least some of your own behavior?  I usually find that the actions I am ashamed to have committed are those about which Adar becomes the angriest.”

Legolas looked down at his plate.  As it happened, he was ashamed of having deceived his father and outright lied to the guard.  He had never liked lying.  He looked at Eilian again. “I am sorry I told you I was going to bed when I meant to sneak out.”

Eilian nodded his acceptance of the apology.  “I would hate to think I could not trust you, brat,” he said gravely.

Legolas looked at him in dismay and then, with a cry, jumped from his chair and threw his arms around Eilian’s neck.  “You can trust me.  You will always be able to trust me.”

Eilian embraced him and then stroked his hair.  “Good,” he said lightly. “I will hold you to that. Let us make a pact.  You will trust me and I will trust you, and we will each live up to the other’s faith.”

Legolas smiled at him. He liked this idea. He and Eilian would rely on one another as fellow warriors did.  From now on, he would be honorable, he swore to himself.  He would be like Eilian.

***

Thranduil paused outside Legolas’s room. He had waited a full day and night before daring to come near his youngest son.  In the first flush of his anger, he had wanted to put his disobedient child over his knee and give him a thrashing the memory of which would make him hesitate the next time he was tempted to do something dangerous or forbidden.  But the death of Cadoc had slaked his need for vengeance and, with time, his temper had cooled. He now intended to use more subtle means to bring Legolas to a better understanding of what was required of him by honor and obedience, not to mention consideration for his own safety. Thranduil would decide on what punishment was most fitting when he saw how Legolas behaved in the next few minutes.  He knocked once and entered without waiting for an answer.

Legolas had been sprawled on the bed, but he came quickly to his feet and looked anxiously into Thranduil’s face.  Perhaps the lengthy wait had done some good, Thranduil thought.  Legolas at least looked concerned that he had displeased his father, even if Thranduil was not yet sure that his son fully felt the shame he should feel over his actions.  Legolas’s face became even more worried as he looked at Thranduil. Then he seemed to come to some resolve and, in a movement that surprised Thranduil, he dropped to his knees.  “I am so sorry, Adar,” he said with his eyes cast down.

Thranduil regarded him appraisingly. The penitent position was a good sign, although Thranduil knew very well that Eilian had probably advised Legolas to assume it.  “That is what you said the last time,” he responded austerely.

Legolas looked up, blue eyes wide and distressed by his father’s rejection of the apology.  “But this time I really am sorry. I have realized that you were right, Adar. The woods can be dangerous at night.  Turgon and I should not have gone there by ourselves.”

Thranduil seated himself in the chair near the bed, leaving his son kneeling before him.  If Legolas regretted his actions, that was a step in the right direction, but Thranduil had concluded that he could be sure his son would stay out of danger only if he fully understood the peril into which he had ventured.  “It concerns me, Legolas, that you accept the idea that the woods are unsafe not because you trust in the truth and wisdom of what I have told you, but because of the results of your own foolhardy actions. For some reason, you are intent on learning things the hard way.  I have wished to protect you, to allow your childhood years to be as free of knowledge of the Shadow as they could be, but I have realized that you are not going to allow that.”

A small frown crossed his son’s face.  “I am not an elfling any more, Adar.”

Thranduil sighed.  “No, I suppose you are not.” He regarded the kneeling child.  “You have decided that the woods are dangerous, but I wonder if you know just how dangerous.  You were very fortunate if you met Cadoc and he did not harm you. He seized a maiden in the antechamber yesterday and threatened to break her neck.”

Legolas’s mouth fell open.

“She was not harmed,” Thranduil went on gravely, “but he is dead.  And he is not the only danger you escaped, iôn-nín.  One of the Home Guard warriors was recently bitten by a giant spider less than three leagues from here.  Orcs have not come that close yet, but warriors on patrol farther from here meet them every day.  When I tell you that you may not roam on your own at night, Legolas, I am trying to keep you safe from these things and the other, more normal, dangers of the forest.  The creatures in the woods are not usually dangerous for us, but we do well to remember that they are wild animals who are not always predictable.”

Legolas had been looking a little dazed and now, abruptly, he cast his eyes down.  Thranduil stared at the bowed head, with sudden misgiving.  He hoped he had not frightened the child too much, but he had needed to make an impression.  He forced himself to keep his voice stern. “Why were you so determined to do this, Legolas?  What made you so careless of your own safety?”

Legolas chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Turgon said he would go by himself, and I did not think that was a good idea.”  Only with difficulty did Thranduil stop himself from groaning.  “And I do like being out at night, Adar.  I wish I had a window like Annael has so I could see the moon and the stars.”

“You cannot allow Turgon to lead you into doing things you know are wrong,” said Thranduil sharply.  “You have to learn to tell him that you will not do what he is urging.”

Legolas lifted his face and regarded him for a moment. “Turgon does not listen very well,” he finally said.

“Then tell him the same thing again,” said Thranduil firmly.  “I will not be happy if I find that you have ever again ignored your own better judgment simply because Turgon urged you to.”  Legolas looked at the floor again, and Thranduil wondered for what seemed like the thousandth time if there was some point to forbidding Legolas to have anything to do with Turgon.

“There is something else I need to speak of, Legolas.  You deceived me when you left the palace without permission, and I fear to ask, but I assume you deceived others too.”  Legolas flushed slightly, wordlessly confirming his father’s guess.  “Such deception is dishonorable, and I am deeply ashamed of you,” Thranduil went on, and the color of his son’s face deepened to scarlet.  “In behaving so deceitfully, you encouraged others to believe that you were lying about the swords too.  No one trusts a liar, Legolas.”  The first hint of tears had now appeared in his son’s eyes.  Good, he thought heartlessly, resisting the urge to comfort the child.  He had been softened by Legolas’s tears before, and he did not intend to let that happen now.

“I am sorry, Adar.” Legolas’s voice trembled slightly, but he went on. “I know that lying is wrong.”

Thranduil regarded Legolas thoughtfully.  His experience as a father told him that his son was ashamed of having been dishonest.  Moreover, Legolas’s claim to believe that dangers lurked in the forest at night had rung true. He thought that he could be reasonably sure that Legolas would not be venturing into the woods in the near future.  He was far less sure, though, that he had convinced his son of the wisdom of relying on Thranduil’s judgment rather than his own.  Very well, he thought, prospective disobedience was an issue he knew how to deal with.

“You may rise,” he said, and Legolas came to his feet, wiping surreptitiously at his eyes. Thranduil waited until Legolas had himself under control again. “Tomorrow, you and I are going to visit some of the wounded warriors in the infirmary.  And then you are going to spend a month working there in the afternoons after you have finished your lessons.”

“A whole month?” Legolas said in dismay.  “I will not have any time to ride or hunt.”

“The stable master will see to your horse,” Thranduil responded unsympathetically. “And if you had wanted time to play, then you should have minded me in the first place. The healers will not have time or patience for disobedience, Legolas, so you will have ample opportunity to learn to do as you are told.  And,” he added, “other than at training, you may not see Turgon during that month.  I have already told Turgon’s parents about the hunting trip.” Legolas looked even more unhappy at this piece of news, and Thranduil took grim satisfaction in knowing that the punishment on which he had finally decided had hit home.

He looked for a moment at the small figure before him, and his heart suddenly twisted with the painful and futile wish to protect him from any danger that might ever come his way.  Then he opened his arms and drew his son into an embrace.  “If you bear your punishment well, my heart, and show me that you mean to do better, then I promise you I will see to it that you have more chances to walk safely under the stars.”

Legolas flung his arms around Thranduil’s neck.  “I really am sorry, Adar.”

“I know you are,” Thranduil crooned and rocked him slightly in his arms.

***

Ithilden sat at his desk, skimming through the dispatches that had come in that morning.  His aide had done a good job of sorting them and taking care of the easier matters himself, but there were still problems requiring his attention.  The novice training program needed to be expanded and the novice master had devised a plan that might cost more than they had on hand. Ithilden bent his attention to it.

The aide appeared in the doorway.  “Lord Eilian is here,” he announced.

“Send him in,” Ithilden said, and Eilian entered, curiosity mixed with mild apprehension on his face.

“I am told that you wanted to see me,” he said, accepting the chair the Ithilden offered.

“Yes,” Ithilden responded. “I am sorry to interrupt your leave with business, but there is a matter I need to settle.” Eilian raised an eyebrow, looking for a moment, surprisingly like Thranduil.  Ithilden picked up one of the dispatches that Eilian had brought from Todith when he came home.

“Todith tells me he wishes to leave the Southern Patrol,” he began and saw Eilian suddenly come to attention with a concerned look on his face.  As well he might, Ithilden thought.  Eilian had been serving under Todith for a number of years now, and a change of command sometimes meant changes in practices to which warriors had grown accustomed and come to like.

“Is something the matter?” Eilian asked.

“Nothing unexpected,” Ithilden said with a small grimace. “He has begun to feel worn down by the Shadow.  I will transfer him to one of the Border Patrols.  His experience will be very useful, especially to the new warriors.”

Eilian nodded reluctantly.  “I am sorry to lose him, but I understand.”  He said no more and Ithilden wondered a little sadly just how well Eilian did understand.  His brother seldom talked about how the Shadow affected him personally, but Ithilden knew it must do so.  He pushed that unpleasant thought aside and continued.

“Todith recommends that you be promoted to his place,” he told Eilian and then sat back to watch his brother’s reaction.

Eilian’s eyes widened in surprise and then, slowly, a smile spread over his face. “Would you promote me like that?” he asked cautiously.

Ithilden smiled wryly.  There had been a time when he would not have been able to imagine that Eilian would ever be responsible enough to function as a captain.  But in the last few years, his brother had matured beyond any of his expectations and, Ithilden knew, beyond any of Thranduil’s expectations too.  “I would count myself lucky if you would accept the position,” he said.

Eilian’s smile grew into a grin.  “Then this is your lucky day, brother,” he crowed.

Ithilden laughed.  “You will carry the notices of Todith’s transfer and your promotion back with you.  You go three days hence?”

Eilian hesitated. “I had thought to leave the day after tomorrow.  I have a visit I want to pay.”

Ithilden leaned back in his chair and considered this answer.  He did not want to pry, but he loved his brother and did not like to see him doing something that might make him unhappy.  “I thought you said that she had asked you to stay away,” he said at length, “that seeing you was too painful.”

Eilian shrugged and gave a small smile. “I am hoping she has changed her mind.”

Ithilden sighed. Eilian was nothing if not optimistic. He wished he could help his brother, but this was one area in which Eilian would simply have to learn the way of things for himself.  Ithilden would have to be content with giving him the captaincy of the Southern Patrol.  Ithilden rose and extended his hand to clasp his brother’s arm.  “Congratulations. Let me know if there is anything I can do to make the change go more smoothly.”

Eilian too rose to clasp arms.  “Actually, there is something you could do.  Indeed, I think there might be two things.”

“What are they?”

“First, there is someone I want you to transfer.”  He looked hopefully at Ithilden.

“If you cannot work with the person, then I can arrange it,” Ithilden conceded. “Who is it?”

“Tinár.”

Ithilden laughed shortly. “I should have known.”  Eilian was not the first officer who had ever asked Ithilden to take Tinár off his hands, but Ithilden was disappointed anyway.  If Eilian could not manage the young warrior, then Ithilden was not sure who would be able to do it.  “Can you really do nothing with him?”

Eilian hesitated. “I think there are ways he can be made useful and, if you allow it, I will tell his new captain how I think he should be handled. But he has alienated so many of the warriors in the Southern Patrol that I think he would do better with a fresh start somewhere else.”

Ithilden nodded resignedly. “You said there were two things I could do. What is the second?”

Eilian eyed him hopefully.  “Do you think you might be able to send one of those Dwarven swords to Gelmir?”

***

With Thranduil behind him, Legolas stood before the two healers, who were now explaining to him what they expected from him during his month of working in the infirmary.  He knew the female healer, whose name was Gwaleniel, because she was the one who usually treated those who lived in the palace, and she had cared for all of his minor scrapes and bumps. Indeed, he had vague memories of her being very comforting when he had been sick with sorrow after his mother died.  He did not know the male healer, whose name was Belówen, because he usually treated warriors.  But both of them were now speaking to him very seriously.

 “Some of what we ask you to do will be unpleasant,” Belówen said, “but you will need to do what we tell you, when we tell you to do it, simply because we tell you.  There are sick people here and we do not have time to argue.  Can you do that?”

Legolas nodded.  Earlier, he and Thranduil had visited the three warriors who had come home with Eilian, and Legolas had been sobered by the sight of them.  One of them had been incoherent, and the healer had said he was still suffering from the effects of the poison on the Orc arrow that had penetrated his side.  The other two had been cheerful enough, but it was obvious even to Legolas that they were in pain. He knew that Thranduil had been trying to show him yet again that there were dangers Legolas was not yet ready to face, and he had to admit that the lesson had been an effective one.

“If you are not able to follow our instructions without question,” Gwaleniel put in, “you will be of no use to us and we will have to send you home. Do you understand?”

“I will do what you tell me,” Legolas said.  He had no wish to have to face his father with the news that he had been dismissed from the infirmary, and besides, he wanted to help these sick warriors.  After all, if one of his brothers were here, he would want someone to take good care of them.

“Very well,” Belówen conceded. “We will give it a try.”  He looked at Thranduil, who had been listening in serene silence.  “We will send him home in time for evening meal, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil said.  He bent to kiss Legolas’s forehead and then he was gone, leaving Legolas feeling a bit lost.

“Belówen,” an attendant called from the doorway, “Galemir is becoming agitated again.”

“Come,” the healer bid Legolas, as he immediately leapt to his feet and started down the hallway toward the room of the warrior who had been poisoned by the Orc arrow.  The warrior had indeed become much more restless than he had been when Legolas had seen him earlier.  He seemed to be fighting off imaginary enemies, for he was shaking off the hold of the attendant next to his bed.  As Belówen approached him, he slid from the bed, and the healer and the attendant seized his arms to try to get him to return to it.  Abruptly, the warrior sagged against the healer and then, without warning, he vomited onto the floor.

“Clean that up, Legolas,” Belówen commanded.  Legolas stared at the noxious mess.  “Now,” Belówen told him sharply. “You will find a bucket and mop over there.”  The warrior groaned and Belówen turned his attention back to his patient, murmuring soothing words. Legolas paused for only a second and then ran to get the bucket and mop.

***

Thranduil looked up as Eilian strode into the sitting room.  His son had been out riding, and the gleam in his eyes and high color in his angular face suggested that he had not been trotting sedately along the forest paths.  Thranduil smiled wryly.  “Come and share a cup of wine with me before evening meal,” he invited.  “I wish to congratulate you on your promotion.”

Eilian grinned, poured himself some wine, and took the chair into which Thranduil waved him.  “Ithilden told you then.”

“Yes, and I told him that he would find no one better to captain the Southern Patrol,” Thranduil said and was rewarded by a surprisingly shy smile from his son.

“I will do my best not to make Ithilden regret his trust in me,” Eilian said earnestly.

“I have no doubt that you will be a fine captain, iôn-nín,” Thranduil declared firmly.  “You have done well as a warrior and as your patrol’s lieutenant, and you have earned the right to lead others.”  Eilian flushed with pleasure at the praise, while Thranduil yet again swallowed the fear he always felt when Eilian’s departure for the south was imminent. He had always worried about Eilian’s recklessness, but his son had tempered that in recent years and Thranduil was beginning to be cautiously hopeful that, like his older brother, Eilian would grow into the position he had been born to.  And yet Thranduil wished that Eilian could be happy serving somewhere other than the dangerous southern reaches of his father’s realm.

The door opened again and Legolas entered. They both turned to him. “How was your first day at the infirmary?” Eilian asked.

Glancing at his father for permission to sit, Legolas flopped into a chair. “It was hard,” he said.  “I am not complaining, Adar,” he added hastily, turning to Thranduil.  “But I did work hard.”  Thranduil thought with some amusement that Legolas sounded proud of himself rather than disgruntled.  “The warriors from your patrol are still there, Eilian, and they needed looking after.  I cannot do the things the healers do, of course, but I did help keep things clean.”

“Did you do as the healers told you?” Thranduil asked, becoming serious again.

Legolas nodded. “They are very busy, so when they tell me to do things, I just do them. They cannot take the time to explain things.”

Thranduil could see Eilian hiding a smile as Legolas earnestly explained the need for obedience to his father.  “You must remember that, little one. Sometimes you have to do things just because a person you trust tells you to do them. Eilian is going to be the captain of his patrol now, and I am sure that he expects his warriors to obey his orders without arguing. Is that not so, Eilian?”

Eilian looked a little surprised at finding himself speaking on behalf of filial obedience -- as well he might, Thranduil thought.  But he nonetheless responded as Thranduil had invited him to. “Warriors do have to follow their captain’s orders,” he confirmed. “They get in a lot of trouble if they do not.”

Legolas grimaced slightly. He was evidently less charmed by the idea of following orders when Thranduil talked about it than he had been when telling of it himself.  The implications were probably only too clear to him.  Thranduil smiled. “Come here, Legolas,” he invited, and the child slid from his own chair and approached his father. Thranduil drew him onto his lap.

“Adar, I am too big,” Legolas protested, but he nonetheless allowed himself to be held. As Thranduil buried his face in his son’s golden hair and drew in the scent of him, he could not help feeling that he was losing something precious.  His last child was leaving the safe refuge that Thranduil had attempted to make for him. Legolas was determined to prove that he was no longer an elfling, and Thranduil knew that soon he really would be too big to hold on his lap.  But not yet, he thought fiercely, and tightened his embrace.  Legolas resisted for a moment and then leaned against his father, seemingly content for the time being.

But time flowed on even for Elves and Thranduil could not stop it.  He would have to trust that, like his brothers before him, his youngest son would survive the perils that lay all about him and struggle through to become an adult upon whom his father would gaze with loving pride.

*******

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and I hope, enjoyed this story.

Camp6311:  Yes, Legolas was lucky that they were in the Great Hall and Thranduil had other matters to attend to. Otherwise he might have gotten a bit of a shock. And it’s always a good idea to let your imagination run wild where Eilian is concerned.

Erunyauve:  You are absolutely right.  Thranduil is pretty shrewd and he is an experienced father. And he raised Eilian. So if he had not been distracted, he would certainly have been much harder to slip past.

Legolas4me:  Thranduil is scary.  He is probably a good father to his sons but I don’t think I would have wanted him as my father.

Lady Berenice:  The Woodland King needed to ring because he was such a terrifying force all in himself.  And Legolas did the right thing in the end.

WhiteWolf:  Legolas does pay for confessing, but he needed to do it.  I can’t even begin to think about the guilt he would be feeling if he hadn’t!

TigerLily:  Legolas would have been shocked beyond measure if his father had hit him. I don’t think Elves were big on physical punishment. They were so clever, I doubt it they needed it often.

Frodo3791:  I thought that if anyone would understand what ticked off Adar would do, it would be Eilian.

Tapetum Lucidum:  Thank you!  I wanted that scene in the Great Hall to be really tense, but it’s hard to know just what’s going to make the reader squirm.  Legolas does make a good contrast to his older brothers who have learned how to handle Thranduil (for the most part anyway).

Draekon: Ack!! I screwed up the languages. You have an amazing eye for detail.  I knew that was going to be trouble. That’s what comes of writing stories set earlier in time. I had boxed myself into a corner.  I can’t even think of a way to fix it. I think I will pretend it didn’t happen. :: daw covers her ears with her hands and says “la, la, la” very loudly ::

Antigone Q:  That’s a really good comparison to the city streets.  I don’t think that Eilian has a fan club yet but my beta has declared that he belongs to her.  Maybe she will share.  PS  I tried to review your revised chapter but ff.net won’t let me because I reviewed it once already. I liked it. Now I feel like I know what’s going on.

Faenen:  Thank you.  I’m glad you’ve enjoyed this story.  I hope to see you back for the next one.

StrangeBlaze:  Thranduil scared even me and I was writing the chapter. He is a master at terrorizing hapless offenders.

JastaElf:  I HOPE Legolas learned something from this.  He was very lucky that Thranduil as in a public place with lots on his mind.  Otherwise the lack of time for riding would have been irrelevant since he would not have been able to sit a horse anyway.

Dot:  Legolas was really clueless. He even thought that Adar might scold Cadoc and send him on his way.  And I’m glad for Ithilden too.  Dealing with his father on a daily basis must be a bit of a strain.  To me, Eilian can be really maternal to Legolas.

Fadesintothewest:  I think Legolas may have been relieved by confessing in the long run. He’s not good at deception because he too is a good kid at heart.

BrendaG:  I am so glad you found the previous chapter tense.  I worked at making it that way but wasn’t sure anyone but me would be put on edge by it.  And I think you’re right that at least Legolas decided that saving his own skin was less important than giving his father information he needed.

Jay of Lasgalen:  Yes, I thought Legolas was brave too. I’m not sure I would have been able to confess to Thranduil even if he did need to know about the swords.

LKK:  I tried to be gentle, just as you ordered. What do you think?  Is the image of the sheltered little prince mopping up puke appropriate?

Naneth:  Thranduil should be used to strong-willed children by now but Legolas did seem to be pushing him to the edge.  I am so glad I tied your stomach in knots!

JustMe:  Eilian’s advice was useful, I think. But Legolas didn’t do too badly. Thranduil took time to cool down and probably consumed a big bottle of Dorwinian while waiting!

Elemmire:  “What wasn’t said” – that made me smile.  I think what isn’t said is often important with Eilian.

The Karenator:  I never thought about Eilian “wiping the grin off his face” in response to Thranduil’s frown, but you’re right. That’s exactly what he did.  Thranduil wanted to smack Legolas, but he didn’t, which it the important part, I guess.

Tolkien Fan:  Oh, good lessons. And Thranduil does learn to trust Ithilden more, which he deserves because he’s smart and responsible.  I’m thinking I might do a story one day that would have long flashbacks to the youths of both Eilian and Ithilden. Thranduil could tell Legolas the stories. It would be fun!

LOTR Faith: Legolas appreciates your sympathy. He wants to know if you are willing to come over and empty some bed pans for him.

Nilmandra:  Thank you so much for all of your support and idea and patience while I worked on this.  You are the best beta even if you are occasionally cruel!  ;-)

Luin:  Thranduil was pretty scary here.  And I love the picture of you made so tense by the chapter that you had to get up and walk around. I think Thranduil excludes Legolas partly because of how upset Legolas got over any talk of Orcs after his mother had died.  Thranduil just got in the habit of not sharing with him.  And it’s time for that to change.  And I agree. Ithilden is a lot like his father.  (Thranduil would like you to know that anyone comparing him to Elvis is in trouble.  Perhaps you would like him to come over and be kingly in your house?)