AN: This is a continuation of a series of stories titled Interrupted Journeys. Parts One through Eleven have already been posted. In the case of this story, it is probably necessary to have read at least Parts Eight through Ten to understand the OCs and their motivations better and to understand the events that Thranduil is trying to manage. In fact, if you haven't read those parts, you will likely think I have a very poor understanding of Tolkien's elves. This part of the story is set in Legolas's childhood, immediately after Part Eleven. Legolas and his friends Anastor, Noruil and Brethil are near adulthood, at the age of 46. His cousin, Galithil, is a half year older then Legolas, and has just had his 47th Begetting Day. His cousin, Berior, is a year younger than Legolas, at the age of 45.

T.A. 1987

Chapter 1: The best laid plans of elves and orcs

Hooo, hooo, hoooo!

The owl's call softly filtered through the open door of Thanduil's private office from the Queen's garden outside it. Then it sounded again, more insistently.

Thranduil abandoned his reading at his desk and hurried into the garden. It did not do to keep that owl waiting, lest he rend the message he carried to pieces trying to remove it himself in his impatience. As Thranduil approached, the owl stamped his feet on the bench where he waited, hopping up and down in the process. His broad wings fluttered silently at his side as he bent over the small pouch tied to his leg, picking at it.

"Shh," Thranduil soothed. "One more moment, if you please." He reached carefully for the leather straps, neatly avoiding the bird's nipping beak. "Go find yourself a nice mouse," he said, once the pouch was in his hand. The owl did not hesitate. With one stroke of his wings, he soared into the lower branches of the beech tree in the center of the garden and began swiveling his large head in search of his reward.

Without bothering to move, Thranduil unrolled the messages the owl carried and scanned them, first one and then the other. "Good news, this," he said to himself with grim satisfaction. Then he strode back into the stronghold.

Tucking the notes into his tunic pocket, he passed through his office and straight out of the family quarters. Walking briskly, he made several turns through the twisting halls of the stronghold, until he approached an open wooden door at the end of a brightly lit corridor--the door of his wife's workshop, where she and her ladies did their weaving. A smile claimed Thranduil lips. Lindomiel's voice reached him in the corridor, telling a story that had the other ellyth in the room positively breathless with laughter. He was certain that he caught his own name near the end of her tale, but whatever else she said was drowned out by giggles.

"Dare I ask what you all find so amusing?" he asked as he stepped into the room.

Thranduil almost never ventured into Lindomiel's workshop, at least not during the day, when the other ladies were working. He was normally engaged in his own duties during those hours. But, given the messages he just received, he needed the Queen.

Some of the ladies in the workshop, the younger ones that Lindomiel had brought on when Dieneryn sailed, tensed and fell silent in reaction to his sudden appearance, their hands frozen, tangled in the warps of their looms. The others, who had been weavers since the capital was south of the mountains, also stopped working, but they burst into laughter twice as loud. Lindomiel's story must have been an interesting one, indeed. Thranduil focused on her and raised one eyebrow, struggling--and failing badly, no doubt--to hide his own amusement and appear dignified.

"I am telling stories of our courtship, nothing more," Lindomiel answered him, her face the picture of innocence, if he ignored the light that made her eyes twinkle. She arose from her loom.

Inspired by her movement, the younger ladies also began to stand, looking even more guilty, if that were possible.

"Do not disturb your work," Thranduil said quickly, gesturing for everyone to remain in place and moving to join Lindomiel at the back of the room, at the end of the row of weavers.

Lindomiel hurried around her loom to meet him.

That struck Thranduil as unusual. Speaking with her in the back of the room would clearly be more private and, therefore, preferable to speaking with her in the midst of all her ladies. Surely she must recognize that. He was further surprised when one of the most experienced weavers stood, despite his invitation to remain seated. It was immediately obvious that she had not stood out of courtesy. Like Lindomiel, she stepped into the pathway. There, she interposed herself between the king and queen, even going so far as to hold her hand in front of Thranduil's face, nearly over his eyes.

"You cannot go back there, my lord," she declared firmly.

Thranduil ceased trying and instead took a step back to regard both the weaver and Lindomiel with a bemused, somewhat exasperated expression.

"The project on my loom is a gift for you," Lindomiel explained.

Thranduil's eyes lit. "Is it now?" he asked, making an exaggerated effort to lean around the elleth before him. His wife took such pride in ensuring her gifts were always a surprise. Foiling her effort to do so had long ago become a game between them.

"It is," she affirmed, reaching his side. She took both his hands and rotated around him, turning him to put his back to her loom.

He looked over his shoulder, while pretending to pull away from her.  "Just a glimpse," he teased.

"Thranduil!" she exclaimed in playful outrage, tugging on his hands.

With dramatic reluctance, he relented and faced her fully. "Not even a hint? Will you at least tell me if it is a tapestry or a garment?" he asked with a grin. "You cannot expect to keep it secret now that I know that it is here, after all."

She tightened her grip on his hands. "I will tell you nothing. Indeed, I will have this room locked until I finish it."

That made Thranduil laugh outright. "You think you can lock me out of rooms in my own stronghold?"

"I do," she replied with a serene smile and absolutely no hesitation. Or doubt.

Some of the younger ellyth laughed nervously.

Thranduil raised one of her hands to his lips. "I would never dream of challenging you, my lady," he said. "I promise not to peek at your gift until it is off the loom."

"But you are brought to that promise only to avoid the indignity of being barred from any part of this stronghold and, even then, you limit your promise to the completion of the project. After that, anything goes, I suppose," she said, still smiling.

He nodded. "Of course."

Lindomiel laughed and leaned to whisper into his ear. "You are a villain, meleth. I shall stop making presents for you if you do not amend your ways." She concluded that threat by kissing his cheek.

He pressed his cheek against hers to arrest her movement away from him and to whisper in her ear in turn. "Your threats do not frighten me," he breathed, quietly enough to be certain no one would overhear him. "I am fairly certain I know how to regain your good graces."
 
"Prove it," Lindomiel whispered back in a tone of voice that made Thranduil very thankful no one else could have heard her and regretful that he still had a considerable amount of work to do before he could accept that challenge. His regret must have been written on his face. She led him a few steps away, closer to the door, and her expression grew more serious. "I doubt that you came here, personally, rather than sending a servant, to peek at presents that you did not yet know existed," she prompted.

"Indeed not," he replied. "I fear that I must request your presence in the Hall. I have messages from the south. There are decisions to be made and I want you there to help make them."

She nodded. "Give me a few moments? To find a better stopping place than the middle of the pattern I am weaving?"

"Of course," Thranduil replied, again kissing her hand. "It will take Hallion and I that long to call everyone else to the Hall."

"I will be there as quickly as I can," she assured him.

Despite the gravity of that business, Thranduil laughed when Lindomiel escorted him all the way to the door of the workshop and closed it after him.

*~*~*

From Lindomiel's workshop, Thranduil made straight for the passage that housed his advisors' offices, to find his steward and enlist his help to gather the rest of the Council. That request, and the messages Thranduil showed him, sent Hallion rushing behind the tapestry across from his office and through the secret door that led into the Great Hall. For his part, Thranduil went to the office next door to Hallion's--the Troop Commander's office--in order to give Dolgailon the opportunity to see the messages before the others on the council.

His eyebrows went up when Galithil, not Dolgailon, rose from the chair behind the desk. He was sorting through troop reports from the looks of it.

"May I help you, my lord," he asked with a slight frown. Like the ladies in the Queen's workshop, he was clearly surprised to see the King wandering about the stronghold in the mid-day.

"I was looking for Dolgailon. And you," Thranduil responded, glancing around the office and then stepping closer to the desk to peer at the papers Galithil had been organizing. They were indeed troop reports, along with a map of the forest. Galithil was mapping the latest orc and spider encounters, it seemed. "Do you know where he might be?"

"On the training fields," Galithil answered. "Promoting Sidhion."

That made Thranduil blink. Promoting Sidhion? On the training field? Sidhion was already a lieutenant. One of the lieutenants of the Palace Guard, not the Training Program. Dollion was the Guard's captain and Thranduil wanted him to remain its captain. They had only just given Dollion special duties that Dolgailon knew perfectly well Thranduil entrusted only to him. Thranduil could not imagine how Dolgailon meant to reorder the Guard's command structure, why he would be doing it now, of all times, or what any of that had to do with the training field.

"Sidhion is to be the new captain of the Training Program," Galithil explained, in response to Thranduil's confusion.

Making Sidhion the Training Program's captain made little more sense than making him the Palace Guard's captain, at least in Thranduil's mind. "Sidhion has never worked with the Training Program," he said.

"That is not entirely true," Galithil replied. "When the Palace Guard is sent to support one of the patrols, the Sixth Years take the Guard's duty and so come under Sidhion's command. And even when the Palace Guard has its full complement of warriors, the Sixth Years take patrols with them, as well as the Path Guard, so Sidhion interacts with the Training Program regularly. And everyone likes him. He is...very diplomatic. He solves conflicts rather than instigating them."

Thranduil snorted in amusement. "And is that an important qualification for the captain of the Training Program?"

"The Training Program's purpose is to take young elves, who are often...less wise than they should be, and make them into warriors that will understand and respect the command structure. So, yes, the ability to teach and earn that respect is important," Galithil responded. Then he looked at Thranduil sidelong. "Langon was your swords master, was he not? He is very good at teaching warriors to fight with bladed weapons, but do you honestly believe that he could teach respect? Especially here in this forest?"

Laughing, Thranduil dropped into one of the chairs in front of Dolgailon's desk and gestured for Galithil to reseat himself. "Anyone would make a better captain, in your judgment, than Langon, then? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yes," Galithil answered bluntly. "But Sidhion really does make sense," he continued. "Pathon and Hebor are not much more experienced in command than the last time they were passed over for promotion, the last time the Training Program needed a new captain, so they will not do. And Tirithion and Langon are still too ill-tempered to be captains. Even if Dolgailon did promote one of them, he would still need to bring someone else into the Program as an officer to replace Glilavan. Sidhion has been a lieutenant for over half a yen, he knows the workings of the Training Program, he will not need to move himself or his family to take command of it since he already lives near the stronghold, and there are plenty of warriors in the Palace Guard or Path Guard ready for promotion, so he will be easily replaced in his current position. He is a logical choice."

Thranduil's brows climbed. That was certainly a thorough analysis. Dolgailon's, no doubt. Thranduil agreed with it and even if he did not, he would not challenge it, providing Dollion was staying in place. Dolgailon was the Troop Commander because Thranduil trusted him in that duty. Still, he was not entirely comfortable with how much he shared with his younger brother. Especially since Galithil was Pathon, Hebor, Tirithion and Langon's subordinate.

"I trust that you would not repeat that reasoning, especially the first part of it, in your officers' presence," he said. It was not a question or even a warning. He did trust that, else Galithil would not serve the Troop Commander's office or the Ruling Council in any capacity. "Still, I cannot help but wonder if your reactions to your officers are not influenced, at least somewhat, by hearing such evaluations of their strengths and weaknesses."

Galithil shrugged. "My lord, I think all my cousins and I have had enough direct interaction with those in authority to have formed our own very well reasoned opinions of the qualities that contribute to good or poor leadership," he responded dryly. "Naturally we will apply those opinions when judging those who command us, such as our officers. Every warrior does judge his officers, after all."

Thranduil smiled. "But every warrior is not privy to the Troop Commander's own evaluation of those officers."

"Nor is every warrior expected to prepare himself for the duties Legolas and I will be expected to face, my lord," Galithil countered.

Thranduil's smile broadened. "True enough," he said. Then he grew serious again. "I have messages from Tulus and Tureden. The council is convening in the Hall. Can you fetch your brother and join us?"

Galithil stood. "Of course, my lord." He pulled a key from his breast pocket, unlocked Dolgailon's desk drawer and began stowing the papers he had been working on into it.

Thranduil regarded that with some curiosity.

"We are concerned there may be spies in the stronghold," Galithil reminded him. "Hallion has ordered us to keep all written records either in the family quarters or under lock and key until the spy is identified."

Thranduil nodded. "That is a very good idea," he said softly. Then he looked back at Galithil. "Since you are so well informed, do you happen to know how Dolgailon and Dollion decided to secure communications to the patrols and villages?"

"I do," Galithil replied, sifting through the papers in the drawer. He produced one that contained a rough map of the territory around the stronghold and several lists in its margins. Galithil turned the paper so it faced Thranduil and pointed first to one of the lists. "These are the only couriers that will be allowed to carry messages from the villages to the stronghold, until further notice," he explained. He pointed to another list. "And these couriers will be for the patrols."

The elves on those lists were all fiercely loyal to the king.

Galithil then traced his finger along a line on the map. "Dollion has set this as the perimeter that he and select members of the Guard will patrol for unauthorized communications via courier, bird or other means." He pointed to a third list. "These are the Guards he has entrusted to share this duty."

This list was almost exclusively Sindarin elves.

"They know not to allow any couriers through, except the authorized ones. And they will report to Dolgailon any other travelers, elven or animal, to the area around the stronghold or anyone traveling away from the stronghold, past the perimeter." He pulled another paper from the drawer and placed it next to the map. It was in Dolgailon's hand--a partially completed set of orders to the Northern Patrol. "Moreover," Galithil continued, "the officers will be informed that all authorized orders and reports will contain this symbol somewhere within their text." He tapped one of the first words Dolgailon had written. Two of its letters were oddly connected in a way that might have been a splotch of ink or an oddity of hand writing, but on closer inspection Thranduil saw it was a deliberate pattern that approximated, in miniature, the device on Dolgailon's seal.

Thranduil nodded, quite pleased. "That should do very well," he said.

"As well as can be managed," Galithil agreed, returning the papers to the desk and locking the drawer. "By your leave, my lord, I will go find my brother. We have both been very anxious to hear Tureden's report."

Thranduil did not doubt that. Fortunately, the report in question should satisfy them. He stood and nodded his permission for Galithil to leave. "Thank you," he said as his nephew rushed past him.

*~*~*

"You have the reports?" Legolas asked, rushing into the Great Hall, followed closely by Berior, Lanthir and Galuauth. The guards lingered near the door, but their captain signaled for them to join him at the table, where much of the rest of the King's Guard already sat. "From both Tureden and Tulus?" Legolas specified, pulling out his chair when he reached the table. He held his hand out for the small, curled papers in front of Hallion. The steward passed them to Legolas as Thranduil nodded his permission for everyone to sit.

Legolas did so and Berior stood behind him, leaning over him to have a view of the reports.

"Good!" Legolas said quietly, handing one paper over his shoulder to his cousin. "Very good," he repeated when he finished the second and it followed its mate into Berior's hands. Berior murmured his agreement and gave the papers back to Hallion. Legolas turned an eager expression on the king and drew a breath to speak.

Before he could, Dolgailon and Galithil charged into the Hall, followed by their guards.

"You have news?" Dolgailon called.

Thranduil took the papers from Hallion and held them out for Dolgailon, not waiting for his request to see them.

Rather than going to his own seat at the opposite end of the table, Dolgailon stood in place, reading.

"So, are you going to arrest her now?" Galithil asked after only scanning the reports.

"Indeed," Dolgailon agreed. "When do we leave for the village?" He shifted his weight back and took a step towards the door of the Hall, as if he expected to depart immediately.

"That is what we are going to discuss," Thranduil replied, smiling, albeit grimly. He gestured for Dolgailon and Galithil to sit.

Galithil slid into the chair between Legolas and Berior. Dolgailon frowned and, rather than take his normal seat, dropped into the nearest unoccupied chair without taking his eyes off the king. "What is there to discuss? I agreed to leave her in my village until we found all her servants. Now we have them. Four are already dead. Tureden confirms that the two servants I saw with Manadhien in the village are Lagril and Pelin's brothers, Morinco, Haldince," he said, tossing Tureden's report back to Hallion. "Tulus reports that his spies still have Fuilin and Glilavan under watch near Dol Guldur," he continued, returning the second report to Hallion in a similar manner. "That is all of them. We will go to the village, arrest them all at once, so they will not be able to aid one another's escape, hold a trial and then...well, the rest is your decision, of course. The important thing is to arrest them quickly, before they can escape or do more damage in my village."

A scornful noise interrupted any reply Thranduil might have made. "And you are supposed to be the superior tactician," Engwe said, shaking his head. "Surely you can see this will not be so easy."

Dolgailon made a sour face, but did not rise to that bait. He did not even glance at his uncle.

That did not stop Engwe. "First," he held up one finger, "we must decide who we can send to arrest them that will not alarm Manadhien and send her running."

"Or worse," Golwon added softly.

Galithil, Legolas and Berior looked at him in confusion.

"If she learns that she is cornered," Hallion explained in a low voice, "about to be arrested, suspecting she faces execution, she will be desperate to evade capture. In her position, I would try to create some sort of diversion to facilitate my escape. If I had an army at my disposal--and we have confirmed she is allied with orcs--I could create a mighty diversion indeed. One that would result in far too many deaths."

"All the more reason to move swiftly," Dolgailon pressed. "We should send word to Tulus's spies, who are already watching Fuilin and Glilavan, to arrest them. And with your permission, my lord, I will take some of the guard to arrest Manadhien myself. No one would think it strange that I am visiting my own village. If I travel there, it will not alarm her."

Engwe held up a second finger. "Fuilin and Glilavan are hiding in an orc camp. How many orcs are in that camp? How dangerous is the approach? Are there enough spies present to fight all those orcs, as well as Fuilin and Glilavan, and capture or kill them?" He held up a third finger. "And as for Manadhien, even if you can travel to that village for the second time this month without arousing suspicion, how many people will you be arresting there? Not just Manadhien, Morinco, Haldince, surely. What about the villagers that sympathize with Manadhien? Especially those that have served her, possibly without knowing the extent of her evil. Do we know exactly who they are and if any of them are loyal enough, or deceived enough, to help her escape? If so, what do we do with them? Arrest them too? Or at least detain them?" He paused for emphasis. "We need to discuss this, Dolgailon."

Thranduil agreed. He waited quietly until Dolgailon managed to unclench his jaw to speak again.

"Though he is being as tiresome as we have all come to expect, Engwe makes some valid points," Dolgailon finally conceded in a carefully measured voice.

He ignored Engwe's indignant hurumph.

"Fuilin and Glilavan's arrest does present some tactical difficulties," he continued, "assuming we want them alive without incurring significant losses ourselves. Manadhien's arrest is probably the easier of the two, as well as the most important, so let us start there. Given the information Tulus and his spies have sent us, we have identified everyone we need to arrest in addition to Manadhien, Morinco and Haldince. To start with, I would want her advisors to speak to the King. Also, there are three village guards that seem to be aware of Manadhien's schemes and possibly of her alliance with the orcs around that village. Solchion, Lumil and Baranil are their names. We should at least detain them."

"Very well," Thranduil replied, looking at the captain of his Guard. "How do you recommend we proceed?"

Conuion frowned slightly, thinking. "Focusing first on the village then, we are speaking of arresting three people--Manadhien, Morinco, Haldince--for treason, and detaining several others--Solchion, Lumil, Baranil and those on her council--for questioning. We cannot do that with fewer than a dozen guards, especially given the likelihood that these elves will violently resist. The problem is, I cannot spare a dozen guards." He turned to Dolgailon. "Perhaps we could enlist the aid of officers from the Southern and Western Patrols? Ostarndor, Morillion  and their lieutenants? There is no doubt about their loyalty or skill. They are already in the area, so their movement towards the village should not be cause for alarm. If we send them, along with some of my guards--Belloth and Hurion would be best...."

"And Galudiron and I," Dolgailon added.

Conuion nodded. "Of course. With Tureden, Tulus and the other spies already present, that should be a large enough force. And since the guards will be traveling with Dolgailon, whose presence should not appear to be too out-of-place, we should not send her into flight." He faced Thranduil. "Does that meet with your approval, my lord?"

"Add me to your count and it will," Thranduil replied.

Conuion immediately scowled.

"I intend to personally arrest Manadhien," Thranduil said in a tone that even Conuion knew better than to challenge. "I have long anticipated the opportunity to look her in the eye again."

"I agree that certain aspects of this would be much easier if you went there yourself, my lord," Conuion responded, cautiously. "For example, you could determine the level of guilt that Solchion, Lumil, Baranil and the advisors bear, without having to haul the innocent along with the guilty back to the stronghold."

"And he could explain, in person, the crimes Manadhien has committed," Dolgailon added. "That might be necessary. She is popular and her crimes are difficult to believe."

"But in order for the King to travel to that village without sending Manadhien flying," Legolas interjected, "he would have to travel there secretly." His voice took on a rather dry tone. "Luckily, that will be easy to accomplish. It is very difficult to recognize either the King or his family."

Conuion nodded in response to that and merely looked at Thranduil evenly.

"If I avoid the villages and patrols along the way, I ought to be able to manage it," Thranduil countered, leveling a cool glare on his son that he was surprised to see did not make him so much as look away.

"What about Fuilin and Glilavan?" Berior asked in a clear effort to avert an argument. "Engwe is right that they are the bigger problem, camped amongst orcs."

"Is it your decision to simply execute them this time, Thranduil?" Engwe asked with an overly neutral tone that did nothing to disguise his disgust. "If so, you might better use your time and efforts at stealth to go to that camp instead of the village and put an arrow in each of their chests. It would forestall the need for a battle to capture two elves you intend to kill and, after you finish them, you can still return to the village and attend to matters there."

Everyone stared in utter silence at the King, awaiting his response to that suggestion.

Thranduil ignored his uncle's ill humor. He had his right to it, after all. Fuilin and Glilavan's fates were evil, indeed, but they had chosen them. Wishing they had not served no one. "Do we have scouting reports of this camp, Dolgailon?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord," Dolgailon responded promptly. "I ordered Ostarndor to send scouts in anticipation of the need to retrieve Fuilin and Glilavan. The camp is within sight of Dol Guldur and one hour from the western border of the forest. The best approach is along the western plain, through a ravine into the forest. The trees in the area offer no cover. There is only the ravine and roots and rocks on the ground. The camp itself consists of a shelter made of rocks on two sides, open in the front and closed in with piled wood at the back. The scouts report the camp is surrounded by orc lairs, but orcs do not occupy the camp itself. They have seen no more than twenty orcs at any one time in the area. Normally only five to ten. But, as I said, this area is within sight of Dol Guldur. A loud disturbance would, without doubt, bring the wrath of the entire fortress down upon whoever we send there."

"So, the best attack would be, as Engwe suggested, one that depends upon stealth and speed?"

"Yes, my lord. My scouts suggest a small contingent of elves could approach the camp to swiftly and, hopefully, quietly kill the surrounding orcs and offer Fuilin and Glilavan the opportunity to surrender."

"Or to raise an alarm," Engwe countered.

"Signifying their choice to be promptly executed, rather than to surrender," Dolgailon retorted. "And the elves we send would still have a good chance to escape whatever orcs were alerted. The scouts say this camp is the closest orc outpost to the forest border. The path to the plain from it is relatively clear, especially in daylight."

"Who could we send on this mission that we could expect to kill Fuilin and Glilavan, should it come to that?" Thranduil asked, speaking mostly to himself. The answer was immediately obvious. No one. There was no one that he would ask or order to such a deed. Bracing himself for an explosion, he turned to Conuion. "Engwe is correct. I have to do this myself."

That statement elicited the sternest scowl that Thranduil had seen on his guard's face since the mid Second Age, when he told him that he intended to lead warriors to help fight Sauron in Eriador in defiance of Oropher's orders. Still, Conuion only nodded.

There was a rustling around the table.

Thranduil glanced over the faces surrounding him. Legolas, Galithil and Berior were openly dismayed, Legolas not least of all, for reasons Thranduil easily sympathized with. Dolgailon seemed no better pleased. Hallion and Golwon were calculating, and possibly reining in, their responses. Even Lindomiel appeared ready to publicly protest.

Traveling within sight of Dol Guldur was insanely dangerous. Thranduil was perfectly aware of that. Unfortunately, even if he was willing to ask someone else to execute two elves--which he was not--he was also the most skilled warrior at this table, save possibly Engwe. He frowned. When had that happened? When he began his reign, he was the youngest member of his Ruling Council. Hallion and Golwon were still far older than him, but he had more experience in battle than even Golwon. They might try to dissuade him from this course of action, but it was the best choice, so they would not succeed.

"I will go with you, Thranduil," Engwe said into the uneasy silence. It was not a request or suggestion.

Thranduil's eyes widened involuntarily and his gaze darted to his uncle.

"I will not allow my brother's son--my nephew--to face Dol Guldur alone while I sit idly in this stronghold," Engwe continued with a sharp tone. "Nor will I let him face such dark deeds alone," he added in a softer voice. "I am going with you."

Thranduil stifled an astonished snort. There was a reason why he tolerated his uncle's bile and this was it. Engwe might be annoying, but he was also steadfast and utterly true, even in deeds that repulsed him beyond measure, once convinced they were necessary.

"I appreciate your support," Thranduil said softly.

Engwe only made an incoherent muttering noise in response.

"I am coming also, obviously, my lord," Conuion added. "Pendurion will come with us. So will Belloth and Hurion. They are the best archers amongst the Guard. In their place, Lanthir and Galuauth can go south to help arrest Manadhien in the village."

Thranduil nodded and drew a breath to declare their business finished, hoping to dismiss his council before open warfare erupted over the decisions they had made.

"One more question, my lord," Lindomiel said before he could speak. And she continued without awaiting his leave to do so. "Are we certain that we have all of Manadhien's servants?"

The question alone elicited a loud groan from Dolgailon.

"The success of these plans depends on their secrecy, so we must be certain," Lindomiel insisted. "Unfortunately, we are not. There may be one spy left. Here in the stronghold, we fear. Until we can identify that spy, bringing Manadhien and her servants into the stronghold would be very dangerous. It might even play into her hands."

"We do not know for certain that she has another spy," Dolgailon replied, sounding exasperated.

"Someone leaked the information that Legolas killed Demil," Hallion said. "We know that for certain. The only people that should have known that are in this room. So, unless one of us suddenly has forgotten how to hold his tongue...."

"Dannenion and Anastor also knew," Galithil interjected.

"Anastor swore to me that he did not tell anyone, not even anyone in his family," Legolas said quickly. "Not even Maidhien or Noruil. And I completely trust him. He fought Demil at my side. I would not be alive, save for his deeds in that fight. He would not lie to me about it."

"And I judged Dannenion to be honest when he swore to me that he told no one, not even his wife or brother," Thranduil added.

"Well, it was none of us that spoke of it," Berior said. "So it seems we do have a problem."

"Could it have been Langon?" Galithil asked, looking at Legolas. "You told him, did you not?"

Legolas nodded. "I did. That is possible."

Thranduil shook his head. "Hallion and I questioned Langon. He swore he told no one and I believe him. He understands very well the pain such deeds cause. He would not make gossip of them. Could anyone have overheard your conversation with him?"

"Not even Tureden heard it, apparently," Legolas answered. "And he was standing at the door of the weapons shed where Langon and I spoke."

Thranduil turned to Dolgailon. "What of the orders that you sent to the Training Program? The ones suspending Legolas's participation in sword training. Did you specify a reason for those orders?"

Dolgailon shook his head.

"He did not," Legolas confirmed. "I saw them. The lack of explanation is the reason Langon spoke to me."

"And no one else here told anyone?" Thranduil asked. "Think carefully."

Everyone present shook their heads.

"When Legolas told us how Demil died," Hallion said, "the scribes were in the Hall. Could one of them have heard? Berior was copying that morning and heard us discussing the swords."

"I saw Legolas jump up from the table and then I saw the swords and figured out whose they were. I could not hear what any of you were saying," Berior responded. "I do not believe anyone overheard the rest of our conversation. Legolas hardly shouted that confession, after all."

"Someone must have overheard it and that person is our spy," Lindomiel concluded. "A very well placed one. We need to know who they are."

"Agreed," Thranduil said.

Dolgailon frowned. "Surely you do not intend to delay this arrest further? The risk is too great. Both that Manadhien will do more harm in my village and that she might escape altogether. We have to arrest those we can now and worry about the remaining spy later."

"The risk to whoever goes to arrest her and bring her to the stronghold is too great if there is another spy," Engwe said. "How many more warriors will we allow her to kill while she and her minions evade arrest?"

Berior closed his eyes.

"Engwe," Thranduil growled in a low voice.

"If we cannot arrest her now, perhaps it is time to again consider the proposal that Dolgailon and I go to that village to keep it safe while we search for the spy," Galithil began.

"No," Legolas interrupted him.

"I cannot imagine how putting two of her targets within her easy grasp would improve the situation," Lindomiel said.

"Children have no business being involved in any of this," Engwe muttered. "That should be obvious."

Galithil regarded him with narrowed eyes.

"Sending Dolgailon, at least, would allow him to keep the worst of Manadhien's machinations in check," Golwon said. "And if we are to spend time searching for this last spy, I strongly agree that something must be done in the meantime to protect the southern villages from her."

Dolgailon nodded and leaned forward to lock eyes with Thranduil. "If I am in the village, my guards and I will already be in place to help arrest Manadhien when the time comes," he said. "And I will be able to coordinate with Morillion and Ostarndor directly. Moreover, if you want to find this remaining spy, what better way to do so than to have one of your own right in that village?"

"The King already has seven spies in that village at this very moment, Dolgailon," Hallion responded. "And we risk her leaving if you threaten her authority in that village. If she leaves, that would make arresting her all the more difficult."

"She will not leave if I go with him," Galithil said. "If Dolgailon and I go to the village under the pretense that I have been sent by the King to learn more about governing villages--if Dolgailon tells Manadhien that he wants her to teach me, since he must focus on his duties as Troop Commander--it puts us in the village to keep an eye on her; it obligates her to stay in the village to teach me; and it gives me the ability to have a direct hand in all she does, since she is supposed to be teaching me. It makes me a closer spy than any we presently have. It is the best hope for bringing this situation to a swift resolution."

"Or you to a swift death," Legolas countered. "It makes you, and the Troop Commander, her next targets and gives her even easier access to troop orders and reports than she already has."

"We have discussed in the past that I am perfectly capable of defending myself," Dolgailon retorted. "And regardless of where I am, we have already taken measures to increase the security of troop reports and orders. We either arrest her now with the plans we have agreed upon, or I go to that village. I will risk no more harm to the people that expect me to protect them. That is my final word,"

"Your word is not the final word, Lord Dolgailon," Thranduil said softly.

"In that village, it is," Dolgailon replied.

"In all this realm, I have the final word," Thranduil said, still speaking softly, but now with a definite edge on his voice.

Dolgailon said nothing further, but his stubborn expression did not change. Thranduil knew that expression all too well.

"The problem, Dolgailon," Legolas said into the silence, "is that if you go alone, the chances are good that Manadhien will leave the village to seek power, or at least better privacy for her schemes, elsewhere. The only proposal to counter that risk is to take Galithil with you. Will you truly risk your little brother in that manner?"

Galithil turned an utterly scathing glare on his cousin and drew a sharp breath to speak.

Dolgailon spoke first. "All warriors must eventually be tested, Legolas," he said, clipping off each word. "If you, Galithil or Berior were of age, I would deem each of you ready to fight. Not in one of the guards, but in a patrol...."

That claim took Thranduil so much by surprise that he could not suppress an audible gasp.

"Since, as this realm's Troop Commander, I am prepared to send my little brother to battle, I am equally prepared to take him to my village where, I will grant you, he will be in as much danger as he would be in the patrols." He turned back to Thranduil. "If Conuion can spare two guards, two for each of us, that is enough for Galithil to be accompanied at all times by two warriors, as well as for us to have a guard on watch even at night. Galithil can wear mail..."

Thranduil shook his head and held up a hand to cut him off. "You will not convince me that this can be made safe," he said. He did not believe that and he did not believe any of the children were ready to serve in the patrols, even if their ages were discounted. And he did not discount their ages.

"I am not entirely untried in battle, my lord," Galithil said, finally able to get a word in. "I have fought near that village before, if you will remember. Indeed, I will remind you that you would not be here to take part in this discussion had Legolas and I not been in that battle."

Thranduil clenched his jaw to remain silent. As much as he might wish to, he could not deny the truth of Galithil's claim. From every report he heard of that battle--the one in which Amglaur and Limmiel died--Legolas, Galithil and even Lindomiel fought very well.

"I will not claim that I am anywhere near as good with a bow as Legolas," Galithil continued when Thranduil said nothing. "I am not. But I am perfectly capable of defending myself with one. What I will claim," he glanced at Legolas, "and I defy anyone to refute me, is that I am much better with a sword than Legolas."

"That is certainly true," Legolas conceded quietly.

Galithil nodded. "Even Langon admits that I am good..."

That made Thranduil's brows climb. "It that true?" he asked Dolgailon, before thinking about his words.

"I beg your pardon!" Galithil exclaimed, standing and glaring at his uncle.

To Thranduil's left, Lindomiel made a small noise, as well.

"It is true," both Dolgailon and Colloth replied quietly.

"I ask your pardon, Lord Galithil," Thranduil said quickly, hands out in a placating gesture. "I truly did not intend to question your honesty. It was only the idea that Langon paid anyone an open compliment that seemed so...frankly, hard to believe. But I do not question you."

Galithil sat back down, mollified. "It is true," he repeated calmly. "And if Legolas could manage Demil in a sword fight, I could have as well. So, I can protect myself in the village, even against Manadhien and her servants, if need be,"

Legolas leaned towards his cousin, hand extended towards him, though flat on the table, as if he was restraining himself from reaching for Galithil to shake some sense into him. "First of all," he said, "I could not manage Demil. Anastor and Dannenion and I all fought Demil together, and he managed all three of us. Easily. I could not have killed Demil, I assure you, if Demil had not believed I would not try." He paused and now he did reach to grasp his cousin's forearm. "Make no mistake, Galithil: You may be so good that you have landed a single hit on Langon once or twice, but you are not so good yet that you equal him. Demil far more than equals Langon. Langon could not have bested Demil alone. Adar could not. Dolgailon could not. You will not." He paused. "Secondly, no matter how skilled you are with a sword, sparring with Langon or Dolgailon or me or any other elf is a far different thing from killing an elf. Successfully facing orcs and spiders is a far different thing from facing an elf. This is not a matter of skill, Galithil. Surely you recognize that."

"I do," Galithil replied, holding Legolas's gaze. "Just as you recognized perfectly well what would be involved when Mauril threatened this stronghold. Yet, you asked to help hunt him. When the safety of the people of this realm was at stake, you killed Mauril. And, as I understand it, you did not hesitate to do so."

Legolas said nothing to that.

"The safety of the southern villages is the stake in this decision, Legolas," Galithil continued. "I cannot allow the people of this realm to come to death, knowingly and without taking any action to prevent it, solely in order to preserve my own life. What purpose do we serve in this forest, if not to keep it and its people safe? I am only asking for the opportunity to do my duty to our people just as you have done."

Legolas pressed his lips together. Then, with obvious reluctance, he nodded once and looked down.

A moment later, after staring at Galithil with wide eyes, Berior did the same.

"I do not like it either, my lord," Golwon interjected. "But I agree with Dolgailon and Galithil that their presence in the village is necessary unless we arrest Manadhien immediately." He sighed. "Galithil is only two years younger than I was when I began serving in patrols around my home in Mithrim. And he is the same age I was when I fought in the First Battle. He certainly has more training than I ever had. If he wishes to serve, I do not think you should deny him the right to."

Thranduil scowled at all of them. Then he turned to Lindomiel. "My lady?" he asked softly.

Gaze on his aunt, Galithil strove to appear confident. Capable. Worthy of the duty he had requested to shoulder. Still, his eyes begged Lindomiel to give him her support, believing, not entirely without justification, that her words would have some weight.

"We must not allow Manadhien to escape again," Lindomiel finally said, after some thought. "Her treason against this realm has done far too much damage already. And we must not allow her servants to escape. They have proven they will carry out her designs with or without their mistress's direct involvement. We must be sure that we have all of them. That being so, I agree with Dolgailon and Galithil that it is our duty to protect the people of that village."

She paused and looked directly at Thranduil.

"Specifically, serving that village is the responsibility Dolgailon and Galithil inherited from their parents and they have the right to bear it," she continued firmly. "Galithil is not of age, but the Troop Commander states he is capable of defending himself. I think we must trust that evaluation as we trust any other that he makes regarding the warriors in this realm. This is a dangerous scheme, I agree, but it is the only one we have heard that will both protect the villagers and contain Manadhien, while we make sure we have identified all her servants. I support it," she concluded.

A smile flashed across Galithil's face before he quickly smothered it and turned back to Thranduil at the head of the table.

Thranduil looked at Hallion.

Expression grim, Hallion also gave a single nod.

Thranduil sat silently, considering the arguments he had heard. Finally, after a long pause, he faced Conuion and spoke. "You will write Tulus and Tureden. Tell Tureden to stay where he is to help Tulus keep an eye on Manadhien and to help arrest all of them when the time comes. Also tell them that Dolgailon and Galithil are coming to the village and explain why. Tell them to be prepared for anything and to watch for any signals Dolgailon might make while approaching and entering that village." He turned to Dolgailon and Galithil, who were already smiling with satisfaction. "You may both go to the village. If Manadhien accepts this arrangement, try to use your proximity to her to find out whatever you may. We will allow one month to identify the remaining spy. If we have not done so by then, we are arresting everyone we can identify using the plans we have already discussed, regardless. I will not wait longer than that. I want this over."

"That suits me, my lord," Dolgailon said.

"Conuion, when you write Tulus and Tureden, warn them that if Manadhien reacts badly to this arrangement, at the first indication she intends to escape, they should be ready to arrest her and her servants," Thranduil continued. Then he paused and turned a concerned look on Dolgailon. "If that happens, I fear it will fall to you to go after Fuilin and Glilavan as quickly as you can to prevent their escape."

"I can manage it, my lord," he said.

Thranduil would have to trust that. He focused on Galithil. "When she is arrested, I do not want you anywhere near her if it can be avoided. Do not participate. Let your brother, the guards and warriors manage her. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," Galithil answered promptly.

"At all times during your stay in that village, you will obey your guards and your brother as if any order they give you came directly from me, understood?"

"Yes, my lord," he repeated.

"You will carry your knives and sword with you at all times, including in Manadhien's Hall, and I care not at all if she claims that offends her. Keep them always within reach, even when you are asleep. And you will wear mail. At all times."

Galithil nodded.

"Limit your interactions with Manadhien and all those we intend to arrest to the barest minimum that you can manage without arousing her suspicions that your presence is a ruse."

Again, Galithil nodded.

"Do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be lured outside of that village."

"Of course not, my lord," Galithil said.

"And if she or any of her servants threaten you, or try to force you to anything, do not hesitate to defend yourself. You may only have one chance to do so. Do not squander it."

"Outstanding advice," Legolas agreed quietly.

"Yes, my lord," Galithil replied once more, his expression grim.

"And one final matter: before you leave, you will discuss this plan with your betrothed wife and do your best to both make her comfortable with it and to impress upon her the importance of not gossiping about it, even amongst her family. Especially amongst her family."

Galithil frowned. "Maidhien will not be happy with me over this, but she will understand and accept it. And she already knows not to gossip. Indeed, in my absence, you personally will likely be kept well informed of her family's gossip."

"Tell her to speak to me whenever she wishes," Thranduil replied. Then, he turned to Conuion. "Who will you send with Galithil and Dolgailon?" he asked.

"Galithil's regular guard cannot go," Conuion replied. "Colloth would recognize Manadhien. We had already suggested sending Galuauth and Lanthir, so I recommend they guard Galithil specifically. I would also send Heledir, to help Galudiron guard Dolgailon. There are no other choices, my lord. Everyone else remaining in the Guard cannot go for the same reason Colloth cannot, if our intent is to spy rather than arrest her immediately."

"Very well," Thranduil agreed. "And Colloth will guard Legolas, since Galuauth and Lanthir are going with Galithil?"

Conuion nodded. "That would be my recommendation. Until you, Belloth, Hurion, Pendurion and I leave to arrest Fuilin and Glilavan, they will still be available in the capital to escort the Queen or other members of the family, as need be. Afterwards, there will be no one but Colloth, but there is nothing to be done. We have stretched the Guard to the absolute limit, my lord."

"So I see," Thranduil muttered. "I have another task for you, Conuion," he continued. "While we wait this month to see if Dolgailon and Galithil might learn anything about this remaining spy, you will be working on the same problem here. To start with, I want you to speak to everyone that knew of Legolas's involvement in Demil and Mauril's deaths, including everyone in this room. Even me. Ask them who they have discussed it with and who was present when they heard of those incidents and then go speak to those people. Do the same with them. Make a list of everyone that knew or might have known. One of those people has to be the person we are searching for. I want to know who that person is."

"Yes, my lord," Conuion replied.

Thranduil frowned. "Send the owl to Tulus and Tureden tonight." He turned to Dolgailon. "You and Galithil may leave tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord," Dolgailon replied, grasping Galithil's shoulder.

Thranduil leaned against the back of his chair. He had a very uneasy feeling about these plans.

*~*~*

In the far south of the realm, under a rotting tree covered with black slime and veiled in dark mist, an orc warrior ambled towards his commander.

"I seen that filthy hawk again," he growled. "It ain't hers."

"Next time you see it, kill it," his commander grunted in reply, never turning more than the slightest fraction of his attention away from the bone he was licking clean.

From some distance away, Glilavan frowned. Careful to keep his head bowed and to let his hair fall on either side of his face, he studied the tangle of roots and rocks on the edge of the ravine that ran along the western border of his new home. 'His home!' he all but snarled to himself. His gaze flicked to the orcs and then to Fuilin, asleep in the shelter. Then he returned to sharpening his knife. At least watching the ravine was better than watching the orcs. He could not imagine anyway this could be made worse. And that fact might be the best aspect of this situation.

*~*~*

elleth/ellyth -- Female elf/elves

AN: Apologies to John Steinbeck for the appropriation of his words for the title of this chapter.

Also, while it is a nice dream that I will post a chapter a week, I doubt I will. It will probably be more like every two weeks.

Chapter 2: Unexpected complications

Draw, release. Pull another arrow and fit it against his bowstring. Galithil concentrated on efficiency--on moving as quickly as he could. The bow would never be his favored weapon, but this was the largest group of orcs that they had encountered on their journey south so far. Every enemy that he could fell with an arrow was one that he would not have to face on the ground. Or that would not escape to attack a nearby village.

Galithil did not know this particular part of the forest. Instead of taking the normal path that led straight from the stronghold to his family's village, they cut across the forest to the western border and followed it southward. That made the journey longer, but they avoided the patrols and other villages, giving them best chance of approaching Manadhien at unawares.

Traveling that route also meant they ran across orcs--three times--in the un-patrolled areas of the forest. Dolgailon had clearly not expected that. Galithil doubted his brother would have risked this route if he had.

Galithil glanced left towards a downward motion that he could not identify. It was Galuauth lowering his bow. Another fast glance explained why. His guard was out of arrows. He was a fast shot. Faster than Galithil, for certain.

Dolgailon made two short whistles.

The orcs redoubled their panicked efforts to escape. They knew the meaning of that call, apparently. Galithil reached for another arrow, this time spreading his fingers wide as he did. Only two arrows left in his quiver after this one. It was just as well Dolgailon made the signal for everyone to prepare to go to the ground. Galithil released the arrow, shouldered his bow swiftly, and pulled his sword from its sheath. His arrow sank into an orc's ear.

Dolgailon loosed one long whistle.

With a deep breath, Galithil looked at Galuauth. The guard nodded. Galithil did not stop to think. The first time they had to fight orcs on this journey, he learned that not giving himself time to think was the key. He made two running steps further along the branch he was perched on and leapt down, directly next to an orc trying to escape past his position. The drop to the ground was enough momentum to cleave the orc's shoulder pauldron and his shoulder underneath it, nearly separating its arm. The orc dropped to its knees, screeching, and Galithil placed his foot on its chest to push it over and to gain leverage to free his sword. Galuauth covered his back, killing two orcs, while Galithil raised his sword to a high guard to face another attack.

One orc fell to Galithil's downswing, when his sword plunged into its gut. Another fell to his upswing, which cut across an orc neck. He parried the sword coming at him in his peripheral vision, forcing his enemy's sword down and to the side. Then he stepped inside the orc's range, while drawing his belt knife. He thrust it under the orc's breast blade. Disgusting black blood flowed onto his hand and knife hilt. He pushed the orc away and stepped back to face the next enemy.

It was over as fast as it started. The sounds of screams and clashing metal were replaced by low groans and otherwise utter silence in the trees around them.

Galithil turned a full circle, making sure no more orcs stood. Then he looked for his brother and found him, on the opposite side of the battle field, scrutinizing the blood on Galithil's tunic. Galithil looked down at himself. Only black blood. Dolgailon had already come to the same conclusion and was accounting for all the guards. While his back was turned, Galithil looked his brother up and down. The only blood on his clothes was also black. Galithil quietly released a long breath that only shuddered slightly and began wiping down his sword.  

"Strip them and pile them up," Dolgailon ordered.

Galithil immediately bent over the last orc he killed and concentrated fully on the task at hand, grateful for it. If he focused on destroying the orcs, he did not have time to think about anything else. His hands did not shake as much. Or least it was easier to hide how badly they shook. And Galithil refused to allow any of the guards, or worse, Dolgailon, to see his hands shaking.

He took the orc's knife and sword, used its own knife to cut off its breast plate and then he tossed them both, along with the sword, onto a pile of metal Dolgailon and Galudiron had already started. He picked up the orc's leg and dragged it to another pile--one of dead orcs. Then he went to another orc. This one was still moaning. He leaned over and slit its throat, careful to cut deeply, but to do so at arms length, in order to avoid the blood that would spurt forth. He learned that the hard way after their first battle. He had burned that tunic along with the orcs.

He dragged this orc, still bleeding, to the pile and hefted it onto it.

"You fought well," Dolgailon said to him, speaking quietly, as he deposited his own orc onto the pile. "Again," he added, his voice bitter and his expression stern.

Galithil smiled at him, pride driving off at least some of the shakiness. As for Dolgailon's tone, Galithil knew his brother's anger was not directed at him. But he was angry. Angry in a way Galithil had never seen him. Angry in a way that looked far too much like Uncle Thranduil with foreign criminals in his court. That was definitely something Galithil did not want to entangle himself in.

They worked silently, set fire to the pile of orcs and stashed the scavenged metal in a small, nearby cave made by a jutting rock. Dolgailon would send a patrol to retrieve it later. Then, without any more wasted time, they retrieved their horses from where they had scattered during the battle, mounted and moved on.

They traveled until the sun was almost midway across the sky before reaching a small clearing. Something moved in it.

Galithil tensed, gripped his bow, which he carried in his hand while riding, and looked to Dolgailon. His brother only raised his hand, a signal that they would stop. Neither he nor any of the guards seemed alarmed, so Galithil peered more carefully into the clearing, trying to determine what they saw that he did not.

Ostarndor and Morillion, the captains of the Southern and Western patrols, emerged from the shadows of the forest and stepped forward to greet Dolgailon as he jumped down from his horse. Galithil and the guards dismounted as well.

"You sent for us to meet you," Ostarndor called, inclining his head to Dolgailon.

"So here we are," Morillion added.

Their casual attitude quickly disappeared under the Troop Commander's harsh glare and the two captains came to attention.

Dolgailon stepped between them and then walked past them without a word, pointing into the clearing they had just left, a silent request to speak to them in private. Galithil sucked a soft breath across his teeth. He knew what private conversations meant. Not warm pleasantries, that was certain. Those two officers were not going to enjoy explaining the presence of all those orcs to the Troop Commander. Not at all.

Ostarndor and Morillion turned to comply and as they did, both looked back at the guards, to at least nod in greeting to them.

Ostarndor froze in mid-nod as his gaze passed over them. Then he took a step towards them. "Galithil?" he exclaimed.

Galithil smiled at him a little sheepishly, given the circumstances. "Mae govannen, Ostarndor. Morillion," he said quietly.

Morillion turned at the sound of his name and, seeing Galithil, his eyes widened. "Galithil?" he repeated, confused. "Is that orc blood?" he asked, eyes fixed on Galithil's tunic.

"It is," Dolgailon answered, also stopping and turning to face Galithil. "That is what I intend to talk to you about."

"Galithil is already joining the patrol?" Morillion asked, trying to conceal his surprise and still looking Galithil over, especially the sword and bow he carried. "But why bring him this far south?" he continued. "This has to be his first patrol. I would prefer him stationed much closer to the Path. At least until he is tested." His gaze lingered on Galithil's tunic again. "Of course, if he has already been tested..." he let that statement trail off when he noticed the bandage on Galithil's forearm, where the orc in their second fight had cut him.

"But he could not be of age," Ostarndor protested. "It has not been fifty years since Lord Aradunnon left his village to live in the stronghold, and he went there to raise Galithil."

Morillion swung back around on Dolgailon. "Is he not of age, my lord? In that case, I really must object. I realize who he is, but even you were of age before you joined the patrols."

That exchange drove Galithil to stare at Morillion. The captain of the Western Patrol thought he was joining a patrol? His patrol? That was insane. First year warriors, even if he was one, which he was not, went to the Guards, not the Patrols.

"I am not of age," Galithil replied. "But neither am I joining a patrol. Not today, at any rate."

"Quite correct," Dolgailon said, his tone icy. "Of course, despite that fact, for the last three days he has done the job of the Western Patrol. I intended to do you the courtesy of discussing the three orcs encampments we destroyed in private. We can have this discussion in public if you insist."

"Three orc encampments?" Morillion and Ostarndor repeated, instantly focused on that alarming news.

"Yes," Dolgailon confirmed, ignoring the fact that Galithil and the guards still stood a few steps away. "One a little over half day's travel west of Midhion's village. Another the same distance from Nandoril's village. And you will find the carcasses of the last still burning less then half a day's travel due north."

"Those are areas my patrol does not normally frequent, my lord," Morillion responded. "We visit those villages and patrol their surrounds, but only the areas where the villagers hunt. The areas further outside the villages...those particular villages..." he paused, thinking. "The last time we passed that deep into the unoccupied forest would have been at the full moon. The western border is very long, my lord. Our priorities are the forest edge, to keep out incursions by men, and the areas inhabited by villages."

"Do you think I do not know that?" Dolgailon snapped. "Do you think I will accept any excuse for finding almost one hundred orcs inside your patrol area? If you are patrolling the forest edge, how did you not see signs of them?" He turned to Ostarndor. "Unless they came up from the south, inside the forest. In that case, how did you not see signs of them?"

"They might have come up from the south, my lord," Ostarndor replied, "and we would not have seen them. My patrol has moved north of the southern villages and south of the mountains, per your last orders. Orcs could very well slip between your village and the forest border under those circumstances, if your village guards do not do their job. And I warned you not to count on village guards to do that job."

Dolgailon frowned. "My last orders to you were for you to carry on as you were," he began. Then he froze, realization dawning, and his gaze darted to Galithil and the guards. "Surely she has not become so bold," he said.

"Apparently, she has," Galithil answered softly.

Dolgailon muttered some words Galithil did not think he would have said in court. Then he turned and resumed his march to the clearing. "Come, sit down," he ordered, making a gesture that encompassed Galithil, the guards, and his captains. The anger had left his voice.  Everyone hurried after him and they sat in a tight group on several logs.

Galithil studied the clearing as he sat next to his brother. The ground here was well trodden and the logs had not naturally fallen in this arrangement. This must be a meeting place the patrols used.

"My last orders to the Southern Patrol," Dolgailon said to Ostarndor once everyone was seated. "What were they, exactly?"

Ostarndor looked at Dolgailon askance, but he pulled a folded paper from the pouch on his belt. "I have the orders right here, my lord."

"Good," Dolgailon said, taking the paper.

Galithil blatantly leaned over his brother's shoulder to look at it and he drew a sharp breath in surprise. The letters were Dolgailon's hand. Galithil would have sworn to it. He reached and bent the paper at its fold.

"Dolgailon, that is your seal," he exclaimed.

"It is an outstanding copy of it," Dolgailon agreed. "As this is an amazing forgery of my writing."

"Forgery!" Ostarndor cried.

Dolgailon lifted his gaze to look back at him and nodded. "I did not order you to position your patrols north of the villages or south of the mountains. I can think of no good reason to do that."

Ostarndor and Morillion were shaking their heads. "What is the meaning of this, my lord?" Morillion asked.

"The meaning of this is the reason Galithil and I have come south. It is the original reason why I sent for both of you to meet me here. And none too soon, it would appear," Dolgailon answered. And then he proceeded to explain who Moralfien was and what crimes she had committed, including her first attempts against the queen, her alliance with orcs, the murder of the queen's parents, her most recent attempts against Legolas and the murder of Celonhael, the warriors and guards. By the time he was finished, Morillion and Ostarndor were reduced to open-mouthed staring.

Ostarndor pointed to the orders in Dolgailon's hands. "So you are saying that she forged those orders and sent them to me, so that orcs could pass through my patrol area and into Morillion's?" His finger swung around to point at his fellow captain.

"Those orcs were outside Midhion and Nanodoril's villages, you said," Morillion whispered.

"And the ones today were within a reasonable march of your village or Nandoril's," Galithil added, looking hard at his brother.

"Surely, no elf would conspire with orcs to attack innocent villagers," Ostarndor said, frowning.

Dolgailon nodded. "Moralfien would. Her plans are clearly advancing much more quickly than we expected. We need to get word of this to the king. Immediately."

"What is the king doing about this?" Ostarndor asked.

"Galithil and I are here as part of a plan to arrest her," Dolgailon responded. "The king has had spies watching her for a month now--since we realized who she was--and we have identified all her servants but one. The King wants that servant found before we move against her. Galithil and I are going to the village to keep an eye on her, ensure she does not escape, and to thwart the worst of her schemes--like this one," he shook the orders in his hand, "until we can arrest her. The king has given us one month to find the unknown servant. After that, we arrest her and you two," he pointed at Morillion and Ostarndor, "will be helping us do that, because we will also be arresting two other elves in that village for treason and detaining her entire council and three guards for suspicion of treason."

Ostarndor and Morillion nodded, too stunned to manage anything else.

"Until we arrest her," Dolgailon continued, "we had already decided to make some changes in the way the orders for both your patrols are managed. The need for those changes is now very clear. From now on, orders will come directly from me, in my village. Your couriers should expect to take them from no one's hands but mine or Galithil's directly and they must travel to the village to receive them. Moreover, I want you both to use specific couriers and no one else. Haradon for the Southern Patrol and Geledhel for the Western. If they cannot come for some reason, send only one of your officers. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," they answered.

Dolgailon pulled his most recent orders--legitimate ones--from his tunic and opened them. "To ensure all correspondence is authentic, it will now include this symbol. And anything you send to me or to the stronghold should contain the same symbol, so we know it truly came from you." He handed them the orders, pointing to the miniature of his device, hidden amongst the runes.

They studied it.

"Obviously, a very good and necessary idea," Ostarndor said.

Dolgailon nodded. "Tell no one of any of this," he concluded. "Not who Moralfien is, the change in reporting procedures, and especially nothing about this symbol. No one but your officers. And make sure they understand they may tell no one. Until Moralfien's final servant is caught, we must assume it might be anyone."

"Yes, my lord," they repeated.

Dolgailon turned to Galithil. "I think we had better hurry to that village. The sooner we bring her under control, the better."

"And the sooner we get word of this," Galithil flicked the fake orders with a finger, "to the king, the better," he added.

"Indeed," Dolgailon agreed.

*~*~*

Manadhien stared past the empty chairs at the end of the meeting table to glare at the tapestries that decorated the walls of her Hall. She always hated those tapestries and not just because they depicted the supposedly great deeds of the former lords of this village. She also hated them because she did not doubt that they were woven by the former ladies of this village, who she also hated. But now she had a new reason to hate them: simply because she could see them. She should not be able to see them. Her view of them should be obstructed by her loyal servants and longtime friends, Fuilin, Mauril and Demil. It was once.

But now, Fuilin was forced into hiding far to the south. Worse still, Mauril and Demil were dead. Dead along with two other dear friends, Lagril and Pelin. She could scarcely believe it. She had not yet truly fathomed their loss. They often served her separated from her by great distances. Even so, she always knew they were here. Somewhere in Middle Earth. They would come if she called for them. They would follow her to the ends of Arda.

Now they, like so many others dear to her, were in Mandos. Sent there by the House of Oropher.

Her hand clenched around the blue jewel in her skirt pocket. So many losses.

"This letter, my lady, is from Selwon," Gwathron said, interrupting her musings. "He says that their village is short of guards since two of theirs, brothers, have gone to look after their sister. Her husband was one of the recent fatalities in the Southern Patrol. He asks if we can spare a guard--he prefers two--until they return, which he expects will be sometime before the new moon."

Manadhien took the letter Gwathron offered her and glanced over it.

"I recommend we try to find someone to send," Mornil said softly as she refolded it and placed it on the table. "We cannot leave Selwon and his people to depend on Thranduil's patrols for their defense. To do so would be cruel."

Manadhien nodded. "Speak to Seregon," she said, directing herself to Mornil. "Command him to send Buiowon and his younger brother to Selwon's village. I will prepare a response for them to carry to Selwon." She turned back to Gwathron.

"That is the last matter for us to consider, my lady," he said.

"Thank you, Gwathron," she said, and she nodded to the scribe at the end of the table. A dismissal.

The scribe stood, bowed to her, picked up his materials, and left the Hall.

Manadhien, Gwathron and Mornil did not move from the table.

"Baranil reports that he saw the owl again, my lady," Gwathron said as soon as the Hall was empty of everyone but them. "It is definitely the same one. It has a distinct speckled pattern on its breast. And he is certain he saw a pouch on its leg."

"Did he find where it is landing?" Manadhien asked.

"Somewhere on the outskirts of the village, on the southern edge, but it had flown again before he got there. He will see it land next time, now that he knows generally where to wait for it."

"Good," she said. She did not like this owl. It could be just a villager communicating with family, but she doubted it. People used hawks or falcons or doves for that if they did not use regular couriers. Not owls.

"Fuilin reports the orcs killed a hawk they were suspicious of near their camp," Mornil added.

He seemed almost eager to hear her response to that news. The amusement he derived from watching her temper was almost disturbing. She refused to rise to the bait. "Good," was all she said. "Are the orcs in place? Are we ready?"

"Yes, my lady," Gwathron replied. "Do you honestly believe this will draw both Thranduil and Dolgailon out?"

She laughed a cold laugh. "The outright slaughter of two villages? Yes, they will both come to avenge that. You will personally lead the last group of orcs to capture Thranduil and Dolgailon. No mistakes."

"We still do not have a plan to draw out Legolas. Or Galithil," Mornil said. "The king still has heirs, if young ones."

"That Legolas is still alive is not my fault, Mornil," Manadhien replied. "It is your brother's." She paused to glare at him when he made a face. "We will find a way to deal with Legolas. With luck, the people will not accept so young a king. We will see. But, regardless, plans are advancing. He wants the forest entirely under our control and that suits me. It is time for greater things. And time to avenge the losses they have dealt us. Definitively."

Both Gwathron and Mornil nodded to that.

"Let us go prepare for dinner," she said, rising from the table. She was just drawing a breath to dismiss them when the door of the Hall opened and Solchion rushed through it. He walked straight towards her.

"Dolgailon has returned, my lady," he announced, without waiting for her leave to speak. "He must have come from the border rather than the stronghold. My cousin was watching further north on the path, as you ordered, to make sure we had better notice of any arrivals and he did not send word of seeing them. What is more, my lady, Dolgailon has some child with him."

"A child?" Manadhien exclaimed. Despite the supreme annoyance of suffering the renewed intrusion of the king's nephew--not to mention the fact that his presence here might endanger her current plans--the idea of him arriving with a child was intriguing. He would only be traveling with either Galithil or Legolas.

"At best, the person accompanying him is just barely of age," Solchion clarified. "He does not appear to be fully an adult."

Manadhien frowned. "What color hair does the child have? And is it only one child?"

"One, my lady," Solchion confirmed. "He has silver hair. Like Dolgailon's."

"Galithil?" Mornil and Gwathron whispered, eyes locked on her.

"Almost certainly," Manadhien replied, also in a whisper. "I wonder what has inspired Lord Dolgailon to bring his delightful younger brother to our village," she continued in a normal voice, while stepping around the table. She stifled a smirk as Mornil, Gwathron and Solchion tried to work out if her description of Galithil was sincere.

By the time she reached the end of the Hall to pass through its open doors, Dolgailon--and it was, indeed, Galithil, she saw as she descended the stairs of the Hall--had already entered the village. People were calling to him and hurrying to the courtyard to greet him as they always did when any member of the king's family made an appearance. She pasted a neutral expression her face in an effort to disguise her disdain for their foolishness. The villagers made way for her and bowed as she passed.

"My lord Dolgailon," she said in a soft voice that cut over the clamoring villagers. Then she silently watched Dolgailon tense and say a few more words to the people nearest him, before turning to her. Keeping her expression bland, she studied him as carefully as she could while approaching him. His last visit to the village was uncomfortable in its timing, at best, so soon after the debacle that her plans for Legolas had become. Add on to that his unfortunate discovery of her purchase of those horses, and the visit was nearly disaster. She needed those horses in those villages for her current plans to work. Fortunately, he brought horses for the villages himself.

Still, she had trouble determining if his attitude towards her during that visit stemmed solely from his discovery of her 'illegal trade' or if he, and therefore the king, since Dolgailon did not seem capable of independent thought, had discovered something more. That was her primary worry. She had no idea how thoroughly Thranduil questioned Mauril or Lagril before their deaths. Rumor said they died in battle, without speaking to anyone. Her last remaining source of information in the stronghold, such that it was, seemed certain Lagril died before Thranduil spoke to him. They saw him die, so they claimed. But Mauril and especially Pelin, who the king had killed personally.... She knew nothing for certain of how they died. And given that Thranduil had been willing to abuse Fuilin to make him speak, he might have done the same, in earnest, to either Pelin or Mauril and actually learned something significant.

Coming to stand before Dolgailon and Galithil, she drew and released a deep, calming breath, in an effort to control herself. Thranduil would pay. Soon.

"Lady Moralfien," Dolgailon said in response to her greeting. His tone was distinctly stiff, but he managed the half-bow that seemed rung from him during his last visit.

Galithil, on the other hand, bowed to her properly and even had a pleasant smile on his naive little face.

That made her answering curtsy all the more easy.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your return, my lord?" she asked, now gazing directly into Dolgailon's eyes. He was her same height. Shorter than Oropher had been, despite looking so much like him with that absurd silver hair. Like an old man's, she thought, though she could not deny, even to herself, that was not entirely true. The silver hair of the House of Thingol gleamed like True Silver. She shook off that thought.

She had more important things to concentrate on. For example, how she would convince Dolgailon to leave her in charge of this village, if his return signified that he intended to reclaim rule of it. That was certainly what she expected him to say, but she could not allow it. Not when her plans were so close to fruition. She would have to persuade him differently. Of course, persuasion was never something she found difficult.

"I have a favor to ask of you, in truth, my lady," he replied as Seregon led off their horses.

Manadhien frowned, following the six horses with her eyes. Four guards. Why four guards for two people? She belatedly scanned the guards' faces and could not restrain a sigh of relief. None of them would know her. Then she focused on Dolgailon's words. "A favor?" she repeated, genuinely surprised. "How may I be of service, my lord?" She did not care when his expression registered annoyance, likely due to the assumption that her sigh arose from an unwillingness to do him, or his family, any favors. He was correct if he though that, so no harm done.

"The king wants Galithil," he gestured to his brother. "I believe you have met?" he interrupted himself.

She nodded.

"We have met," Galithil confirmed with a bright smile and another nod to her.

She found she could not help but smile back at him.

"The king wants Galithil educated in the governance of villages," Dolgailon continued. "He asked me to bring him to this village, since it is one of the largest, with the most complex administration and defense, so that he might learn."

The momentary relief Manadhien had felt at the mention of a favor fled. The favor still required her to relinquish rule of this village. She did not allow her reaction to show on her face. "So you intend to reclaim the leadership of the village to teach him," she said to buy herself a moment to devise an argument against that plan.

She could, perhaps, suggest another village. A smaller one, she thought. But she immediately disregarded that idea. It might sound insulting and it would not do to arouse their anger by insulting them. Galithil might learn more about a wider variety of villages by working with Golwon rather than staying one one village in particular. That was a good starting point, but surely one the king had already though of and discarded. Why would he have rejected that idea and how could she counter his arguments? Her mind raced, formulating a defense.

"Therein lies the need for a favor, my lady" Dolgailon said, interrupting her thoughts. "I simply do not have time to manage this village, teach Galithil and command the patrols. We were hoping that you would be willing to allow Galithil to serve you and to teach him as he does so."

That request caused Manadhien stare at Dolgailon. "You want me to teach him?" she repeated. The king was delivering his foster son directly into her awaiting arms? It was impossible to trust that sort of luck. Something had to be wrong with this request. She turned her mind to determining what it might be.

"I would not be too great a burden, my lady, I assure you," Galithil hastened to say. "Indeed, I might even be of some useful service to you. I have served the king's court for over fifteen years, first as just a scribe, but for the last few years as a member of his council. And I have served the Troop Commander's office for equally as long. I have some idea how both petitions and defense are managed. I really just need to learn more about the specific needs of villages, especially those in the south. It is so different here than near the stronghold." He paused and took a step towards her. "I suggested to the king that this village would be the best place for me to learn, not just because it was my adar's, but mostly because you suggested to me once that you would be willing to work with me. Remember? When Legolas and I last visited the village? I hope I was correct that you were being sincere and not simply offering empty promises. You seem too honest for such things," he concluded with that same, guileless smile.

She studied him narrowly. If the child had suggested it, perhaps it was a fortunate opportunity and not a trap.

"You will be leaving him here?" she asked, speaking to Dolgailon.

He shook his head immediately, barely concealing a horrified expression. "He is under age and still requires a guardian," he explained. "I will be staying in the village to supervise him."

"And so you will be managing the patrols from this village?" Manadhien asked. That had advantages as well. Did Dolgailon tense at that question?

"I will," he replied. His tone carefully measured once again. "As well as the defense of this village," he added.

Galithil seemed surprised by that. His head turned sharply to look over his shoulder at his brother.

Dolgailon smiled thinly. "I will concede that Manadhien is more experienced than I in the governance of the village," he said. "But I think I am a more experienced captain than she."

Galithil turned back to her. He appeared worried.

Manadhien said nothing, weighing their proposal. If she had been wondering only moments ago how to draw out Galithil, here he was. So was the Troop Commander. They both had willingly come to swords range. Dolgailon wanted command of the village guard. Well, he could imagine he had it, with Seregon and his few foolish guards. The baulk of the guards were still loyal to her and would take her orders over his when it came to that. And with Dolgailon here, she would have troop orders originating from her village. But she would have Galithil nosing in all her business. And likely Dolgailon too. They seemed fairly set on this idea. The likelihood of changing their minds seemed slim. She made her decision.

"I would be happy to teach him, of course," she agreed, smiling at Galithil.

He bowed to her again. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded. She would see what benefit she could derive from this arrangement. At least it allowed her to continue with her current plans, relatively undeterred. It might even speed them up considerably, depending. "Once you are settled in your talan, call on me in mine. I will introduce you to the village accounts and the most recent issues we have been managing."

"I will be there directly, my lady," Galithil replied. And he spoke with the same deferential tone she long heard directed at Fingolfin and later Fingon.

She did like Galithil. He was always respectful. Pity. With a departing curtsy, she turned towards her flet.

*~*~*

Galithil watched Manadhien walk away and loosed a long, quiet sigh of relief. She had accepted their plan. Now he had only to work with her for a month. And try to figure out who was spying for her. Yes, only that. Still, he could not help but at least hope the hard part was over.

His thoughts were interrupted when, after a few more words to several villagers, Dolgailon drew him aside with an almost painfully tight grasp on his shoulder. Instead of walking towards their own talan, he led him to an unoccupied corner of the village courtyard. Once they were safely away from lurking ears, Dolgailon leaned closer, whispering right into his brother's face.

"Are you mad?" he asked. "You do remember that you are speaking to an elleth that is personally responsible for killing our aunt's parents and who ordered the deaths of at least five others, one of whom was our uncle?"

Galithil's brows drew together severely before he stopped himself. They were still in too public a location to openly argue. "Not to mention the elleth that ordered Legolas, who is every bit as much my brother as you are, sold to men. Of course I remember that," he answered back, his words clipped. "I also remember that our plan to keep watch over her for the next month depends on her willingness to essentially apprentice me. No one wants a rude, arrogant apprentice. Especially Manadhien. She is impressed with manners. I learned that quickly the last time I spoke with her. So that is what I am giving her."

"Do not overplay your part," Dolgailon said, still with a disgusted tone.

"My ability to play this part well will save you from the need to execute two elves, Dolgailon," Galithil retorted in a low whisper, fixing his older brother with an even glare. "Do not forget that if Manadhien bolts, you must go directly after Fuilin. And, worse still, Glilavan, who was your friend for five hundred years. You told the king that you could manage executing him. Perhaps you could. But would you not prefer to avoid that deed if at all possible?"

Now Dolgailon's brow knit, but not from anger. From concern. "Let me worry about what happens if Manadhien flees," he said softly. "Let me worry about everything to do with her. You do as the king ordered and limit your interactions with her to the minimum required to support this ruse."

Galithil nodded, but pulled away from Dolgailon's grasp. "I will do as the king ordered. And I will be the judge of what those minimum interactions are and how I behave during them. You brought me here. Let me do my part."

Dolgailon loosed a heavy sigh. "I intend to," he said. "Come. Let us find Seregon. He and I will show you how we order the defense of this village. Pay careful attention. If we are attacked while we are here--and that is always a possibility this far south," he lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced into the branches, "and not only because she is here--but if we are attacked, I will expect you to fight as you did on our way here." He turned and walked off towards a talan in the center of the southern side of the village.

Galithil could not suppress a broad smile, proud of the trust Dolgailon had placed in him, both traveling and now, to help protect the village. And that reminded him of another topic. "Dolgailon," he called. "Do you really intend to send me directly to the Western Patrol? That is what Morillion seemed to expect."

"I do," Dolgailon responded. "I judge that your swordsmanship and focus warrant it. This journey proved that to me." Then he looked sidelong at Galithil. "Assuming that you intend to join a patrol."

"I told you that I would," Galithil said. "At least until I have learned to fight."

"Well, learn you will in the Western Patrol."

Galithil did not doubt that. He felt a swell of pride that his brother thought him skilled enough to join a patrol. The Western Patrol, no less. They encountered enemies almost every day. And not just wicked men, fleeing justice in Dale or Esgaroth. But spiders and, especially in their southern range, even orcs. Dolgailon often joked that he intended to send both Galithil and Legolas directly to a patrol instead of one of the Guards, where most new warriors first served. He had even made those jokes in the King's presence. Galithil doubted anyone had ever even suspected Dolgailon was serious.

"Do you intend to send Legolas to a patrol too?" he asked.

Dolgailon nodded as he pulled down a rope ladder that appeared to be the only access to the talan they now stood under.

"May I ask which one? Also the Western Patrol?"

Now Dolgailon shook his head. "You and Legolas and I will never serve in the same patrol. And only in dire need would the three of us fight on the same battlefield with the king. I am sending Legolas to the Northern Patrol."

Galithil's eyes widened. That patrol also regularly fought powerful enemies. Occasionally, even cold drakes or, more rarely, fire drakes that came down from the Ered Mithrin to hunt.

"His bowmanship will serve well in that patrol against drakes. Serving there is how I improved my archery skills," Dolgailon continued, echoing Galithil's thoughts.

"May I tell Legolas that?" he asked.

"You may," Dolgailon answered. "But it goes without saying that neither of you may mention this in the presence of the king. This is an argument that I intend to have with him only once and only when it is necessary. Not before."

Galithil could not blame his brother for that.

*~*~*

Lamplight danced across Legolas's face in the nearly silent Hall--the only noise was the scritching of his quill. It stopped, causing Thranduil to look up from his own reading. With his right hand, Legolas slid the petition response he had just finished to the end of the table, nearer Thranduil. With his left, he picked up the last petition.

Thranduil glanced over the paper Legolas passed him. He signed it without making any changes, waved it in the air a bit to dry the ink, folded it and set his seal on it. Then he placed it in the pile of finished correspondence to be given to the courier.  Rather than returning to his work, he watched his son a moment. Legolas had already begun writing again. Thranduil was quite impressed with the ease with which Legolas moved through the work in front of him. Gone was the uncertainty he once displayed in this duty--the numerous questions he directed to Hallion, the long deliberation and multiple responses he offered for the king's consideration. Now, Legolas worked confidently and alone. Indeed, Hallion paid no attention to him, focused instead entirely on his own work.

Finishing the last petition, Legolas wiped the ink from his pen on a blotter with one hand and placed the paper he had written onto one of the two much smaller stacks in front of him. One stack held responses that Golwon or one of his assistants would hand deliver, once they were approved by the king. The other held petitions that Legolas deemed warranted the king's personal attention in court.

'I wonder if helping Golwon deliver those decisions to the villages, at least the safer northern and western ones, and might be a worthy duty for Legolas over the next year?' Thranduil thought as he watched his son. The decision to remove Legolas from the Training Program clearly weighed heavily on him. Thranduil had intended for it to do so, but that did not make it easy to watch. Giving Legolas more meaningful duties might make the next year more bearable for him. And helping Golwon would be good experience. It would serve to introduce Legolas to numerous village leaders and teach him to manage them, at least as far as they could be managed.

Legolas straightened the smaller stacks and then turned to straighten the stack he had placed in front of Thranduil. Only then did he notice all the papers were all signed and sealed.

He looked up at the king with an amused grin.

Thranduil smiled at him.

"Is there anything else you would like for me to help with?" Legolas asked.

Hallion shook his head without looking up from his own reading. "No. I am afraid there is nothing here you can help me with," he replied, laying his hand over his own stack of papers.

Legolas leaned closer to the king's steward, making to look over his shoulder. Hallion was analyzing Conuion's reports concerning the progress he made, thus far, in his search for their remaining spy.

Manadhien was not a topic Thranduil cared for his son to dwell upon. "Legolas, you should go spend some time merry making on the Green before dinner," he intervened.

Legolas turned a raised eyebrow on his father, making it clear that he recognized that suggestion for the diversion it was.

"Go spend time with your friends before your naneth becomes angry with me for giving her little elfling too much work and keeping him from his games on the Green," Thranduil added in a teasing voice--an effort at further distraction.

It worked. Legolas openly cringed at that description of himself, making a sour face. He rose quickly from his chair. "By your leave, then, my lord," he said, sketching a bow. He looked directly at Thranduil with an entirely too bland expression. "I will fetch my bow," he added. "I am certain I can find some lie-about, even at this early hour, to game with me."

Thranduil loosed a brief laugh in response to his son's intentionally provocative reference to those rowdy games at the Oak and nodded his permission for him to leave.  

Legolas headed for the doors of the Hall and gestured for Colloth to stay where he was, idling at one of the back tables with Conuion, assuring him he would come back to fetch him before going outdoors.

Thranduil ran a thumb over the edges of the neatly stacked papers arranged on the table, ruffling through them. There was really little for him to do here. Except contemplate the same subject he was trying to make Legolas avoid. If Legolas could avoid it for a few more hours, perhaps he could as well.

"Legolas," he called, arresting his son's departure just as he reached the doors of the Hall.

"My lord?" Legolas responded, turning to face him fully.

"Fetch my bow as well. I believe you owe me a contest," he said, referring to the challenge he made...had a moon already passed since that conversation?

Legolas's eyes widened, no doubt in response to the idea that the king intended to game in the middle of the day. Or to publicly game at any time. "Not that I am reluctant to face you, my lord," he said. "I assure you that I am not. But if I am not mistaken, the Third Years would be using the archery range at this moment. Surely you do not intend to ask them to clear off only so that you may lose an archery contest?"

Thranduil laughed out loud at that arrogance. "There are targets under that Oak tree that we might use, are there not? What else would you reprobates shoot under there?"

Legolas's jaw fell open before he could stop himself. Colloth and Conuion turned in their chairs to face Thranduil. Even Hallion was looking at him with open amusement. "You intend to have this contest at the Oak?" Legolas asked. "You do understand the spectacle that this will cause?"

"And?" Thranduil replied.

Legolas grinned, bowed again, and left the Hall.

"Oh, I am coming to see this," Hallion said, dropping the paper in his hand and standing.

Thranduil smirked at him.

"If you will excuse me, my lord, I must retrieve some coins," he added, bowing and turning to leave through the secret door behind the throne without waiting for the king's leave to do so.

Thranduil's only response to that was to shake his head.

*~*~*

Standing under the great boughs of the Oak, Thranduil could not deny that he was surprised by exactly how correct Legolas had been to use the term 'spectacle.' Simply walking out of the stronghold, bow in hand, with his son, had garnered the attention of every elf within sight of the Gates. The questions began before they made it across the bridge. The instant Legolas confirmed they intended to have an archery contest, everyone that heard him scurried off to gather their friends and rush to the Oak.

Dollion, not surprisingly, was one of the first to appear, along with a good number of the Guard. Eying Thranduil somewhat nervously, Legolas's cousins and friends were the next to appear. Even Eirienil came, her mother with her and Golwon trailing behind them. After them came Hallion, who had fetched Engwe along with him. When the officers of the Training Program and their warriors began to appear, Thranduil raised an eyebrow. They were supposed to be on the training fields, as Legolas had already observed.

By the time Thranduil and Legolas were facing targets, the crowd that pressed around them was raucous. As raucous as battle. So raucous that Thranduil wondered if this would be a fair contest. As popular as it might be to watch Legolas compete, this level of distraction had to exceed anything he had ever experienced.

No need to worry about that.

Thranduil immediately learned that the reports he had heard of his son's skill with a bow were not exaggerated. Of course he knew that Legolas was very good. He taught him himself, after all. And he hunted with him at least twice a year for the spring and fall festivals. Legolas never failed to bring back a buck, since he was first allowed to participate in the hunts. Thranduil had seen he was an instinctive archer.

Still, he had not expected to be so vigorously challenged.

Legolas tied him twice speed shooting a stationary target. And twice more shooting targets tossed in the air.

Now, Thranduil stood with his hands on his hips, his own pride warring mightily with pride of his son, trying not to glare at him. Legolas could not suppress his grin, but he did have the good grace to keep his gaze directed at the ground. Aradunnon, the last person who came so very close to prevailing against the king in an archery contest, would have been openly gloating at this point.

The crowds around them were beyond frustration. Ties were difficult to bet on.

Thranduil considered suggesting they go to the Training Program's archery course to compete. All the warriors that were supposed to be training, and their officers, were standing around them, so they could do nothing more to interrupt them. He also considered calling for horses. On either the course or on horseback, he would easily best Legolas. His son had absolutely no experience shooting while moving, either running or on horseback, beyond drills in the Training Program. That fact soured the prospect of such competitions. Unequal contests never led to satisfying victories. Then he thought of another idea and looked at Legolas sidelong, while drawing a handful of arrows from his quiver.

"One more go," he said softly. "At either the stationary targets or the moving ones, your choice. But let us agree that we can draw arrows in any way we wish."

Somewhere behind him, Thranduil heard Hallion, Golwon, Engwe and Tirithion whisper to each other and then begin to call wagers over the number of arrows the king would now sink into the target. The numbers were high, as were the sums wagered. After a moment, Conuion laughed and joined in the betting.

Legolas glanced at them and raised a brow. He and Thranduil already competed drawing arrows from quivers on their back and stuck into the ground before them. They had already proven themselves equally fast and accurate at both. "Very well," he agreed with a suspicious tone.

He was right to be suspicious, as he would soon see, Thranduil thought, keeping his expression neutral.

"Stationary," Legolas added, opting for the easier of the two targets.

Thranduil only nodded and gestured for the targets to be set up.

Thranduil waited until all was ready--he did not want to spoil his uncles and old friend's bets, after all. Once the targets were in place, he positioned the six arrows from his quiver in his right hand--the hand he used to draw his bow--and continued to hold them as he fit one against his string. Then he checked to make sure at least twelve more arrows remained in his quiver.

A murmur arose in the crowd.

"What in all of Arda are you doing, adar," Legolas whispered to him.

"Preparing to slaughter you," Thranduil boasted, no longer able to contain himself. "You are an outstanding archer and no denying it. But I have been doing this, in war, for much, much longer than you. This is a style of shooting that I learned, perforce, during the War of Wrath. From a Noldo, I am constrained to admit. I think you will appreciate it. Or at least you will after you recover from how badly you will now be beaten."

Legolas loosed an insulted little puff of air, but his wary expression did not fade.

"Ready?" Tirithion asked, his tone anticipatory. No doubt anxious to collect his winnings.

Legolas and Thranduil both nodded.

At Tirithion's signal, they began loosing arrows. Legolas had chosen to draw his arrows from the ground before him, and he was faster shooting that way than drawing from his quiver. But each shot still required Legolas to pull the arrow from the ground and fit it to his string before he could draw.

Shooting as he was now, holding six arrows ready in his hand, Thranduil cut out one motion--the need to draw from quiver or ground. He had only to shift his arrows from his grip to the bowstring and draw. In that manner, he released all six arrows in his hand before Legolas sent three of his own flying to his target. Reaching into his quiver, Thranduil drew another handful of arrows, released each one and drew another handful, hitting his target ten more times before Tirithion called the end of the game.

Legolas stared at the targets as a uproarious cheer overtook the crowds around them. As the last time he shot this way, his twelve arrows were neatly grouped in the center of his target. Sixteen arrows pierced Thranduil's, some splitting others in order to make room inside the small inner circle.

"How did you do that?" Legolas demanded, spinning towards him. "Show me how you did that."

Many of the nearest young warriors, along with Legolas's cousins and Isteth, also pressed in closer, repeating that request.

With a smile, Thranduil raised his bow and the remaining few arrows in his hand. He allowed Legolas and the others to study how he held the spare arrows while one was fit against his string. Then, he drew, released and slowly demonstrated how he shifted another arrow into position against the string to shoot it. He repeated the process slowly until all his arrows were spent.

"Shooting in this manner makes a tremendous difference when one is facing thousands, rather than simply dozens, of orcs," he remarked with a very serious tone.

"No doubt," Legolas replied, but he was already trying to juggle a handful of arrows to test the motion required to move them to his bowstring.

"I will teach you," Thranduil promised him.

"You certainly will," Legolas replied without looking away from his arrows.

"All of us," Berior, Brethil and Eirienil chimed in. Anastor and Noruil remained silent, but they also looked hopefully at the king.

"I would like to learn that, as well, my lord," Isteth added.

Like Legolas, they were all experimenting with how to hold the spare arrows while drawing.

"Of course," Thranduil replied. Then he tapped Legolas on the shoulder with an arm of his bow. "I won," he said quietly.

Legolas turned a narrow look on him. It quickly melted into a grin. "You cheated," he whispered. "Give me some time to practice this and we shall see who wins."

"Oh!" Thranduil exclaimed, grasping his son by the back of his neck and giving him a light shake. "You are mightily arrogant. Be careful or I might be inspired to give you my personal tutelage in matters of war during the year your training is suspended."

"That would be very acceptable," Legolas replied, squirming slightly under his father's hand.

"Be careful," Thranduil repeated, throwing his arm fully over his shoulders and pulling him off towards the Gates.

"Be careful," Arthiel whispered into Legolas's ear.

Thranduil laughed. Since she was the same age as her husband, Dolgailon, and had been one of his best friends in his childhood, she would understand that threat better than most.

*~*~*

Weapons still in hand, the king's family returned to the stronghold to find Lindomiel exiting the Great Hall, apparently in search of them, or at least the king, given her expression.

"I wish I had bet on that!" Berior was shamelessly saying as they stepped into the antechamber.

That elicited a growl of warning from Thranduil.

"Torthil bet," Eirienil replied. "And he always bets against Legolas, so he must be pleased. Indeed, I imagine that he wishes he bet more this time. He has lost so much in the past that he must make the most out of any win."

"If he won enough to stop harassing me, that might make the loss worth it to me," Legolas grumbled, but his grin betrayed the fact that he was not truly annoyed.

"Especially if you can master that technique and use it in future contests to win more yourself," Hallion said, winking at Legolas.

Thranduil raised his hand from his son's shoulder and pointed at his steward. "Enough," he declared in a stern voice.

As Thranduil spoke, Legolas dodged out of his father's reach before nodding at his uncle. "Too right," he agreed.

"I will not teach you, if that is how you plan to employ my lessons," Thranduil retorted. He was not jesting. He would not tolerate his children gambling.

"You already taught me enough," Legolas replied. "All I need now is practice."

"Mercy!" Thranduil exclaimed. "What must I do to curb your arrogance, child?" He made a mock lunge towards him, as if to grab him again.

"Thranduil!" Lindomiel cried, her voice high-pitched. "What are you doing to our son and what are the lot of you shouting about while carrying weapons in the middle of the day?"

Everyone, including Thranduil, straightened up in response to that sharply delivered question and the open concern that accompanied it.

A moment later, Hallion and Engwe made odd noises that sounded very much like choking.

Golwon cleared his throat and carefully avoided the queen's gaze.

Legolas, Eirienil and Berior glanced at Thranduil with bright eyes before also frowning very seriously.

"Adar and I just had an archery contest, nana," Legolas answered in a soft, matter-of-fact voice, stepping between his cousins and his mother to block her view of them. "It was a very good contest. We are simply discussing that."

Eirienil and Berior nodded guilelessly.

Thranduil blinked and stared at them. "How is it that I have never seen before how easily you turn from debauchery to perfect innocence?" he asked.

"Because normally we are concealing the debauchery from you, not creating it with you," Legolas whispered sidelong to him when his cousins remained silent.

This time, Hallion and Engwe openly laughed.

Thranduil adopted his sternest glare, but Legolas did not look away, nor did his expression falter, at least not beyond a slight twitch of his lips.

"This would please Oropher to see," Engwe said in an uncharacteristically cheerful tone into the silence. "He always wanted Thranduil to have a son that was just like him."

"Quite true," Hallion agreed.

Thranduil turned his glare on them and then loosed one, quiet laugh while shaking his head when neither elf moderated his expression in the slightest.

Lindomiel was smiling at them. "Your messenger to Lothlorien has returned," she announced, gesturing towards the Hall. "Along with a guest, who he says he escorted from Imladris. The guards fetched me when they could not find you. I made them comfortable in the Hall and was going to find you myself."

Thranduil sobered instantly. "Thank you, my lady. I may be late for dinner. Do not hold it for me." With a nod to the rest of his family, he headed towards the doors of the Hall.

Legolas thrust his bow and quiver into Berior's hands and followed on the king's heels. "May I hear this, my lord?"

Thranduil held out a hand to stay Conuion from opening the doors to the Hall while he considered that request. He preferred the sight of his son laughing and he doubted this report would be amusing. Thranduil sent this messenger to Lothlorien to ask Galadriel about Manadhien, now that he had a proper name for her and her family members that Galadriel might better recognize. As much as Thranduil might not like it, it was Legolas's place to hear what ever news the messenger carried. "You may," he replied, and gestured for Conuion to open the doors. Legolas accompanied Hallion through them.

A travel-worn messenger sat with a tray of refreshments at one of the tables near the back of the room. When he saw the king, he stood and that movement revealed the person sitting beside him.

Thranduil's brows went up. It was an elleth. When the messenger bowed, she curtsied, but when she looked up at him, he saw a sight that he had seen only two or three times in the last two ages of this world. The light of Aman shown in this elleth's eyes. And she was no Maia, like Radagast or Mithrandir. She was an Elf. That meant she came to Middle Earth in only one manner.

Thranduil had to make a conscious effort to unclench his jaw before he could speak. "I am very glad to see you returned safely," he said, directing himself to the messenger. "And who is this that has returned with you? From Imladris, I have been told." He kept his tone polite, but could manage nothing more.

"My lord, this is Helindilme. The lady Galadriel suggested I go to Imladris to find her. She knew Ulcamarto well. Lady Galadriel thought, under the circumstances, someone who knew them better than she did herself, might be worth speaking to. And Helindilme agreed to come here to answer any questions you might have."

"Is that so?" Thranduil said, turning his gaze on the elleth. His natural inclination was to be suspicious of that offer. He was suspicious of anyone associated with Manadhien. Or the Exiled.

The elleth studied him in turn a moment and then held out a letter that bore Elrond's seal. "Lord Elrond asked me to carry this letter. In it, he says he has vouched for my character. I could not imagine why that might be necessary...." She let her voice trail off when Thranduil's harsh expression did not change.

Hallion reached for the letter she offered.

"Suppose you tell me what Lord Elrond has written," Thranduil replied, trying to make his voice pleasant and moving to seat himself. He gestured for his guests to do the same. Legolas sat to his immediate left and Hallion to his right. Conuion stood behind his chair.

Helindilme shrugged. "Very well, my lord. I am a healer, as was my atar."

Thranduil flinched, even in response to one word of that language.

"I have served in Imladris since it was founded. I served in Ost-in-Edhil and in Nargothrond before that, so I know my profession well enough to be a skilled surgeon when necessary. And I have helped to heal many who were prisoners of Morgoth. But I prefer to study herbs." She paused when Thranduil's expression still did not alter. "We know each other, though you are unlikely to remember me, even after I remind you." She looked at Hallion. "But your steward should remember me. I was the healer that helped Nestoreth treat you in Mordor when you were struck in the head by that orc's mace. I sat with you for three days and nights before you awakened."

"That is why I know your face," Hallion murmured, visibly relaxing. "No wonder I could not place it. I would not associate a lady with the memories I have of Mordor."

"Yet many of the healers in Mordor were ellyth, including your own," Helindilme responded.

Thranduil took a deep breath. "And what can you tell me of Manadhien, Ulcamarto and the rest of their family?" he asked, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

"I can tell you little of...what did you say she is calling herself? Manadhien? I knew her as Manarinde, but I had very few dealings with her. The only times I spoke to her was when I treated her atar. He, on the other hand, I knew well. He was Alcaremarto when I met him, just after he crossed the Ice."

"They crossed the Ice?" Hallion interjected. "Are you certain? I would have guessed they came in the boats with Feanor. I thought all his followers did, and we understood her adar to be a servant of Curufin."

Legolas nodded, leaning forward. Outwardly his composure was within the limits Thranduil expected him to maintain in court, but those who knew him would easily read his eagerness. The prospect of tales of the Crossing of the Ice, told by someone who directly remembered it, clearly piqued his curiosity.

"I am quite certain," she replied. "My atar and I came in the boats with Feanor. Alcaremarto and his family were not on them. And I treated them for the damage the cold and sharp ice did to them. They definitely crossed the Ice."

Thranduil heard little past her first words. "You and your adar were servants of Feanor?" he asked, his tone enough to make Hallion cast him a concerned glance. Servants of Feanor in his Hall! That, he would not tolerate, no matter how useful the information she might have could be. He would not, for any reason, remain in the presence of someone who willingly served Feanor or his sons.

Helindilme returned his gaze calmly. "Healers, like my atar and I, Feanor knew were not useless baggage upon the road. Not when he faced battle with Morgoth. He asked several of us to go with him and many did. My father agreed to go out of pity for those that he knew would be grievously wounded in the battles to come. And I went with him. I was still his apprentice then. We thought, from Feanor's words, that we would go to Middle Earth for a brief time and then return to Aman quickly after Morgoth was defeated."

That elicited a derisive snort from Thranduil.

"But as for Ulcamarto," the messenger interjected, "however he came to Middle Earth, the lady Galadriel told me that he fought willingly along side the sons of Feanor in Alqualonde. And not believing, as some of Fingolfin's people did, that he was defending his kin from Olwe's guards, who had attacked the Noldor to prevent them from leaving. Lady Galadriel said she heard Feanor order a group of elves, Ulcamarto and Oromarto included, to capture a ship and they did it. And she said Ulcamarto was very bitter when, after helping the battle in such a manner, he was left behind to cross the Ice."

"That is true," Helindilme confirmed. "I heard Alcaremarto complain of that slight myself. Still, he was anxious to serve Feanor again. Alcaremarto might have come to Middle Earth to destroy Morgoth. Those were the words he said. But he was ambitious. He sought recognition for his deeds. A name for himself. A realm to rule as he would, though he was lord of nothing more than his own household in Aman. Almost immediately after meeting Curufin in the camps at Lake Mithrim, he determined that he preferred him over Fingolfin. Curufin valued his swordsmanship in the defense of our camp far more than Fingolfin seemed to, or so I heard him say. In the end, Alcaremarto and Oromarto fought with Curufin through the Dagor Bragollach, when they were captured. They were held in Angband for nearly four years before they escaped."

"Or were let go," Thranduil muttered.

"That is entirely possible. I treated him in Nargothrond when he returned there. By that point, his thoughts had been completely twisted by Morgoth. He saw injustice everywhere. He was determined to seek greatness, felt thwarted at every turn while doing so, and that was the weakness Morgoth sought to exploit to turn him to his service. He promised him greatness where others refused it. That, I know. Alcaremarto confirmed it when I was treating him. Morgoth may have been successful in swaying him to his service. We--the healers that served in Nargothrond--could not be certain. That is why the petition that he and his son be permitted to remain in Nargothrond was denied. Naturally, he saw that as another injustice."

"If I may," the messenger said, leaning forward again. "The lady Galadriel mentioned this topic to me as well. She told me that she was in Doriath, in court, serving Melian, when Ulcamarto and his family--all of them--the father and all three children--sought refuge there. They were refused..."

"Because the High King was no fool," Thranduil said.

"Because lord Oropher stepped forward to testify that he heard from his friend, Tureden, that Alcaremarto and Oromarto had been prisoners in Angband and were exiled from Nargothrond because of it. Tureden was called in to confirm that and, when he did, they were escorted to the border and turned out of Doriath as well," the messenger concluded.

Thranduil loosed a low whistle.

"That might explain some of their hatred for daeradar," Legolas whispered.

Hallion nodded.

"Alcaremarto certainly would have read that as another injustice," Helindilme said. "But I did not see them again for a long while. I escaped the sack of Nagothrond, and was allowed to refuge in Doriath. I escaped its sack, as well, and refuged in Sirion. That is where I finally saw Manarinde again--when it was attacked."

"In the kinslaying, where Dolgailon told us that Manadhien admits she saw her father fall, which means she had to be participating in it herself," Thranduil said softly.

"Not necessarily, my lord," Helindilme said. "I saw many people fall in that battle, and I tried to heal all that were not beyond help, yet I never lifted a weapon then or at any other time in my life. Perhaps Manarinde is guilty of nothing more in that battle than seeing her atar fall. And if that is so, it is surely a grief you understand."

That comment, sharply delivered and unlooked for, made Thranduil sit back in his chair and sent an all too familiar stab of pain through his chest.

"That was uncalled for," Legolas exclaimed, in a half shocked, half outraged tone.

"Do not dare invoke memories of our late king to defend kinslayers in this court," Hallion commanded.

But their corrections were unneeded. Distress and concern flooded Helindilme's face the instant she realized the reaction her words had produced. "I beg your pardon, lord," she said gently, leaning forward and reaching a hand along the surface of the table towards him until Conuion's step forward checked her movement. "Of course I know that such wounds never truly heal, but I did not expect this one to still be so fresh. It was never my intent to tear it open."

Her eyes searched his and Thranduil felt as if they even brushed his fea, but not in a way that alarmed him or felt like an intrusion. Not as Galadriel had looked into him in the past. Helindilme's was merely a healer's appraising, even soothing, gaze. He forced himself to relax.

Helindilme looked down at the table. "I can say for certain that Manarinde was destroyed by her atar's death," she continued in a very subdued voice. "She found me helping the wounded and all but dragged me to him." She shook her head and Thranduil could see from her pinched expression that she was looking in her mind at Alcaremarto's body. "His throat was slashed by a sword or a long knife, at least. There is no doubt that his fea fled his body before the weapon that made that wound came to the end of its swing."

'My weapon,' Thranduil thought, all too aware that Hallion, Legolas and Conuion knew that too. What they may not realize was that weapon rested, even now, in a chest at the foot of his bed. Thranduil found it a little difficult to draw breath.

"You said she saw it happen?" Helindilme asked.

"So she told my cousin," Legolas whispered when Thranduil did not reply.

Helindilme released a shuddering breath. "Then I truly pity her and I understand better the strength of her reaction. There was nothing I could do for him, of course, but Manarinde would not be satisfied until I tried. So, for her sake, I spent a moment acting as if I would do my best to revive him. She was inconsolable when I naturally could not. Incoherent. I had to give her over to a warrior to get her away from the battle so she would not be killed herself."

There, Helindilme fell silent. No one spoke. Legolas and Hallion looked to Thranduil to do so, but he could not.

"I saw Manarinde again, briefly," Helindilme continued after what seemed to be a long silence. "Many years later when we both lived in Ost-in-Edhil. She thanked me for my efforts for her atar, but she seemed a different person. When I looked into her eyes, her fea was...remote. I do not know what crime she is accused of here, but I fear whatever it is, it would not surprise me. I would go so far as to say that Manarinde's fea seemed deeply shadowed when last I saw her."

The messenger nodded. "So said the lady Galadriel. She told me a bit more of Manadhien in Ost-in-Edhil, where she knew her best. By the time she and her sister lived there, both were entirely like their father--ambitious and selfish. They allied themselves easily with Celebrimbor's rise to power in Ost-in-Edhil and craved what ever prestige they could gain by their association with Annator. The lord Celeborn said he remembered both Manadhien and her sister were completely dedicated to Annatar's teachings. They spent all their time in the forge. Lord Celeborn said they were both heavily influenced by him, and not only in metal craft." This last, the messenger said with a foreboding tone that sounded more like Celeborn's than his own.

"I too believe her to be influenced by him. Perhaps even allied to him," Thranduil said quietly. Then, after moment's consideration, he decided to answer Helindilme's implied question concerning what Manadhien stood accused of. She had earned the answer, after traveling from Imladris to Eryn Galen to speak to him. "In my realm alone," he said, directing himself to her, "she killed my wife's parents with her own hands and ordered her servants to kill my cousin Celonhael, his two guards and two novice warriors. She also arranged for men to abduct first my wife and, later, my son. Her stated goal is to make me watch my entire family die."

Helindilme's face went slack through that litany of crimes. But when Thranduil reached Manadhien's last crime, her gaze darted to Legolas. "Your son?" she sounded confused. "Lord Elrond told me something of your realm when I agreed to travel here. He said you had only one son." She shook her head and looked back at Thranduil. "Manarinde did not attack..." She cut herself off and turned again to Legolas. "Respectfully, my lord, though you clearly serve this court, I would have guessed that you...well, at least were very young. Too young...well, of course any attack of an elf against an elf is evil, but one against a...someone so young seems worse, somehow."

Legolas smiled, frankly amused by Helindilme's struggle to not insult him by publicly naming him a child. "I will not be offended by the truth, Helindilme," he replied. "I am, in fact, still a child. And I think most of the populace agrees the attack against me was all the worse because of that."

Thranduil's jaw clenched involuntarily as his son fell under the same close scrutiny from the Noldo that he had endured only moments before. Legolas's smile faded and his brow puckered as Helindilme continued studying him. Her expression again clouded with concern.

"That experience, whatever happened during it, has left a deep scar across an otherwise unblemished fea," she whispered. "Very deep." She sat back, and looked from Legolas, whose brows were now high on his forehead, to Thranduil, who was all but bristling.

"My son is my concern, Helindilme. Our healer, Nestoreth, has seen to him," he snapped.

Helindilme regarded him sadly. "Do not allow your own acceptance of the damage inflicted by two kinslayings and two wars to color your expectations for your son's healing. His scars might yet fade, given the proper medicine."

Thranduil's muscles tensed, as if to pounce. Indeed, only conscious effort on his part prevented exactly that response.

"Not to worry," Legolas intervened, his voice firm. "Our king understands what I, and everyone else in this forest touched by the Shadow, need to escape its influence and he ensures that we have it. That fight is something the elves living in this forest understand very well."

Helindilme inclined her head, conceding. "I have seen so many, including Manarinde's atar, and apparently Manarinde herself, so terribly damaged by Morgoth's evil, I cannot restrain myself from responding when I see such wounds. I have been a healer a very long time, after all."

Enough, Thranduil thought to himself. He stood, raising everyone else to their feet. "I greatly appreciate your willingness to travel such a long distance in order to speak to me on such disturbing topics. Your information was very valuable. If there is any way that I can repay you..."

She immediately shook her head. "I ask for nothing, my lord. I am happy to help, both you and her. Understanding how her fea came to be so badly damaged will help Nestoreth treat her. I would be happy to speak to her about that before I return to Imladris. I have a good deal of experience treating those that escaped from Angband. I will see what advice I can give her."

"Again, I thank you," Thranduil replied. There was no need to further shock the innocent by revealing that he had no expectation Manadhien could be healed.

Helindilme glanced at Legolas as Conuion stepped forward to escort her from the Hall. "I also have a great deal of experience treating those who have experienced violence at the hands of elves," she hurried to say.

Legolas smiled at her and spoke before Thranduil could reply. "I am recovering, Helindilme. Truly. However, if you have time before you return to Imladris, I would love to hear any tales you would be willing to tell of your past. I always enjoyed my history lessons. All my cousins and I did."

"You have only to name a topic and I would be happy to indulge you. And your cousins, if they live nearby," she replied. "Perhaps you will allow me to tell you some stories of Aman. I met Yavanna once. Would hearing of that meeting interest a woodelf?"

Legolas's eyes widened before he controlled himself. "It would indeed." Then he glanced at Thranduil and his face clouded. "I am certain you are anxious, after such a long journey, to eat and rest. Perhaps we could speak tomorrow."

Helindilme nodded and curtsied to Thranduil before allowing Conuion to escort her out.

Thranduil gestured for Hallion to go with her. After studying Thranduil with open concern, and then only reluctantly, Hallion complied and Thranduil heard him saying to her that he would call Galion to make arrangements for her room and lodging.

Their departure left only Legolas in the Hall. At the moment, Thranduil wanted to be entirely alone. That conversation had stirred memories he had hoped were forever buried. "You should go speak with her tonight," he said without looking at his son. "Introduce her to the merrymaking on the Green and show her that our people--and you--are not as shadowed as she fears."

Legolas shook his head. "I am going no where, adar," he replied, his voice nearly a whisper.

Only with supreme effort did Thranduil stifle a frustrated growl. He was immediately relieved that he managed it. Legolas did not need to see his father struggling, three ages of the world later, with the same guilt he so recently was forced to confront. Seeing the pain it still caused him would not help Legolas. Thranduil fought to compose himself.

He felt a hand grasp his shoulder. "You have done so much to help me bear all that I have seen over the last month. Will you not allow me to offer what ever support, or at least understanding, that I can now?"

Thranduil loosed a derisive snort. Understanding? Yes, they both understood that his own actions drove Manadhien to seek the revenge she now pursued.

"I know what you are thinking, adar," Legolas pressed. "But, like me, you did what you were forced to do to defend yourself and your people. You are not responsible for Manadhien's evil."

Thranduil forced himself to raise his gaze and look at his son levelly. Could he truly have this conversation with him? Unfortunately, he could. "Legolas, I killed her adar before her eyes. That is a grief I do understand, as this Noldo pointed out. I do not deny that I have some understanding of her hatred of me." He paused and frowned. "I always knew the phrase 'you did what you were forced to do' was empty words. I am duly reminded exactly how empty. I am sorry I could offer you nothing better."

"If you can find some pity for her, I would deem that good," Legolas replied quietly. "And that you, and I, did what we were forced to do is not an empty platitude. It will not erase the pain. That, I will admit. But it is still true and it grants us both some degree of absolution. As for the pain, here are more true words: if you feel pain...guilt for the deeds you were forced to, that is how you know you are better than Manadhien and other willing kinslayers. You said that to Anastor. Those words do not erase the pain either, but they help you understand it is a good thing."

Thranduil held his son's concerned gaze for a long moment. He was right, at least, that no words took away this pain. But, somehow, Legolas had made it recede at least a little for the time being.

"Come, adar, we can still make dinner."

The last thing Thranduil thought he could do was eat.

"Engwe, will be at the table. And Hallion should join us too. You should ask them both how much gold they won betting on you," Legolas continued, making his tone light. "You know, I think, since it is a disgrace that they bet at all, you should insist they place the coins they won into the public treasury. It would be the right thing to do. To give the proceeds of that gambling back to the people."

Despite himself, Thranduil imagined the look on Engwe's face if he suggested that he should turn over those coins to the treasury. And that picture forced a barking laugh from him. He reached to put an arm around Legolas's shoulders.

"I think you should tell your Uncle Engwe that yourself," he said, steering him out of the Hall.

*~*~*
Mae govannen -- Well met
elleth -- female elf
adar -- S. father
atar -- Q. father
fea -- spirit

Chapter 3: Ill news

Tulus slowly shifted his position, tucking his right leg underneath him and freeing his left to stretch it in front of him on the branch where he perched, all without taking his eyes off Manadhien's talan. He loosed a silent sigh. 'I spent too much of this age in the soft comfort of cottages and palaces,' he thought to himself. 'Guard duty never seemed this unpleasant in the past.'

He had been quite relieved a few days earlier--and not just for matters of comfort--when Tureden confirmed Gwathron and Mornil were the two brothers he remembered from Nargothrond. He was even more grateful to hear the king only intended to give Manadhien one more month of freedom. As much as the king, Tulus wanted her finished.

The long, high note of a tree cricket sounded from a few dozen paces south of him. The following long, low note never came.

Tulus straightened and looked over his shoulder.

The call repeated.

Tulus made eye contact with the spy sharing tonight's duty with him and they exchanged a silent nod. Then Tulus moved off, southward, seeking the origin of that call. After passing through several trees, he saw one of the elves he sent to Dol Guldur. One who was supposed to be watching Glilavan. His return to the village could not mean anything good. Tulus hurried to join him and they huddled together with their backs against a broad trunk, facing away from the village, hidden from it. Tulus raised a single eyebrow in silent query.

"The orcs killed our hawk," the spy whispered.

Tulus frowned. That was ill news. He drew a breath to ask if there was any other evidence that their presence in the south had been discovered.

The spy continued speaking, without pause. "And they have been questioning Glilavan. About the patterns of the patrol's movements and how they would respond to various angles of attack on several villages. They are planning something--something to do with those three groups of orcs we saw move north a dozen days ago, but we cannot get close enough to hear exactly what. It is definitely some sort of attack. They are massing and arming themselves."

"How many?" Tulus asked.

"Twice as many as were in the first groups. At least."

"Can you remain in place?"

The elf shook his head. "We had to pull back. We cannot surround the camp with only three of us. The spies I left are watching for signs of Glilavan and Fuilin moving west or north. We can do no better. We could watch the eastern paths if you could spare one more guard to aid us. The south is hopeless, obviously. We cannot position ourselves between the orcs and Dol Guldur."

Tulus frowned. He did not like it, but with Tureden staying here to help arrest Manadhien when the time came, not to mention Dolgailon and Galithil's guards, he could probably send one more spy south. "I will ask someone to go back with you. Wait here," he whispered.

The elf nodded and Tulus slipped through the trees, back to the village edge, to the tree he and his spies currently occupied while resting. He selected one of their number to go south and then considered the news he just heard. Definitely information the king needed and quickly. Dolgailon needed it too, in order to warn the Southern Patrol and reorder their patrol schedules to confound the orcs. He peered over a branch towards the talans and sounds of evening merrymaking. Dolgailon was right here, in the village. He leaned around the trunk of his tree. He could just see enough of Dolgailon's talan through the branches to be able to tell lamp light still made its curtains glow.

"What?" Tureden whispered, coming up behind Tulus and glancing between him and the village, searching for the danger he feared Tulus had spotted.

Tulus shook his head. "Nothing threatens them. I have news from the south. Trouble is brewing there. I am going to speak to the Troop Commander about it and prepare a message for the king."

Without waiting for Tureden's reply, Tulus climbed higher into the withered trees, as far as he dared while still expecting them to support his weight. The approach to Dolgailon's talan in the center of the village, across from the Hall, would be difficult, especially with revelers still merrymaking in the courtyard. He remained in the uppermost branches until he was nearly directly above his target. Then, he stopped and studied the surrounding trees for the best way down. He searched for the village guards in their normal positions and found them. They would be easy enough to evade from this angle, since their attention was focused on the village borders, not its center. He looked for his own spies. If they saw someone they could not identify descending on the Troop Commander's talan, they would raise an alarm. But they were currently either watching Manadhien in her talan or resting. They would not see him here. Finally, he located the King's Guard. He did not need to avoid them. They knew of his presence in the village. Still, it would not do to surprise them. Not if he wanted to avoid an arrow through his shoulder, at least. Once he had determined the best path down, he waited for a particularly lively piece of music to hold the villagers' attention. When they were all twirling happily in dance, he began his careful descent towards Galuauth, the guard in the trees above the talan.

He travelled less than half the distance down before an unexpected voice nearly startled him badly enough to cause him to lose his footing.

"Stop where you are," it ordered.

Tulus froze and his heart seized. The voice came from above him. It was one he did not recognize and so could not be a member of the King's Guard, unless it was a new one. If he were caught by anyone that might drag him before Manadhien, the outcome would be disasterous. He could not allow it. He turned his head towards the voice, keeping his hands in plain view, away from his weapons, while thinking fast for something to say to talk his way out of this.

A shadow slipped out of a tangle of old branches until lamplight from the courtyard lit his face.

Tulus tensed. It was one of the newer village guards--an elf come to the Greenwood from Lothlorien after Khazad-dum's fall. One who was loyal, but uninformedly so, to Manadhien. One who had not lived in the forest long enough to know Tulus.

"What do you think you are doing here?" the guard demanded, swiftly approaching until they shared the same branch. "Climbing around so near to lord Dolgailon's talan."

Tulus glanced at Galuauth, hoping for his aid to keep this guard quiet, since lord Dolgailon was who he seemed determined to protect. But no help would come from him. Galuauth made no indication he heard them over the music in the courtyard and Tulus dared not risk attracting more attention by calling to him. He would have to extricate himself from this situation. He drew himself up and adopted his most authoritative expression. "I ask you the same question. I am a member of the King's Guard. It is my duty to be so near lord Dolgailon." A lie, but Tulus doubted this guard would recognize it. The king had not made public any of Tulus's crimes, nor his dismissal from the Guard. Even if he had, this elf would not recognize his face to put it with his name. "What is your excuse for being here?" he asked in turn.

As he spoke, flash of hope surged through him. The guard looked nervous, almost panicked.

"I am Tharil, a village guard," he quickly explained. "Lady Moralfien ordered me to watch lord Dolgailon's talan tonight. To help guard it and make sure no one unauthorized approached it. She said the only people allowed near it were Galuauth," he gestured to him, "Lanthir, Heledir and Galudiron. That I should bring anyone else I saw to her." He eyed Tulus up and down. "What is your name? And why was lady Moralfien not informed of your presence in the village?"

"The King's Guard does what it deems necessary to keep the king's family safe," Tulus replied, ignoring the question of his name.

"That may be so, but how do I know you are one of the King's Guard?" Tharil asked, his suspicious tone returned. "Especially without your name. You do not bear any of the symbols of the King's Guard." He tapped his own buttons and cloak pin while studying Tulus's. Then his gaze shifted to the arrows in Tulus's quiver.

That was true enough. Tulus had given up the ornaments of that office when he left the stronghold for his current duty. He shrugged. "Only the Guards that directly accompany members of the king's family carry those symbols," he lied. "Those of us that are supposed to remain hidden do not. Come with me to lord Dolgailon's talan and ask him if I am one of the Guard. I was going to report to him."

Dolgailon would understand the need to hide Tulus's presence. He would play along. Tulus made to climb down to the next branch.

Tharil grabbed his arm. "Lady Moralfien asked me to keep my watch over lord Dolgailon a secret. And, as I already said, she told me to bring anyone unidentified that approached his talan to her. I think you had better come with me to speak to her."

Tulus wrested his arm from Tharil's grasp. "Nothing can compel me to abandon my oath to the king. If lady Moralfien wishes to speak to me, you can fetch her here." And if you leave to do so, I will not be here when you return, Tulus added silently. "If you intend to insist I leave my post, you must be prepared to do so with force."

Tharil frowned severely, obviously uncertain how to respond to that. "I am not leaving someone I cannot identify this close to lord Dolgailon's talan. Not after lady Moralfien set me to guard it to keep dangerous elves from approaching it." He looked down at Galuauth, still sitting a fair distance below them on his branch just above Dolgailon's balcony. "I suppose we could ask him to identify you," he said.

"Very well," Tulus agreed, stifling a sigh of relief. Like Dolgailon, Galuauth would understand the need to play along with Tulus's story.

Tharil nodded, satisfied. "Go straight down to the ground. We call Galuauth to us."

"So long as you do so quietly. Without drawing the attention of the entire village," Tulus replied, climbing down at an angle that led towards Galuauth, intending to stay hidden amongst the trees. If no one else saw him but this guard and Galuauth, this situation might yet be saved.

They were half way to the ground when two elves appeared, strolling down the path that led away from the courtyard, past Dolgailon's talan and deeper into the forest. At the sight of them, Tulus's heart raced. It was Gwathron and Mornil. He froze, shrinking closer against his tree while trying to determine what to do. Flee? Little chance of a clean escape with Tarthil in pursuit and raising the alarm. Hope to remain hidden? Again, something Tarthil would likely not allow. Shoot Gwathron and Mornil before they saw him? A fine idea, but attracting the attention of the entire village was what he wanted to avoid, lest Manadhien be alerted. Try the same story on them that he had used on Tarthil? It might work. They might not recognize him. He had never met them in Manadhien's presence. But it they had ever spied on he and Legolas.... One more option: tell Tarthil everything, quickly, and pray he believes enough to be persuaded to remain quiet until they could speak to Dolgailon. That seemed to be the best solution. Tulus spun around to face the young guard, hands outstretched in a plea for silence. Before he spoke, Tharil called and waved to Gwathron and Mornil.

Tulus gathered himself to flee as they looked up to find the person calling their names.

Their eyes widened upon seeing Tulus. Gwathron pointed at him. "Throw him down!" he commanded. "He is one of the elves that threatened the king."

Tulus muttered a curse as he dodged from Tharil's grasp and reached for an arrow in his quiver. At this point, his duty was to do as much damage to Manadhien's web of servants as he could. And to contain her, if possible. He drew a breath to make the call he and his fellow spies planned to use if one of them were discovered. Fingers scrabbled at his ankle, grabbed it and yanked. The call turned into a gasp for breath before it was even made as Tulus slipped. He jerked away, freeing his leg and wrapped an arm around another branch to keep from falling. As he struggled to right himself, Tharil's hand connected with his shoulder, hard, and shoved. Tulus shifted, trying to maintain his footing, but he stumbled against Tarthil's calf. He fell backwards, over Tarthil's leg, off the branch and through the open air.

Forcing himself to relax and roll as his shoulder struck the ground, Tulus grunted as the drop knocked the air from his lungs. Even stunned, ages of experience as a warrior brought his right hand to grope for his weapons, but his body would not obey him. His arm remained immobile. He tried his left arm. It moved as it should and his fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

Feet rushed in to surround him. The heel of a boot pressed down hard on his left wrist.

"Go tell Galuauth it was only a local troublemaker. Someone who often has a bit too much wine," Mornil's voice ordered, looming over him.

Tarthil's confused, "As you wish, my lord," followed in answer.

That was the last thing Tulus heard before something hard smashed against his temple and blinding pain claimed him.

*~*~*

"They fought three dozen orcs! At three separate times! In the course of three days travel!" Legolas cried, his voice rising with each exclamation.

"Your hearing is clearly intact," Engwe replied with a dry tone. "You have repeated accurately what I just summarized for the king."

In his peripheral vision, Thranduil saw Legolas glare at Engwe before turning his back to him in favor of leaning towards the king at the head of the table. He craned his neck to look over the top of the paper in Thranduil's hands, trying to read the details of Dolgailon's report.

"Did they report any injuries?" Legolas asked, reaching to pull down the top of the paper.

"The orcs were injured," Engwe responded. "Killed and burned. Dolgailon does not mention that he, Galithil or any of the guards were injured, so I assume they were not."

"Hmph," Legolas muttered. "Dolgailon would not be foolish enough to admit it if Galithil was injured."

"He would have to if he were badly injured," Berior whispered. "So we can be sure nothing serious happened, at least."

"Probably true," Legolas conceded, nodding at his cousin.

Thranduil stopped reading and crumpled Dolgailon's report in his fist. Then he took a deep breath to steady his voice before he spoke. "Berior had better be correct," he said softly. But he feared he might not be. Dolgailon might not put such news in a report, but rather send a messenger to deliver it more carefully, concerned for Lindomiel's reaction. Thranduil would react no differently. He had done nothing but worry over his decision to allow Galithil to go south since he watched him ride away from the capital. If he had been injured even before reaching the village....

Thranduil forced his thoughts away from what he could not yet confirm and focused on what he could address. "Do we have any evidence that Manadhien is responsible for this?" he asked, directing himself to Engwe and Hallion. Surely that could not be. She could not have known Dolgailon or Galithil would be near the western border to attack them. But under the circumstances, he had to be certain.

Engwe raised an eyebrow. "Did you have trouble understanding Dolgailon's writing?" he asked. "It seemed plain enough to me."

Now Thranduil glared at his uncle.

Engwe only returned his gaze steadily with an annoyed frown.

"Near the end of the report," Hallion hastily intervened, "Dolgailon mentions forged orders sent to the Southern and Western patrols under the Troop Commander's seal, my lord. Those orders made it possible for the orcs to slip into the western forest. Near Nandoril and Midhion's villages."

Thranduil's attention snapped to his steward before he smoothed out the paper on the table surface and glanced over it again. Near the villages? Engwe said that too, but Thranduil assumed those villages were mentioned only as a reference to describe where the orcs were destroyed. He scanned the report again. Dolgailon did not mention the villages were attacked. They eventually would have been, of course, if Dolgailon had not come upon the orcs first.... Orcs Manadhien sent there! To those villages. This was not an attack against his family. She was now attacking his people. The people he had sworn to protect. Suddenly, his breathing came a little harder.

"This makes no sense. What could she hope to gain?" he asked, refusing to believe Manadhien could have grown into such a threat so quickly. "Why would she risk her..." he struggled over a term. Warriors? Too dignified a description for what Manadhien commanded. Allies? Still too gentle. "Why risk losing orcs," he finally said, calling them what they were, "to attack these villages? They are small, have no strategic value in this forest and were difficult to approach. The southern villages are much more vulnerable and are responsible for holding back the Shadow's advance past the mountains."

"But those villages are her allies," Legolas countered. "She has worked long and hard to purchase their loyalty since Uncle Aradunnon's death. She will not sacrifice them."

Thranduil frowned. That was undeniably true. The swords and horses she gave to those villages' guards proved it. "Granted," he said. "But why Nandoril and Midhion's villages? And why now?"

"Because she grows bored with ruling only the southern part of your realm," Engwe began.

Thranduil's fists clenched involuntarily at the provocative way his uncle had phrased that claim. Manadhien might govern that village, with Dolgailon's permission, but she ruled no part of his realm.

"So she is seeking to claim more of it," Engwe continued without acknowledging Thranduil's anger. "She could rule all of it if the king was killed after being drawn into a battle to defend those villages."

"You cannot believe that was her plan!" Thranduil exclaimed before he could check himself. Engwe was not wrong to at least raise that idea, however insane it might be. Anything was possible where Manadhien was involved. Still, he could not believe she was moving against the entire forest.

"You cannot deny if those villages were attacked, you would ride out, my lord," Hallion said. "Isteth's naneth lives in Nandoril's village. Ollwen's sister lives in Midhion's."

"And if you had, the third force of orcs seemed to be a reserve," Enwe said. "It was not in a position to attack any village, but it could have rushed into Nandoril's once you entered it with a weakened force, having already avenged the damage in Midhion's village."

Thranduil ground his teeth together and shook his head. This was mad. "I would have destroyed those orcs, no matter who lived in those villages," he confirmed, his words clipped. "But even if those orcs did lay a trap for me and managed to catch me in it, that would not allow Manadhien to lay claim to this forest. Our people would not turn away from this family to her. I have an heir. This forest would look to him."

Legolas loosed a quiet laugh. "I am not of age, my lord, and I am completely unproven in battle. Manadhien knows she has to act before I am either. She has to make her move while the people in those southern villages do not know me and would not trust me as they do her. If you were killed now, she would urge her allies to argue that she has much more experience in governance and defense than I. At the very least, those southern villages might split with me. And others might be persuaded to follow that lead. Such a division would make this realm very unstable. It would provide an opening for worse schemes and ultimately her domination of the forest." He paused. "And that is all assuming she did not expect you to be without a direct heir by the time she attacked Nandoril and Midhion. If all her recent plans had gone well, I would certainly be dead by now."

Thranduil sat back and stared at Legolas. His reasoning was all too plausible.

"I agree," Hallion said softly. "Dominion of this forest is clearly her goal. Killing the king's family is and always has been nothing more than the means to that goal. We have to remember that her allies are Easterlings and orcs, which means her master is the same as theirs: the power in Dol Guldur. That power, ultimately, wants control of this forest. In exchange for her aid--which is valuable, for now, since very few citizens would expect Sauron's agent to be an elf--he has likely promised her rule over whatever thralls remain once his plans for this forest are achieved. That is what Morgoth promised his captives in exchange for their loyalty."

Thranduil's blood began to pound. He was furious when he thought she wanted to kill his family. The idea that she intended to enslave his people to Sauron was not to be born.

"The Evil One chose a strong ally when he admitted her to his service," Golwon said in the heavy silence. "Manadhien manages the orcs at her disposal much more cleverly than their usual captains. The death of the queen's parents prove that. And, in this instance, it was luck alone that saved those villages. Luck that Dolgailon chose the path he did to travel south."

"Indeed," Hallion nodded. "And she is clever enough to have a new plan in place since her original plan failed. We should be on guard for it."

Thranduil's breath caught in his throat at that suggestion. "That is enough of this," he said, slapping his hand on the table and standing. Everyone else jumped to their feet, but he had already turned towards the door of the Hall. "I will not sit idly while Manadhien threatens my people. It is she that should be on guard. Her end is near at hand. Conuion," he called, pointing to him. "We are leaving. Right now. Gather the guards you want to accompany us and bring my weapons. I will meet you in the stable yard." He turned to Engwe. "If you still wish to accompany me, prepare yourself to leave." Then he faced Hallion. "When we pass to the west of the village, I will send one of the guards to inform Dolgailon to arrest Manadhien and the others we planned to detain, but send a warning with Tulus's return owl that I have decided to move ahead without waiting to identify this last servant." Finally, he laid a hand on Legolas and Berior's shoulders. "Obey Hallion. Help him as you can. And be mindful that a dangerous game is in play," he said to them quietly.

Legolas took a step closer to speak into his father's ear. "Take care that you are not playing into her hands, even without the destruction of two villages to draw you out," he whispered.

"I will be careful," he promised. "Find your naneth and tell her to join me in the stable yard so that I can speak to her before I leave." He did not wait for Legolas's reply. He strode out of the Hall.

*~*~*

"He claimed he was not spying for Thranduil," Gwathron whispered, his gaze darting around the dark Hall, verifying for the hundredth time that no one else had yet entered it. "He said he was dismissed from the Guard and exiled for hiding the fact that Glilavan was allied with us. That does fit with what Glilavan told us--that his father confessed and betrayed him. Glilavan did not know what his father's punishment was, but his own was exile. It could be true Tulus was exiled as well."

Manadhien loosed a scornful snort. She could barely contain her fury at the news that Tulus had been spying on her. If it were not for him, she would have enough allies left that such a feat would have been impossible. But Tulus, she snarled the name in her mind, betrayed everything to...the mere thought of Thranduil's name made bile rise in her throat.

"If he was exiled, why was he hiding in a tree outside Dolgailon's talan?" she reined herself in enough to ask.

"Oh, he admitted that rather than obeying the king's order to leave the forest, he came here to hunt you down," Mornil replied, affecting boredom by pretending to sort through the petitions stacked at the end of the meeting table. When he dropped the last paper, he looked back at Manadhien. "He swears he is acting alone. Solchion and Baranil searched. They found no one else they could not identify."

"So you believe him?" she asked. If either Gwathron or Mornil was that stupid, she was enraged enough to slake some of her anger on them right now.

"He could not be made to confess anything else," Gwathron replied.

"We questioned him as thoroughly as we dared without doing permanent damage. We thought it best to avoid that, as yet. In case more important questions arise," Mornil added. "He is probably conscious again by now, if you want to speak to him yourself."

Her face contorted in disgust. She did not care to look upon Tulus, much less speak with him. She repeated her original question. "You believe him?"

They both shook their heads. "Between the owl in this village and the hawk in Fuilin's camp and Dolgailon's sudden return and now Tulus's appearance..." Gwathron said, leaving his sentence hanging.

"It is completely unbelievable that the king is not behind Tulus and Dolgailon's presence," Mornil finished. "He has to know we are here. And by now, he must know about the attack Dolgailon ruined and suspect we are behind it. He will be planning a counter-attack."

"Our choices are retreat or strike much more definitively than we originally planned," Gwathron said.

"I am not retreating. Not when I am this close," Manadhien snapped, pounding her fist on the table to punctuate her words. This close to avenging the many evils the House of Oropher had wrought across the ages. This close to using the very people that wronged her to accomplish all her father sought to achieve when he sacrificed her mother on the Grinding Ice to come into this forsaken exile. Rule of this forest would be hers. At any cost.

At any cost! She had already paid all that was most dear to her.

She leveled a cold glare on Gwathron. "We must act, while the information Glilavan gave us is still accurate and, therefore, useful." She swept aside the petitions and sifted through the other papers on the table until she found a map. She pulled it towards her and passed a finger over several villages. "Send the orcs here." She let her finger drop on Maethorness's village on the eastern border. "Send all of them there. Raze that village to the ground and kill every elf in it. None of them are useful to me. Not with the way Maethorness has always treated me. Besides," she added with a shrug, "they deserve it for helping Thranduil hold Fuilin and Mauril when he rescued Legolas." She paused and pointed between Mornil and Gwathron. "You tell Fuilin that I want him to lead that attack personally. No mistakes. Destroy the village and then pull back and wait. Thranduil will not fail to respond. When he does, kill him. Dolgailon will likely also lead some of the southern patrol to go after the orcs. I want him dead as well. You see to that," she nodded to Mornil. "I will use this attack to persuade Selwon, Leithor, Pellion and Nindir to move farther north. They should move when my village does and the horses will make it easier to do so. Bringing those villages further north will expand His territory and my influence into Thranduil's. Legolas is too weak to withstand that. The forest will fall quickly after this attack."

"What about Galithil?" Gwathron asked.

Manadhien's eyes narrowed at the name. The little filth. He played her for a fool. He would pay for that. Dearly and for a long time. "I will manage him," she responded. "By his own admission, he has served the Troop Commander's office for years. Imagine the information he could be persuaded to supply. Once Dolgailon is eliminated, we will take Galithil to Dol Guldur and let people assume he was lost when he followed his brother into battle."

"What about Tulus?" Mornil asked. "What if he is not alone? And how do we make sure Thranduil does not suspect we have him. If he does, he will act faster on whatever plans he has for us and we will lose our advantage."

Manadhien frowned. That could not be allowed. "First of all, find that owl. Find out what message it carries. If it proves Tulus is in communication with the king, forge an 'all is well' message and send it to the stronghold. That should give us the time we need. If the owl's message is not from the king or if it is not for Tulus, we will decide how to best respond once we know what it contains." She paused and smiled. "Turn Tulus over to Luggluk. Take him to Dol Guldur. He was a member of the Guard for years. He might be useful. If not, they will finish him." She waved her hand towards the doors of the Hall, quite pleased with the plans they had made. "Go get rid of him now. Before anyone sees him. And make sure you keep him well concealed in case we are being watched. Bundle him up in a sack and make him look like trade goods."

Gwathron and Mornil stood and bowed. "As you wish, my lady."

She nodded her permission for them to leave before Galithil arrived for morning petitions. It would take effort to restrain herself in his presence and she needed a moment alone in which to master herself.

*~*~*

"What is happening?" Glilavan asked, coming to stand behind Fuilin in their dark camp. All around them, orcs scurried like bugs under a rock suddenly turned up into the sunlight. Fuilin was behaving in much the same manner.

He did not stop stowing items in his pack. Spare shirt, spare leggings, their remaining stale bread and dried meat. Glilavan refused to contemplate its origin. Or to eat it. "We are moving," was Fuilin's only answer.

"I gathered that," Glilavan replied, looking around at the orcs. Their captains, or what passed for them, were driving their underlings into ranks, readying them to march. "Where?"

"To attack Maethorness's village," Fuilin replied. He shouldered his pack and reached for his bow and quiver.

Glilavan's jaw went slack. "You are going with them?" Surely not.

Fuilin glanced up at him. "We are going. We are going to lead the attack to make sure the village is completely destroyed. No survivors."

Glilavan released a sharp breath, as if one of the orcs had driven a sword into his gut. He wished, and not for the first time since Fuilin 'rescued' him, that one would. "You cannot think..." he began, shaking his head and taking a step back. He nearly ran into an orc that was ambling across the camp to join its fellows. He jumped away from it as it growled at him. "That is a village of elves..." he tried again. He could not finish that sentence as visions of the orcs overrunning the village assaulted him. There were far too many orcs here for Maethorness's guards to manage. "I am not..." he could not even breath. He had to fight not to be sick. "You have completely lost your mind if you think I am going to attack a village of elves," he finally managed to say. He was almost satisfied with how level his voice sounded.

"Very well," Fuilin replied, not pausing as he strapped on his sword. "You can stay here. Someone needs to go with Luggluk to take Tulus to Dol Guldur. You can do that. Keep a low profile. They do not know you there. You would not want them to mistake you as another prisoner."

Glilavan felt his whole body go numb. "Who did you say," he breathed.

"Tulus," Fuilin replied, matter-of-factly. "I am very disappointed not to be able to take him myself. I owe him. You do to, since he betrayed you. So you should enjoy seeing him off."

Glilavan swallowed and struggled for breath. He was still furious with his father. He was the reason Glilavan was here, amongst these orcs. He shook his head. But Dol Guldur? No one deserved.... He could not allow that.

There was nothing he could do about it. He had nothing to bargain with. Nothing they would value enough to release his father.

He could try to help him escape....

"I would like to see him off to Dol Guldur," Glilavan finally replied, trying to speak stoutly. "Serves him right."

Fuilin studied him narrowly. Then he laughed. "As you wish. Luggluk ought to arrive with Tulus within a day. I will leave Radhak here with you. To keep an eye on you. And to make sure our friends here do not make a meal of you." With that, he marched off, shouting orders. In the orcs' foul language.

Glilavan clenched his jaw and collapsed on a log. It rolled back slightly, from the force of his weight, and he put his hands out behind himself on the ground to steady himself. Just as quickly, he pulled them up and wiped them on his leggings.

As he did, a little gray mouse squeaked in alarm and scurried from behind the log and into the nearby ravine, disappearing.

*~*~*

Naneth/nana -- Mother/mum

Chapter 4:  To test an elf's character, give him power

"Tilion had traversed the skies seven times, I remember, when Arien first rode through the heavens. It was a most marvelous sight," Helindilme said. As she spoke, she ceased, for a moment, plucking winter bloom seeds from the bushes in the public garden--a task she shared with Lindomiel, Arthiel, Maidhien, Nestoreth and Legolas, while also sharing the stories she had promised Legolas. Her hand swept slowly above her head and she followed it with her eyes as if seeing again the first rising of the sun.

Mesmerized by her tale, Legolas plucked leaves from the twigs his mother and Arthiel had trimmed, but his gaze tracked the healer's long, nimble fingers while he imagined what it must have been like to see the skies afire after previously knowing only the silver flickering of the stars.

"With Laurelin's warmth and brilliance," Helindilme continued, "Clouds roiled in the heavens, rains fell and all good creatures stirred while the wicked hid from the burning light. In my mind, as one who loves studying herbs, perhaps the most glorious sight of all was that so many of the plants in Middle Earth, which had been lying under the Sleep of Yavanna, finally sprung forth and blossomed." Her fingers now spread wide, like the petals of a flower. "From tiny mosses to great blooms on trees. Some I recognized as ones we also had in Aman, but so many more were new and wholly unknown. It was utterly fascinating." She paused and fingered the delicate yellow flowers on the bush under her hand. "Like this winter bloom is to me," she added, absently, studying it a moment. Then she shook her head and turned her attention back to her audience. "Witnessing that quickening of the land in Middle Earth was the greatest moment of hope I had ever experienced. Perhaps the greatest I have since experienced. It was also the moment I knew I had made the correct choice to come to across the sea."

"I have always wondered," Lindomiel said softly, "what seeing Anar and Isil was like for one who had seen the full beauty of the Trees. Whether they were a comfort or...not."

Helindime frowned slightly. "Anar and Isil--only one fruit and one flower--were, at once, a bitter and a sweet sight. Most of the elves I knew were relieved that the Valar had preserved at least that remnant of Yavanna's greatest deed and, at the same time, many were...terribly dismayed. They cast such a pale light, comparatively, and they are a constant reminder of the damage Morgoth wrought on the theretofore unspoiled peace and beauty of Aman. One of the reasons I chose not to return with my Atar is that I did not believe, after all the changes in Aman and to myself due to my time in Beleriand, that Aman would feel as much like home as Middle Earth had come to feel. And I was not yet weary of exploring Middle Earth's secrets. I still am not."

Legolas found himself unable to fathom choosing to be separated from his family, especially his mother or father, no matter how he or they or their home changed. He also could not imagine the full light of the Two Trees if Anar seemed pale in Helindilme's eyes.

She smiled at him when she caught him staring as he contemplated her words and he looked away swiftly, embarrassed.

"There is, perhaps, another reason why Middle Earth is easier for me than it was for some of the other Noldor who were so anxious to return to Aman. In Aman, I loved most the softer light, at the Mingling, and I cannot imagine Aman without that light," she said, as if she could see Legolas's thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he saw her frown again. "Do you know what the Mingling was?"

All the Sindar nodded, including Colloth, who was guarding them in the trees of the garden. It amused Legolas somewhat that even his guard was distracted by Helindilme's stories.

"The King has a painting in his private office," Lindomiel said. "It is one he made himself. It depicts the first sight he had of this forest, when he crested the mountains from the west. It was dawn, after a rain, he told me, and the forest was covered in mist and dew. Anar lit the mist and dew to glow golden and sparkle silver. He says he imagines the Mingling was something similar."

"It sounds very much like it," Helindilme replied. "I should greatly like to see that painting, if he would allow it." Her voice sounded a little wistful to Legolas's ears.

"If you are very lucky, you might see the sight itself as you travel back to Imladris," he suggested. "Or even while you are still in the forest. I have seen it with Adar, from the heights of one of our hunting trees, after a rain. We look for it whenever we hunt together and are always delighted to see it."

Lindomiel nodded. "I have also seen it with him. We watch the sunrise every morning and sometimes are so fortunate as to see the light glowing in the forest mists. It appears...almost sacred, like looking at Gil-estel."

"Agreed," Legolas said. "Truly, it is a wondrous sight."

Helindilme said nothing, though she seemed to want to. She studied both Legolas and Lindomiel so intensely that Legolas blushed under her gaze. He was relieved when a figure walking across the Green caught everyone's eye.

"There is the courier," Lindomiel said.

"Which means it is time for me to join Hallion in the Hall," Legolas added. He scooped up the winter bloom twigs he had been stripping and dumped the unfinished ones into Maidhien's lap, earning himself a scowl. Laughing, he winked at her. "I would not want you to miss Galithil too much while he is away, so I feel compelled to behave like him," he whispered into her ear as he stood, brushing little pieces of dried vegetation from his tunic and leggings.

"You could stay with us, Legolas," Lindomiel interrupted him. "Help us finish harvesting the winter bloom and enjoy the last of the beautiful weather before winter sets in."

Legolas glanced sidelong at his mother and tried not to look completely disapproving. The amused smile on her face told him he had failed. "No one is helping Hallion, nana. No one. Golwon is down river, dealing with that water rights issue, Dolgailon and Galithil are in their village, Berior is in training, Engwe and the King are otherwise occupied." It was not allowed to speak of the King's travels publicly. "If I do not appear in the Hall, Hallion will not be able to appear at lunch, dinner or possibly even breakfast tomorrow."

Lindomiel laughed.

Legolas knew she would say nothing more. He was right, even if he did not like it any better than she. The fact was, he would have much preferred to remain in Aran's warm glow while hearing Helindilme's stories, but duty called him elsewhere. "I trust you ladies will remain and enjoy yourselves," he said, bowing to his mother and then to Arthiel. That gesture, a courtesy he had always offered his older, female cousin, seemed to make her uncomfortable of late. He had no idea why. He reached to tug on Maidhien's hair ribbon--his customary goodbye to his soon-to-be younger female cousin. That earned him a swat and a dismissive wave good-bye. Finally, he nodded to Nestoreth and Helindilme. "I thoroughly enjoyed hearing your stories, mistress," he said, facing the Noldorin healer. "Thank you so much for sharing them."

"You were a lovely audience," she said.

Legolas smiled and looked into the trees for Colloth. "Are you with me or are you staying in the garden with the Queen?" he asked. His intention was to imply Colloth should stay outside with his mother, since he would be tucked safely away in the Hall and the Guard was stretched so thin that there was no one else to watch over her. Because the King himself had assigned Colloth to guard Legolas, that would be a difficult argument to win, though still one worth trying.

As Colloth hesitated over his response, Nestoreth hastily began fastening the lids onto two of the baskets full of winter bloom leaves and twigs. "If you are both going, would you and Colloth mind taking these into the stronghold on your way to the Hall?" Nestoreth asked. "If you sit them any where in the antechamber, I will store them properly later with the rest of the medicinal supplies."

"Of course," Legolas readily agreed. Then he could argue with Colloth in the privacy of the antechamber. He stepped closer to reach for his basket.

Before he lifted it, Helindilme hopped off the garden wall where she had been sitting and picked it up herself.

Colloth dropped from his tree, picked up the other and started off towards the Gates.

Intending to follow him, Legolas reached for the basket Helindilme picked up for him. Instead of giving it to him, she marched after Colloth herself. Lindomiel laughed quietly in response to that. Completely confused, Legolas suppressed a sigh, bowed once again to his mother and jogged to catch up with Colloth and Helindilme. When he did, he walked along side her and reached again for the basket balanced on her hip. "Please allow me to take that, mistress," he said.

Instead of releasing the basket, she held on to it, turning it slightly away from him. "In Imladris, we do not ask Master Elrond, his sons or daughter to fetch baskets back and forth, my lord Prince," she said. "And besides, if I carry it, I will have the opportunity to speak to you a moment longer."

Caught off-guard by her first claim and the very formal titled she had applied to him, Legolas stared at her without immediately responding.

In front of them, Colloth almost succeeded in suppressing a snort. "Ah, privilege," he said airily, glancing back at Legolas with bright eyes.

Legolas's mouth quirked downward and he gave him a shove.

"And look--abuse of power," Colloth added, now openly laughing and dodging to the side to avoid another shove.

Legolas lunged after him and loosed a dramatically offended puff of air. "I will show you abuse if you continue baiting me," he retorted in a playful voice. Then he turned back to Helindilme and tried to speak seriously. "You do not need an excuse to speak to me if you wish to and I am perfectly happy to be of any service to this realm that I might, including fetching baskets or anything else that ensures we have enough medicines and foods stored for the winter." He reached a third time for the basket and frowned, this time in earnest, when she still did not surrender it. "Please allow me to carry the basket, mistress. Anyone seeing this will think me most unchivalrous."

When she still looked at him doubtfully, Colloth stopped, nearly causing both Legolas and Helindilme to run into him. Once they stumbled to a halt, he pulled the basket from her and thrust it against Legolas's chest. With a satisfied smirk, he turned and continued on towards the bridge.

This time, Legolas did laugh out loud at Helindilme's utterly scandalized expression. "Thank you, Colloth," was all he said before following him.

Helindilme shook her head, but she did smile. And she continued to keep pace with them, rather than returning to the garden. "I am relieved to see you laugh so easily," she said when they were almost to the bridge. "And so whole-heartedly."

Legolas made an effort not to allow his smile to fade. He suddenly found himself wondering precisely what tales this healer, Nestoreth and his mother had been telling amongst themselves. From her scrutiny, he suspected he knew. He said nothing. This was a conversation he avoided with anyone he could. He did not care to have it with this elleth, who he barely knew, no matter how enjoyable he found her company until now.

"I do not need to be told what you have seen," she continued when he remained silent. She prevented his escape over the bridge with a light hand on his arm. "Or possibly even done. I can see the shadow of it in your eyes. Will you tell me which it is--seen or done?"

Legolas could not help it. He frowned. "Done," he confessed without intending to.

Her hand on his arm tightened. "I feared that to be the case. I am not a stranger to that grief."

Legolas's eyes widened.

"I have never taken any life, not even a rabbit's, myself," she hastily clarified. "But I served..."

Legolas tensed as Helindilme hesitated over her choice of words. If she spoke of him and Feanor in the same breath...

"...in an Age when many suffered thusly," she concluded. "Because of that, I am quite knowledgeable of how to heal such griefs, if you would only allow it."

Despite his fervent wish to avoid this conversation, Legolas could not bring himself to be annoyed with her in the face of her genuine desire to help. "I appreciate your concern, mistress," he said gently. "But you need not worry over me. I do grieve what I did. How could I not? But I am surrounded by many people, family and dear friends, who are determined to help me drive away the shadow I face. And I have duties with which to distract myself," he concluded, taking a step away from her and towards the bridge. "Duties that I draw strength from for the good that I can see they do."

"I have heard many rulers make that claim," she replied. "And I see you are no more willing to discuss this with me than you are with Nestoreth, which is not terribly surprising. You know me not at at. But speaking of it with someone, when you are finally comfortable doing so, will help. In the meantime, I will leave you in peace if you will permit me to offer one piece of advice."

He nodded, politely indulgent and little more, but she did not wait for his agreement, so his lack of sincerity hardly mattered.

"Your lady mother is correct to encourage you to spend time amongst the trees. The quiet peace and beauty of nature truly serves to turn the mind from suffering. If gathering medicines or foods is necessary for you to justify in your mind the time you spend in the forest, so be it, but sometimes it is best to do nothing more than listen to the trees sing while gazing at Gil-estel." She stopped and smiled. "That is what I always told the Sindar in Beleriand that so loved the stars and missed Neldoreth and Region and Nivrim. You, I doubt need reminded to listen to the trees, given how they sing for you, but I think I will advise to seek the sun in one of your hunting trees, rather than Gil-estel." Her hand dropped away from its grasp on his arm, whispering down the length of his hair where it fell across his shoulder. "Anar's golden rays seem to suit your family much better, particularly after the tales you and your lady mother told of the mingling of the lights over this forest."

"I will remember that advice, mistress," Legolas replied, feeling oddly breathless as she withdrew her hand. "It is wise, I am sure. Though I confess hearing you speak of the trees as you did surprises me. I did not know the Noldor were particularly sensitive to the song of any forest. Much less would I expect an elleth from Imladris to have any affinity for the Greenwood," he said. His amused smile returned.

Hers did as well. "I have studied herbs for longer than the sun and moon have traversed Arda, both in Middle Earth and in the Valar's own gardens in Aman. All Yavanna's creations speak to me to some degree." With that, she bobbed a polite curtsy. "By your leave," she said, and when Legolas nodded automatically, she turned to rejoin the other ladies and finish harvesting winter bloom seeds, leaves and twigs.

Legolas stepped resolutely onto the bridge, hugging the basket to him. He understood, to some degree, his father's discomfort around the Noldor. That one, at least, certainly made him feel most off-balance.

Colloth stood to one side to allow him to pass. His expression betrayed he was preparing some smart comment. Legolas hurried by, ignoring him and the chortling that followed him.

They crossed the bridge and placed their baskets against a wall in the antechamber. Then Colloth then turned a stern glare on him. "If you leave the Hall before I join you there, you will come find me?" he asked.

"I will," he replied.

The guard nodded to him and went back out through the Gates. That decision was a relief. Legolas would feel much better with Colloth in the garden with his mother. He strode happily into the Hall just as the courier was leaving it. It was Padanil. He had carried messages from the far reaches of the realm for as long as Legolas could remember. He bowed to Legolas as they crossed paths and Legolas smiled at him. Hopefully there would be some news from Dolgailon and Galithil. And Tulus. His next message was due today, but it came by owl. With luck, Hallion already had it.

Legolas hurried down the length of the Hall and joined Hallion at the work table at the foot of the dais. "Fair morning," he said softly, seating himself next to his father's steward.

"My lord," Hallion mumbled without looking up. He was surrounded by stacks of papers: general correspondence, petitions, Golwon's lists of village requests for winter stores, the inventory sheets Berior had finished the night before containing records of supplies, finalized catalogues of the trade goods Lindomiel had received and sent to Dale and Esgaroth, lists of provisions the stronghold needed to lay in to prepare for winter (Legolas was surprised to see those appeared to be in Maidhien's hand) and finally reports and requests from the patrols.

"You should have called for me sooner," Legolas said, shaking his head at the amount of work laid out on the table. "Would you like me to sort through the courier's delivery?"

"We have more than enough work already," Hallion replied, pushing the patrol reports in Legolas's direction. "Summarize these for me, if you please?" he asked, still focused on his own reading--a letter that bore the seal of Dale but Forwed's, not Fengel's, handwriting. Legolas pitied Hallion managing whatever Forwed wanted now!

With no desire to make that situation worse, Legolas silently took the papers Hallion passed him in one hand and pulled a blotter with its accompanying ink and quill closer with the other. Galithil normally summarized patrol reports and Engwe had always managed distribution of supplies to the warriors. With them both absent, Legolas was introduced to these duties only three days before. He turned his full attention to them. The first report was from the Southern Patrol and warned of a large grouping of orcs on the eastern edge of their territory. That news could be worse, Legolas thought as he dipped his pen into the ink. If there had to be large groups of orcs anywhere, the farther they were from Galithil and Thranduil in the west the better.

*~*~*

Galithil placed the letter he had just finished copying--one to Leithor, the leader of the village just to their east, a request to share the berry harvest--on the stack of completed correspondence and picked up another to copy. Uncle Thranduil was correct. Manadhien was not interested in giving him any real responsibility in the village. He was doing the sort of work he had done for the king when he was a dozen years younger. He did not mind, he told himself. Seeing the issues that arose in the village was enough. He had enough experience from serving the king and troop commander that none of the issues he encountered over the last week in the village seemed difficult to resolve. Besides, he was not really here to learn how to govern villages.

He glanced at Manadhien, sitting to his left at the head of the table.

She had seemed much more quiet the last several days. Much colder. Not that she had been talkative at any point during their stay. And that disappointed him. And challenged him. And it was foolish to challenge him, Legolas always said. Of course Galithil realized it was he Legolas was calling a fool when he said such things. He smiled at the thought of his cousin. Legolas would have a fit if he knew what Galithil planned on asking Manadhien this morning.

"I was wondering, my lady," Galithil said, without looking up from his writing, "if you were born in Middle Earth or if you are one of the Returned Elves."

Manadhien let her quill flutter down, placed her hands flat on the table surface and slowly turned to study Galithil with narrowed eyes.

Her reaction was not completely unexpected. He knew this was a dangerous topic, but he was determined to use every opportunity to get her talking about herself, to learn anything he could about what she was doing and why. As long as he neither did nor said anything to let on what he knew about her, it was not so foolish an idea as Legolas would claim.

When she said nothing, he faced her with a carefully innocent look that only served to make her scowl deeper. "You told me before," he pressed, "when I last visited this village, that you are not Silvan. Or Sindarin. That only leaves Noldorin." He smiled. "You certainly are not Vanyarin, even if any of the Vanyar still resided in Middle Earth. Your hair is most certainly not golden. Quite the opposite. It is the richest black I have ever seen."

Her expression did not change, though it might have grown a bit distant and, in that, Galithil concluded she was searching her memory for the exact details of that conversation. Finally she focused fully on him again. "I said I was not Silvan. I said nothing of not being Sindarin. I only said that I knew Oropher, even if he did not know me, and I did not follow him all the way to this forest. You concluded that I was from Lothlorien, at that point in the conversation."

Galithil shrugged with apparent unconcern and affected confusion. "So you are not Noldorin? I thought it likely that you are, since Aunt Lindomiel said she did not remember you from Lothlorien. Or at least not your name. And since you said you were more interested in gem work. Not many Sindar have any skill in that art. It is something the Noldor loved. At any rate, we never finished that part of the conversation, so I thought maybe Legolas and I had drawn the wrong conclusion about Lothlorien and instead you were one of the Noldor from Ost-in-Edhil." There he stopped, to give her a chance to lie or tell the truth as she would.

She glared at him for a long moment. "Very well," she muttered, "This is near enough concluded that it hardly matters."

Galithil frowned, not understanding that comment until she picked up her quill, wiped its tip on the blotter, and capped her ink bottle. She must have meant her correspondence.

Finally, she faced him fully, folding her arms in front of her. "It is not wise," she said, "to confess to being Noldorin in this realm. Much less when speaking to a member of the House of Oropher."

Galithil's eyebrows rose.

"It is well known that Oropher blamed all the Noldor for the kinslayings and would not suffer their presence."

He had hoped to draw her into a conversation about her past acquaintances, to use them to guess at her potential current allies, since there was still one spy to identify. Kinslaying would certainly be another interesting topic as well--how she justified killing elves. Interesting if he was very careful.

"From what I have heard of daeradar, I can believe that claim," Galithil responded quietly. "But my uncle does not blame all the Noldor. He places blame only on those that earned it." He could not resist that barb.

Her brow furrowed severely. "Those who earned it," she repeated, her words clipped. "All those who earned it? Including the Sindar who killed elves? Himself amongst them?" She shook her head. "I do not believe for a moment he recognizes the evil he did."

Galithil drew a long breath to hide his tension. She blamed the Sindar for defending themselves? Absurd! "The Sindar, including my uncle and daeradar, did kill other elves in Menegroth and Sirion," Galithil replied, keeping his voice very quiet and even. "Uncle Thranduil acknowledges that and still grieves it."

Manadhien's jaw clenched.

"But they killed those elves in self defense," he continued. "The Noldor attacked them in those cities..."

"Because their king refused to return what he had stolen," Manadhien snapped.

"Morgoth stole the Silmaril. Beren and Luthien took it away from him..."

"And they should have returned it to its rightful owner. Neither they nor Thingol nor Dior nor Elwing had any true claim on it," Manadhien interrupted again, her hand in a fist pounding on the table to punctuate her words. "Thingol, Dior and Elwing apparently believed that keeping the Silmaril was worth killing elves. They allowed their people to die so they could keep the jewel they stole."

"Feanor and his sons likewise allowed their people to die. They commanded them to die, so they could possess a jewel." He paused and feigned confusion. "Dolgailon told me that your adar was killed in Sirion."

Her gazed fixed on him and shock flashed in her eyes. Her expression seemed to ask how he dared bring up that topic. She quickly smothered it.

"He said you were deeply offended by kinslaying," Galithil pressed. "So I do not understand how you can be a victim of kinslaying, yet defend the sons of Feanor."

"From my point of view, your warriors were the kinslayers, defending a thief that stole my king's property. If Thingol or Elwing had simply given us the jewel, we would have left in peace without harming a single person. We came to Middle Earth to fight Morgoth, not elves."

Galithil frowned. Some Noldor, her father and brother included, killed not just those that kept the Silmaril, but also innocents. Still, he could not deny that he agreed Thingol and Elwing could have prevented many deaths if they had yielded their pride and that cursed jewel.

Manadhien was scowling at him, awaiting an answer.

"I do agree Thingol should never have kept the Silmaril," he said softly. "And I think we both agree that the loss of all the elves--my kin and yours--that died for it was a terrible tragedy that caused great suffering on all sides. I truly sympathize with you. I see the loss of your adar is still very painful for you, even now. I have some understanding of the pain of losing a parent. Have you ever thought of sailing? To address your grief by reuniting with your adar? And your naneth? Did she stay in Aman?"

Manadhien laughed bitterly. "I would not dream of returning to my adar's presence without first achieving what he hoped for us to achieve in Middle Earth. I would not disappoint his expectations." She raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Would you sail now? Would you care to face your adar again having done less than everything he expected you to do for this realm?"

"I would not," he conceded, remembering how his father's death had left him determined to be the elf his father would have wanted him to be. How could he and Manadhien have so much and so little in common? What, precisely, did she think to achieve in her father's name through her current actions. He dared not ask. It might be anything, given both her father's past and her own.

"And no, Emme did not remain in Aman. She came with us. Across the Ice..."

"You crossed the Helcaraxe?" Galithil could not stop himself from exclaiming. He assumed she came with Feanor, since her father served his House. "That was an impressive feat," he said. Despite the evils that surrounded those times, impressive was how he had been taught to view the Crossing of the Helcaraxe. Impressive, not heroic.

"It was nightmarish," she said.

"How long did it take you? What could you have possibly found to eat, or even drink, on such a journey? It is not safe to eat snow in such cold, unless you can melt it and you could not have possibly done that. Where would you get wood to make a fire?" The questions rushed from him. He could not help it. In the back of his mind, he wished Legolas were here. His cousin loved stories. To speak to someone that had seen the Crossing of the Ice! Even if that person was Manadhien! It was amazing.

"I do not know how long it took. There was no sun. The moon had only just risen when we began the crossing and it did not yet run in the same course we know today." She looked at him and her expression was as cold as the Helcaraxe. "There was no food, save that which we carried and it did not last. There was no water, save ice. And there was no fire. Cold and hunger is why so many died. That and the shifting of the ice, which swallowed all but the most observant and agile. My mother died that way. Crushed by the ice. She slipped into a crevasse. When she fell, I reached for her and caught only the neckline of her dress. It tore...." she drifted to silence.

Galithil gasped involuntarily and a pitying expression claimed his face. He fought to suppress it, knowing she would scorn his pity. "I cannot imagine. I am sorry," he stammered. "And sorry to have turned your thoughts to such terrible memories."

"Memories of my mother are not terrible," Manadhien replied, her voice softer than Galithil had ever heard it. She reached into her pocket and withdrew something from it. Something small. Her hand hid it until she chose to show it to him. She did so with obvious reluctance, clearly already regretting her actions, but unwilling to turn from them just the same. "Atar gave me this, when we left Aman," she said, turning a blue gem so that it caught the light. It was marred. Cracked. It did not sparkle as it should. "It was once set in a necklace that my mother made at Atar's request. She cut the gem too, but it has since been damaged and the necklace lost. She chose blue to represent the sea Atar was so determined to cross. Atar gave one to my brother and sister too, but theirs were lost with them. This jewel is the only thing I have left of my parents." She carefully tucked the stone back into her pocket. "Emme never wanted to leave Valinor. She was happy there, making jewelry for the lords and their ladies in the court. She only came for Atar's sake. Because he wanted a greater life." She stopped herself and frowned at Galithil, as if only just remembering he was there. "I beg your pardon, my lord," she said, her voice tinged with mockery. "Of course, you do not care to hear that language. Nana and Adar, I should have said."

Galithil shook his head. "Of course you called them Atar and...what was the word? I do not know Quenya. Emme? You should refer to her as you remember her. I am certain it is very difficult to be separated from her. I sincerely hope that one day you will feel you have fulfilled your adar's expectations, whatever they may be, so you can be reunited with your family."

Manadhien leveled a cold, almost openly threatening glare on him. "Like many of the Noldor, my Atar came to Middle Earth seeking a realm to rule," she declared.

The breath caught in Galithil's throat. "And you are governing the largest village in the southern forest," he whispered. "The second largest village in the forest, after the capital. You are doing precisely what your adar hoped to do."

"Not precisely," she replied.

Galithil stared at her. That was a threat and there was no mistaking it. She intended it as one. But why would she? She could not think he would understand it.

Before he could reply, the doors of the Hall swung open and Gwathron and Mornil swept through them.

"Leave," Mornil barked, speaking to Galithil. He emphasized that command with a wave of his hand that left his fingers pointing in the general direction of the doors.  

Accustomed to such commands from the king's court--though not ones delivered as if they had been spoken to an ill-trained dog or horse--Galithil gathered himself to stand. Even as he was doing so, his back went rigid. The king could certainly order him thusly. So might Dolgailon, as an officer and leader of this village. Mornil, on the other hand, had absolutely no right to speak to him in such a manner. Galithil barely stopped himself from glaring at Mornil. It might be better to simply leave. To not be any more provocative than he had already been.

Mornil was already drawing a breath to repeat his order.

No, Galithil thought. I am not having it. He remained seated, turned towards Mornil and Gwathron as they dropped into the chairs across from him at the table and drew himself up in his best impression of Uncle Thranduil. "I am Oropher's grandson and the king's nephew. I am a prince of this realm," he said in a perfectly even voice. "If you expect me to respond, I suggest you address me appropriately."

Galithil watched Mornil's face contort in anger. An anger that froze in place and then instantly disappeared when he glanced at Manadhien. Manadhien was looking at Mornil completely expressionlessly. Mornil turned his gaze to has lap, took a deep breath and pressed his lips together. Then he sat still for a long moment. Finally he looked back at Galithil.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," he said softly. "You are correct, of course. May I ask to speak to Lady Moralfien in private for a moment?"

"Certainly," Galithil said, now standing. He spent a moment straightening the papers he had been working on and then he nodded to Manadhien. "I will see you this afternoon, my lady, with the reports from the village guards and patrols."

Manadhien nodded back to him. "I look forward to that."

Galithil left the Hall at a dignified pace. He could almost physically feel Mornil's rage, but neither he nor Gwathron said a word until Galithil's hand reached for the door handle. Even then, he only heard them shifting in their chairs.

Galithil opened the doors, stepped through them and then considered pressing his ear against the crack between them to listen to whatever it was Mornil was so anxious to tell Manadhien in private. He immediately thought better of that. Not only would every elf in the village see him eavesdropping, Mornil might. So instead, he jumped down the steps by twos and dodged around to the side of the Hall, going to stand at its back corner. The windows were open. He should be able to hear whatever they said through them.

The first voice he heard was Gwathron's: "Thranduil obviously knows that we have discovered their plans. Dolgailon likely does too," he said, his voice shaking slightly, possibly with rage or fear. "Do you think they know our plans to..."

Manadhien cut him off with a hiss.

"There is no one here!" Gwathron exclaimed. "Mornil checked the door."

The only response to that was a whisper Galithil could not make out. For safety sake, he ducked further around the back side of the Hall and pressed himself against the wall. As he moved, he covered his mouth with his hand in an effort to stifle the gasp that arose in his throat. Manadhien knew! At least she knew something, if she was speculating about what the King knew about her. 'We have discovered their plans.' Could that mean they knew the true reason he and Dolgailon were in the village? That would explain why she had been so stiff with him the last few days. And why she openly threatened him moments ago. How could she have figured it out? He wracked his memory, trying to think of anyway he might have slipped.

"I will not retreat!" were the next words Galithil could hear. Angry, determined, loud words from Manadhien. "We will attack him here, in this village," she continued, in a much quieter voice. "It is not too late to divert some of them here. Do it. Quickly. We outnumber them. Two fronts will be easier for us to manage than for them and it doubles our chances of ensnaring them all. It ensures we will catch Dolgailon and Galithil, at least. Go."

Without another word, chairs scraped against the wooden floor in the Hall.

Before he could stop himself, Galithil skittered into the forest like a frightened squirrel. He was not a dozen feet past the tree line when a hand fell onto his shoulder. He spun around, drawing his knife as he did. The hand jerked off his shoulder as the person beside him jumped back.

"Did you hear anything interesting?" Galuauth asked. Both his hands, palms forward, were outstretched in front of him. Despite being threatened with a knife, he appeared amused.

Galithil loosed a breath and sank almost to the ground, stopping his descent only by bracing his hands against his knees. He loosed a curse that made the guard's eyebrows shoot up.

"Not terribly prince-like, my lord," he said, still smiling and apparently quite satisfied with himself.

Galithil shook his head. He was so preoccupied with his conversation with Manadhien and then spying on her, he forgot about Galuauth, sitting by the doors of the Hall as Galithil copied. He must have proceeded him out of the Hall after Mornil's terse order to leave and then watched him spy. Galithil sucked down a couple of breaths to steady himself. "I heard Manadhien saying that we have discovered some plan of theirs, though what, I do not know," he answered. "Perhaps something Dolgailon discovered but did not tell me." Then he paused, straightened and looked at Galuauth squarely. The guard was no longer smiling. "She implied they knew our plans. I heard her saying she would attack two fronts--one of them this village--and thereby double her chances of 'ensnaring' us all, especially Dolgailon. And me."

Galuauth's eyes widened.

Without waiting for a response, Galithil strode off to the opposite side of the courtyard. "Time to speak to Dolgailon," he said.

"No doubt," Galuauth agreed.

Galithil did not fail to notice that the guard practically walked on his heels the entire trip across the courtyard.

*~*~*

When Galithil entered his family's talan, Dolgailon was in the public sitting room. Two warriors were with him. Dolgailon nodded in acknowledgment of his entrance, but did not stop issuing orders to the warriors. Rather than going to his own room, as Dolgailon clearly expected him to do, Galithil walked straight to them, making a point of stepping around past the warriors to see who they were. A lieutenant of the southern patrol and one from the eastern patrol. Ones entrusted with carrying orders, so ones Dolgailon judged to be wholly loyal to the King.

"Good," Galithil mumbled. Then he turned to Dolgailon.

His brother was frowning at him. "I am busy at the moment, Galithil," he began.

Galithil nodded. "I apologize for the interruption, my lord, but this will not wait," he said. "In fact, it might affect the patrols, so it is good their couriers are here. May I speak to you privately for a moment?"

Dolgailon's frown deepened, but he stood, gestured for the warriors to wait and made to lead Galithil and Galuauth nearer the balcony.

Galithil caught his sleeve and led him instead towards the door that led further into the center of the talan, towards the sleeping chambers. "Gwathron and Mornil just brought Manadhien news," Galithil whispered before Dolgailon could upbraid him for his behavior. "They asked me to leave so they could give it to her. Listening at the window, I overheard her say in response to whatever they said that she would not retreat. She ordered Mornil and Gwathron to divert some of them--she did not specify who 'they' were, but I assume orcs--to attack on two fronts. She specified one front was this village, but she did not name the other."

Dolgailon's eyes widened and he leaned closer to Galithil. Galithil clearly had the Troop Commander's full attention now.

"She said she outnumbered us, but did not mention her numbers, and that an attack on two fronts would be more difficult for us to manage than for her. She said it would be more likely to catch us all and would certainly catch you and me. And she seemed to know that we know who she is."

Dolgailon whistled softly and glanced at the two warriors. "Come sit down, Galithil," he said. Then he walked back to the sitting area to rejoin the warriors.

They regarded both Dolgailon and especially Galithil with curiosity.

"Tell Maethroness to ready her guards," he said with no preamble. "I now have clear evidence the orcs you have been watching are staging an attack, not simply some sort of movement within their territory. It sounds likely that the entire contingent will join the battle."

That caused the warriors to stiffen.

"Warn her and your captains," Dolgailon continued, "that these orcs may well employ better strategies than normal. Elves may lead them."

The warriors mouths fell open at that. Even Galithil was startled by that assertion.

Dolgailon ignored their reactions and quickly explained who Fuilin and Glilavan were and how Manadhien had led orcs herself before, so it was little stretch that she would command her servants to do likewise now. Finally, he explained the king had spies watching Fuilin and Glilavan, with orders not to allow them to escape. "If you see elves amongst the orcs, if they appear to be fighting allied with the orcs, trust what you see and treat them accordingly. Offer them no quarter, for they are no more likely to offer you quarter than orcs are."

"Are you ordering us to kill those elves?" the lieutenant of the Southern Patrol asked, shaking his head with wide eyes. "Glilavan is Tulus's son. He and I shared a tutor as children. And Fuilin..."

"Fuilin and Glilavan sold the King's son to Easterlings not one moon ago," Dolgailon cut him off. "And when Lord Legolas escaped, Fuilin led elves to try again to kill him. Glilavan tried to kill him in the Great Hall in front of the King. I am not ordering you to kill them. I am ordering you to ensure they do not escape. That is the King's command."

The lieutenants both bowed, eyes still wide. "Yes, my lord," they said.

"Also, you may soon see signs that the orcs will turn west," Dolgailon continued. "Or at least some of them might. I want you to be on guard for that," he said, pointing at the Southern Patrol's lieutenant. "If they do, your patrol will follow the ones going west. They will be aiming to attack this village. Galithil and I are their targets, but I do not doubt they will destroy the village to get to us if need be. If they come here, I want Ostarndor to confer with me how best to manage them. I will be defending this village personally." Dolgailon turned to the other warrior. "The eastern patrol will stay with Maethorness's village. Tell Delethil to bring more warriors further south to protect her and he may command that battle as he judges is best. I will send orders to Dollion and Esgalason to redistribute their patrols to compensate along the eastern border. Understood?"

"Yes, my lord," the warriors repeated.

Dolgailon nodded to them. They bowed and hurried from the talan. Through the balcony window, Galithil watched them running towards paths that led out of the village. Dolgailon, meanwhile, faced Galuauth. "Can you find a way to speak to Tulus, Tureden or one of the other spies?"

"I spoke to Tureden last night," Galuauth replied. "He said he has not seen Tulus for several days, but he thinks he went south. That is what one of the other spies said. Apparently, one of the elves watching Glilavan delivered some news that Tulus needed to attend to personally. The point is, yes, I think I can speak to Tureden again."

"Warn him we have been discovered, but we do not know how she discovered us or if Manadhien is aware of them yet." Dolgailon paused and looked to Galithil to confirm that. Galithil nodded. "I think we had better assume that she does know about the spies watching her, but tell Tureden they should not alter their normal routines. Let her think we do not know that she has discovered our plans. It might give us an advantage."

"Agreed, my lord," Galuauth said.

"Tell Tureden I want to speak to him, since Tulus is not here. I need to discuss with him how to manage these arrests. Since we have been discovered, we will need to act much more quickly than we had planned. We cannot wait for the King to travel here. I think I will recommend to Tureden that I should go now to find Fuilin and Glilavan while he and the other spies arrest Manadhien, before this village is attacked and all of them disperse."

Galithil sat bolt upright at that. "You are going to go south to look for Fuilin and Glilavan? But you just said they would be with the orcs. And if this village is going to be attacked, you need to be in it. You told the courier you would defend it."

Dolgailon laid a hand on Galithil's shoulder. "This is happening too fast, Galithil, and we must remain in control of it. According to the scouts, those orcs will be in place to attack Maethorness's village very soon. I need to know if Fuilin or Glilavan is commanding that attack--I need to be certain they are still contained and I need to know how to command my warriors if they are not. If Fuilin or Glilavan is with the orcs attacking Maethorness, I am going to have to trust the spies or warriors to capture them. I cannot make it to the eastern border myself that quickly. And if they are still in the south, where the spies have been watching them all along, they must be arrested before the attack on this village because we have to arrest Manadhien before that attack, lest she use it as a diversion to escape herself. Both arrests have to be carefully timed so that no one is alerted and has opportunity to escape."

"I fear, if Fuilin or Glilavan traveled with the orcs, the spies watching them, possibly even including Tulus, since he apparently went south, must be dead, else we would have a report of their movements, my lord," Galuauth said softly.

Dolgailon nodded. "Agreed. I imagine Tulus left when he heard either Fuilin or Glilavan or both were on the move, looking for more information before determining how to manage that. My hope is that he is tracking them and will find a way to communicate with us soon. But I cannot count on that or wait for it."

"How can I help?" Galithil asked, trying to appear confident that Dolgailon intended to let him help.

The hand on Galithil's shoulder tightened. "As much as I hate this, you have to continue on as if nothing has happened. Give Manadhien no reason to think any of our plans have changed. No need to push her along faster by making her think the trap is tightening around her." He looked at Galuauth. "From now on, both you and Lanthir will be with him at all times if he is not in this talan. One of you openly and one hidden."

"Yes, my lord," Galuauth replied. He did not seem to need that order, nor, strictly speaking, did Dolgailon have the authority to issue it. The King's Guard did not fall under his command. But Galuauth would not question Dolgailon's right to act as Galithil's guardian in the King's absence.

Dolgailon turned back to Galithil. "When you report to her about the patrols tonight, tell her...." He drifted to a stop, shaking his head. "What can we tell her?" he asked. "If we tell her the patrols are following their normal routes, she will learn from the village guards loyal to her that is not true. If we tell her I have sent warriors to intercept a possible orc attack, she might have reserves to make her attack worse, but I do not have more warriors to send south unless I pull them from the north. I fear to leave the stronghold less protected since I see no logical reason for this attack on Maethorness."

"I recommend telling her everything remains normal," Galithil said. "It will take time for her to find out differently, and that serves us. Plus, she already knows we are lying to her. What is one more lie?"

Dolgailon nodded. "True enough. Tell her that. I will tell Seregon to prepare the loyal guards for an attack and, if the attack occurs in my absence, Seregon and the officers of the Southern Patrol will defend this village. You have been performing the inspections of the talan the villagers shelter in yourself? Everything is as I showed you it should be?"

"Of course," Galithil responded.

"I want you to inspect it twice a day until the battle begins," Dolgailon ordered. "Wear that mail uncle Thranduil told you to bring, keep your weapons close and avoid Manadhien and those loyal to her as much as possible. When the battle starts, you go straight to the talan. You may fight, but from there only."

"Understood," Galithil said quietly. "Those officers," he gestured with his chin towards the window, "already scouted the orcs? Did they say how many they saw?" He managed to ask that question perfectly steadily. Despite that, Dolgailon gave his shoulder another squeeze.

"A large number," he admitted. "We will be facing around a hundred orcs if she sends here half the numbers massing near Maethorness's village. As you heard, I ordered the majority of the Southern Patrol to defend us."

"A little more than three dozen warriors," Galithil said.

Dolgailon nodded. "And ten or so village guards and the villagers themselves. They always make a fierce defense as archers from the talan. You have seen that before."

It was true. Galithil saw such a battle. Their father died in it.

"This is a battle we will win," Dolgailon said, his tone reassuring. "It will be a large one. And likely a costly one. But we will win it."

"But you have to make sure Manadhien does not escape during it," Galithil said. "While also making sure Fuilin and Glilavan are arrested, without even really knowing where they are."

"Yes, I do." Dolgailon agreed.

Galithil could not imagine how his brother intended to do that. This situation had deteriorated very quickly. Galithil found himself praying it would not get worse.

*~*~*

The candles in the Hall had burned down considerably and Legolas was mapping the information in the final patrol report when Hallion made a confused noise. Legolas looked up at him. He was turning one of the courier's letters over in his hands. Legolas squinted at it and was surprised to recognize the handwriting. "Is that from Tulus?" he asked, leaning closer.

"It seems so," Hallion responded. He sounded skeptical and was studying the seal--nothing more than wax smudged into place over the fold of the letter. No markings.

"What does it say?" Legolas asked, holding out a hand for it.

Hallion gave him the letter, watching while he read it. It contained three lines: The owl has not returned. Otherwise, all is well. Nothing to report. Legolas scowled at it. That seemed very...odd. Tulus was not known for being succinct. Even notes he wrote for the owl to carry had been longer, and they had to be crammed onto squares of parchment small enough to fit in Legolas's palm.

"Is that definitely Tulus's hand?" Hallion asked. Legolas would know it better than Hallion, having seen and copied reports from the Guard for over a dozen years.

"It looks like it," Legolas answered. He had not taken his eyes off the letter, such as it was. "It does not contain the symbol it should," he observed and his scowl deepened.

"I suppose it is possible that Tulus still has not had a chance to speak to Dolgailon since he and Galithil arrived in the village. If that is the case and Tulus did not receive our last message before sending this one, he might not yet know he should include that symbol," Hallion said, reaching for the message and running his own finger lightly over the writing while studying it closely.

"Maybe," Legolas conceded, making sure his tone made it perfectly clear he did not believe that at all. "And it might be logical for Tulus to send an update by courier if the owl has not returned, rather than failing to send one at all, especially since by now the King should have alerted them to his presence in the south. But how did Tulus get this message to a courier without revealing himself? If he has not spoken to Dolgailon, then Dolgailon could not have passed it for him."

Hallion frowned. "Perhaps one of the other spies with him gave it to Padanil? One that would not be recognized so easily by Manadhien or the couriers?"

"I suppose that is possible," Legolas replied. But we should confirm that rather than assuming it, he thought. He did not say it out loud because he was certain Hallion would draw the same conclusion. Much to Legolas's great concern, he did not appear to.

Still frowning, Hallion put the message in a stack of papers to be stored in the King's office and reached for the next item the courier delivered.

Legolas leaned forward and covered those papers with his hand. "At a time when the Troop Commander and King are both in the south," he said, "just after we learned Manadhien is sending forged orders to the patrols, we have a message that essentially says nothing, delivered in a wholly unexpected and unexplainable manner, that does not contain the necessary code. How does that make you feel? Do you honestly think we need make no response to this at all?"

"It concerns me," Hallion admitted, sitting back in his chair. "But not terribly so. Tulus is not alone in that village, after all. There are six other spies with him. Even Tureden is there now. If something has happened to Tulus, all his fellows must have suffered the same fate, else they would have reported his loss by now. I cannot believe eight elves could be apprehended so quietly that neither Dolgailon nor any of his guards noticed it." He gestured at the letter with a jerk of his chin, glaring at it. "I think Tulus would have been wiser to communicate with Dolgailon and have Dolgailon send us a message, rather than trying to send one by courier himself. But for all we know, that is exactly what happened..."

"But the symbol would be in the message then," Legolas interjected.

"That symbol was designed by Dolgailon for the patrols. Maybe he and the King did not intend for Tulus to use it. I cannot honestly say I remember the King saying he expected that. Especially since Tulus is communicating by owl..."

"But the owl did not deliver this message..."

"Because it has not returned yet. Tulus made that clear. Birds are not completely predictable. And this is a wild owl, not a trained hawk," Hallion countered, speaking firmly and now turning his glare from the letter to Legolas.

Legolas glared back at him unflinchingly. He would not back down on this. Too much was at stake. Too many lives.

Hallion sighed. "What would you have me do? We cannot march into that village and inquire after Tulus's health."

"Ask Padanil who gave him this," Legolas suggested, picking up the letter. "If it was Tulus, or if Padanil can confirm it was some other trustworthy source, we have nothing to worry about. If not...truthfully, that does not bear thinking about. If Manadhien forged a letter from Tulus, that implies she knows everything. Dolgailon, Galithil and the King are all in grave danger, if they are still alive."

"Padanil would be a quarter of the way through the Guard's patrol area by now, at least," Hallion replied. "And it will be four days before he returns again. By then, this whole business should be finished."

"I think we should send someone after him," Legolas insisted.

Hallion loosed a humorless laugh. "Who?" he asked, spreading both arms wide to encompass the unoccupied table.

Hallion had him there. The entire council and nearly all the Guard, save Colloth, were already abroad. And not just any warrior could be entrusted with this duty. The only warriors still in the vicinity of the stronghold that the King had informed of his plans to capture Manadhien were Dollion and a select few of his lieutenants.

"By the time I could have someone deliver an order to Dollion to find Padanil, I could travel to Dolgailon's village and investigate this myself," Hallion said, echoing Legolas's thoughts. He immediately held up a single, forbidding finger when Legolas drew a breath to speak. "I cannot leave the stronghold when the King is abroad, so do not even suggest it," he added.

"Then I will go," Legolas replied. And he had no doubt how his uncle would react to that idea.

Hallion did not disappoint.

He turned in his chair, eyes widening in shock and just as quickly narrowing into a glare to add emphasis to the firm shake of his head. "No," he said flatly. Then he leaned over, one hand on the table to support himself, and seized Legolas's arm in a fairly bruising grasp. "To Dolgailon's village?" he asked. "With Manadhien in it? I will lock you in a cell if you so much as think it again. The very worst possible outcome of our present situation is that Manadhien might manage to capture or kill both the king and his heir. If you believe I will allow that to happen, you have completely taken leave of your senses."

Legolas surprised himself with his own response to Hallion's words and actions. He felt a surge of outrage at such threats and treatment. He only suppressed the urge to physically throw off the hand on his arm by reminding himself that this was his uncle, who had helped raise him and was responsible for his safety in his father's absence. He forced himself to relax and simply glanced at his arm before meeting Hallion's gaze with a raised eyebrow.

Hallion was already cringing at his own words. "I beg your pardon, my lord," he said quickly, releasing Legolas's arm. But his expression did not soften in the slightest. Indeed, he crossed his arms across his chest.

"I am not suggesting I go to Dolgailon's village," Legolas explained. "Only that I could go after Padanil to ask about Tulus's message. He has been a courier for a very long time. Tulus knows him well. Perhaps he decided to take him into his confidence when the owl did not return. But we should confirm that, because the alternative is that Manadhien forged this message and therefore knows all." Legolas braced himself for his next words, not certain how he would enforce them, if it came to that, but he intended to. "Indeed, given that the King's life may be at stake, I insist that we confirm Tulus sent this message. The choice how we do so is yours, but I am not sure who we can send in a timely fashion other than me or yourself."

Legolas watched as Hallion's brows puckered severely and he drew himself up to his full height. Then he seemed to check himself and regard Legolas for a long moment without a word.

"It is only a matter of traveling a few hours south of the stronghold," Legolas said very softly into the silence. "I regularly hunt that far south. And Colloth will be with me."

Hallion still stared at Legolas. "Go," he finally said. "Fully armed, wearing mail and with Colloth. Find Padanil and come directly back here with what ever information you learn from him. Do not even dream of going any further south than your adar allows you to go to hunt, even if you cannot catch Padanil. If he has already gone too far south, you send one of the patrols to fetch him back. Understood?"

Legolas stood, bringing Hallion to his feet as well. "Yes, my lord steward," he said with a half bow and a smile.

Hallion caught him by the arm again as he straightened. "I am serious, Legolas. I fear facing your naneth at the lunch table with the news that I allowed you to go after Padanil. I definitely do not want to face your adar and explain to him how I sent you into Manadhien's hands. And I am not certain either of them will accept as an excuse that I was obeying the command of the Prince of this realm, though that is precisely what I am doing."

Legolas bit his lip. He had put Hallion in a difficult position and he had done so intentionally. He hoped he would not regret that decision, but he had a very uneasy feeling about Tulus's message. One he could not ignore. "I will be careful. I promise," he responded.

Hallion only nodded. "Return before nightfall."

"I will," Legolas responded.

Hallion released his arm.

*~*~*

In the end, much to Legolas's dismay and Colloth's disgust, they did not go after the courier alone. Berior and Anastor went with them. They crossed paths when Legolas was leaving and Berior, Anastor and Noruil were returning to the stronghold for lunch. Berior would not accept Legolas's refusal to discuss his mission--one that required him to be fully armed simply inspired too much curiosity. He followed, pestering him, until Legolas confessed, not wanting to waste time in his pursuit while arguing. Berior immediately understood Legolas's fears regarding what might happen if the message was forged. And his response was: 'They are guilty of my adar's murder. I will go to Mordor itself before I will allow them to escape, or worse still, be responsible for the King's death.' No argument could convince him to stay in the stronghold.

Though Legolas did not speak to Berior in Anastor's presence, it was obvious Anastor at least guessed Manadhien was somehow behind their heated words. He stuck to them like a wolf on its prey and laughed outright at both Legolas and Colloth when they tried to order him back, declaring he bought his right to accompany them with his own blood.

Legolas could not deny that.

At least Noruil remained behind.

Legolas concentrated on moving swiftly through the trees and forced himself not to think about what his uncle Hallion--or naneth--would do when they got the report from the training masters that Berior never returned to training.

"We are approaching the border of the Guard's patrol area," Colloth called, his voice right at Legolas's ear. The further south they travelled, the closer Colloth had followed him, until now, he was practically on top of him.

Legolas assumed they had gone nearly that far. He did not know this part of the forest well. They were past the territory where he was allowed to hunt. He had only travelled this far south twice and neither time had anyone taken the trouble to show him how to identify the borders of the patrols.

"It will be dusk soon," Colloth said after a few moments, trying again to bring Legolas to a stop.

"I know," Legolas replied. And he also knew he should obey his guard and cease his pursuit of the courier. "Just a little farther, Colloth. We must be close to catching him."

"If we do not find him soon, we will find a warrior to go after him," Colloth replied. "The eastern camp of the Western Patrol is within a league of here."

Legolas stifled a sigh. Colloth was right. They could not safely go further. Especially with Anastor. He carried a sword from the training fields. Legolas could not even be certain it was sharpened. He was certain Anastor had little idea how to use it. He could not lead his friend into territory that orcs regularly roamed.

"There!" Berior called, pointing ahead of them. "Is that Padanil or a warrior or....?"

Legolas peered through the red and yellow fall leaves in the direction Berior pointed. His cousin was always the best scout amongst them when they hunted. He had no doubt Berior spotted something, even if Legolas did not yet see it.

Just as Legolas registered movement in the branches, Colloth loosed a call and the movement stopped.

It was the courier then. Or a patrol. Either was better than the alternative Berior had not dared voice--spiders. Legolas doubled his pace towards the tree where he last saw rustling branches, hoping it was Padanil. Quickly, the courier came into view, turned towards his pursuers, waiting crouched on a branch in a stout oak. His eyes widened when he recognized Legolas.

"My lords," he greeted them, his tone questioning as he glanced between Legolas and Berior.

Legolas, with Colloth on his heels, leapt easily onto a branch nearby Padanil. Berior had the good sense to remain in the background and keep Anastor there along with him.

"I cannot imagine what message I might have left behind that was so important the king's son would be sent to deliver it," Padanil said, trying to smile as he looked Legolas up and down. His brows shot up when Legolas did, in fact, withdraw a message from his tunic pocket and hand it over to him. He looked from it to Legolas.

"Do you remember who gave you this message?" Legolas asked with no further explanation, fearing hidden ears might be nearby.

Padanil glanced at it again, turning it over in his hands. "I believe this one came from Lord Dolgailon's village," he replied uncertainly. "I though the unmarked seal was unusual, so I remember it."

"Lord Dolgailon gave it to you himself?" Legolas asked, feeling a surge of relief. He had been overly concerned, but he was perfectly happy to learn that.

"No," the courier said, shaking his head. "Lord Dolgailon gave me orders for the Western Patrol, since I pass their base camp on the way to the stronghold. Those he gave me himself. This," he studied the message again, "was in the pile of correspondence I picked up from his desk."

"In his private office?" Legolas asked, tension claiming him once again.

Again Padanil shook his head. "His office in the meeting hall."

"Was it locked?" Legolas asked, with no real hope the answer would be affirmative.

"The meeting hall?" Padanil asked. "The office door," he quickly guessed again in response to Legolas's frown. "No, it was not locked. Should it have been?"

"No, I suppose not. Thank you, Padanil," Legolas replied, his mind already analyzing what the courier's answers might mean.

"By your leave, my lord?" Padanil said, frowning.

That drew Legolas's attention back to the courier. "Of course. I apologize for delaying you."

Padanil offered him a brief bow. "I am bound for the Western Patrol's camp and have a way yet to travel, so...farewell." He bowed again, nodded to Colloth and then in Berior's general direction. Then he disappeared into the trees.

"Not good news, that," Colloth commented, taking a step towards the north.

"No," Legolas agreed. It was, in truth, worse than bad news. They had learned almost nothing. The message still might have come from Tulus or it might not have. Dolgailon might have put it amongst the correspondence for the stronghold or, given the public nature of that office, Manadhien or one of her servants might have. Rather than following Colloth north, he turned his face south. Manadhien might not be terribly suspicious if he appeared in the village to visit his cousins.

Colloth's hand fell on his shoulder. "No, my lord," he said. "Lord Hallion asked you to return to the stronghold before nightfall. Bad enough that we will not do that." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Please do not force me to contradict you--publicly, since Anastor is here--by trying to pursue this matter to the village itself."

But they had to know if Manadhien had learned Dolgailon's true reason for being in the village. They had to warn Dolgailon and Galithil if she had. And the King. And if she knew...if she was forging Tulus's messages, Legolas's gut twisted in fear of what might have befallen Tulus. He looked more determinedly over his shoulder to the south.

A startled gasp to Legolas's left, from the west, caused both Legolas and Colloth to draw and nock an arrow.

"Oh no," Berior whispered. He was standing with his nose almost flush against the trunk of his tree. Anastor tip-toed next to him, also peering at the tree trunk.

The tree was far enough away that Legolas could barely make them out. The light had failed entirely, he was surprised to realize. He loosed a long breath and lowered his bow. He could see them well enough to know they were in no immediate danger.

With a growl, Colloth lowered his bow. "Get back over here," he hissed.

Both Berior and, less surprisingly, Anastor ignored him. After a moment's hesitation, Berior reached towards the tree. Then, into it. They must be looking into a large knot in the tree, Legolas thought. Berior pulled free a greyish-brown mass. It flopped limply in his hands as he inspected it.

"I said, get back over here," Colloth repeated his order much more fiercely.

"Legolas, I think you had better look at this," Berior said, still disregarding Colloth.

With a glance at his guard, Legolas began climbing through the branches to join his cousin. That elicited another growl.

"It is just an old, dead owl," Anastor said. "It could not be the first one you have ever seen." Then he laughed. "I know it is not because we scared you out of a tree with one when we were little. Or was that a dead fish hawk?"

Berior ignored him.

Legolas, on the other hand, and Colloth too, responded to his comment by doubling their pace. Before he even reached Berior's tree, Legolas could see that owl was the one Tulus had been using. Its pouch was missing, but the leg it should have been attached to bore tell-tale rub marks. More than that, even fading in death, Legolas recognized the speckled pattern on the breast of the bird that had beleaguered every one of his misdeeds his entire life. He had wished that bird ill more than once, but now found himself praying it had finally died peacefully of advanced old age.

It was old, Legolas said to himself firmly.

When he reached Berior's side, his cousin held out the owl for him to see. The index fingers of both his hands tapped the bird, one on its breast and the other underneath a wing. Legolas's whole body tensed. Berior's fingers hovered over the entrance and exit wounds caused by an arrow.

The owl had been shot. Deliberately killed.

"Oh no!" Legolas whispered, echoing Berior's earlier exclamation. His gaze darted from the owl, to Berior and finally to Colloth. The guard's expression was grim.

"What?" Anastor asked. "Someone accidently shot an owl when they were hunting. Or some child shot it playing with a bow. I shot a black squirrel that way once. Noruil tricked me into cooking it and trying to eat it too."

"I suppose it might have been an accident," Berior said, obviously not believing his own words.

"Why climb around to find a hole in a tree to hide it in, if you just accidently killed it?" Legolas replied.

"Why kill an owl on purpose?" Anastor asked.

Legolas pressed his lips together and looked at his friend. "Because Tulus is using it to communicate with the stronghold while he is in Dolgailon's village spying on Manadhien and preparing to arrest her and her servants," he finally decided to answer in a bare whisper.

Anastor's jaw fell open.

"That is why Galithil and Dolgailon are in their village," Legolas added. "And why the King has left the stronghold."

"But," Anastor whispered. Then he cut himself off, looked around them and took a step closer to Legolas until he was standing practically on his toes. "If someone shot the owl, and you think they did it on purpose, that means Manadhien did it because she knows why Tulus is there. She would have to be a fool to not realize why Dolgailon and Galithil are there." He grasped Legolas's tunic front. "Legolas, she will sell them to men. Or just kill them. Like the owl." His expression grew even more panicked and he glanced at Colloth. "If she finds out the King is somewhere near that village, she will kill him!"

"I know that, Anastor," Legolas replied.

"What are we going to do about it?" Anastor whispered.

Legolas remained silent, waiting for Colloth to say they were all returning to the stronghold to report to Hallion and calculating how he would convince him otherwise. They had to act as quickly as possible on this information and Legolas would not be persuaded that the best course of action was to waste time returning to the stronghold.

Colloth said nothing. He only looked at Legolas. His face showed open concern, granted, but that might be as much in response to the threat against the King as it was to the idea of Legolas involving himself deeper in this growing disaster.

"I recommend, since we are so close to the patrol's camp, we go there to see there is someone in it we can trust to carry a message to Dolgailon," Legolas said. "Padanil, possibly, if we can catch him again. And," he directed himself to Colloth, "if you can think of anyway to manage it, we need to get this information to the King."

"Agreed," Colloth said. "Stay close," he added. Without any further conversation, he moved off through the trees, heading south.

*~*~*

It felt odd to sit with his back to the plain, propped up against his pack, watching the forest. An age ago, when Thranduil was nothing more than one of his king's captains patrolling the borders, he would have sat with his back to the forest, confident nothing dangerous would approach him from inside his home. Danger came from without, not within. And elves were his allies, not his enemies. And choosing to hunt an elf to possibly kill him was unthinkable.

No so now.

A field mouse skittered across his outstretched ankle, making Thranduil jump before he could stop himself. He tried not to exhale so forcefully that Conuion or Engwe would be alerted, but knew his efforts were in vain. His guard smirked at him and his uncle rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Let a grass snake slither up your trouser leg and you will scream like an elleth," he whispered to Conuion.

Conuion only nodded at him once, slowly, still smirking.

A low whistle sounded just off to their south.

As one, Thranduil, Engwe and Conuion shifted to lie flat on their stomachs in the tall grass, each drawing and nocking an arrow as they did. They watched for any movements in the direction the sound came from.

The mouse crept over Thranduil's wrist. He twitched it away. It clawed its way up his shirt onto his shoulder, scurried the length of his outstretched arm and perched on his bow hand. Thranduil glared at it. Then he frowned, realization dawning. "Hold," he whispered.

Conuion glanced back at him, brows raised, but he obeyed, lowering his own bow and calling the signal for Pendurion and Belloth to also stand down.

"Have you lost your mind, Thranduil?" Engwe whispered, but he also lowered his bow.

The mouse set up a loud squeaking. Loud, at least, against the relative quiet on the plain.

Conuion looked with alarm between it and Thranduil and sank lower to the ground.

Within moments a brown robed figure emerged from the tree line, moving cautiously, but making fussing noises as his eyes darted back and forth.

"Oh!" Conuion breathed. He sat up and then stood.

Thranduil did the same.

Engwe followed suit, muttering something Thranduil was certain he was better off not hearing.

The Brown's eyes lit up upon seeing them. "My lord Thranduil!" he exclaimed in a perfectly normal tone of voice, walking forward, arms out, as if to embrace the king.

Belloth and Pendurion appeared from no where and pounced on him. "Sshh!" they both hissed.

"Do you want every orc in the forest to know we are here?" Conuion whispered, stepping in front of Thranduil. Engwe took a step closer to Thranduil's back, his arrow once again nocked.

The bearded figure winced slightly and he looked behind himself. Then he turned back to Thranduil and pointed towards the forest. "But they are all in there. Just south of the village," he said, hurrying over to the king. His eyes grew wide when he said 'village.' "I was coming to look for someone. A warrior. To warn them. And ask for help. Orcs are massing near the village Lord Aradunnon once lived in. And near the eastern border as well, my allies tell me." He stuck out a foot from under his robes and the little grey mouse climbed up his leg and disappeared.

Thranduil took a step closer to him. "How many orcs?" he asked. Galithil was in that village. And an attack, at this moment, seemed too well timed to be coincidence. His heart began to pound a little harder in his chest.

"Too many," Radagast answered. "And still more are coming. Worse still: they have elves with them. Elves! Four elves are with the orcs near Lord Aradunnon's village. Two of them I saw speaking to the orcs. I saw that with my own eyes!" he emphasized, as if knowing no one would believe him.

Thranduil did.

"The other two are hiding in the trees," Radagast continued. "My friends tell me another elf is amongst the orcs in the east, with another two in the trees. What does this mean, my lord? Why would elves speak with orcs?"

"Three elves amongst the orcs, besides the ones in the trees?" Thranduil asked. "Two here, and also one on the eastern border? Are you certain about the one in the east? And that you saw two speaking to orcs here?"

Radagast nodded. "Surely you are here to help those poor elves," he said, watching Thranduil closely, waiting for a positive response.

"I am here to manage them," Thranduil assured him. Explaining this to Radagast would be well-nigh impossible. "But I had counted on them all being together. And being much further south than here..."

"That they were," Radagast interrupted. "They and the orcs with them moved north in the last few days. The last three days."

That made Thranduil's breath come with a little more difficulty. The orcs and elves began to move exactly at the same time he left the stronghold? That could not possibly be a coincidence? At least Radagast's appearance saved him a dangerous and fruitless trip south to search for them where they no longer were. That, at least, was luck. "Can you show me where they are now?" he asked.

Radagast nodded. "Of course."

Thranduil forced himself to smile and laid a hand on Radagast's shoulder. "Thank you," he said.

Then he guided his guest to sit down in their camp and seated himself next to him, absorbed in thought. What was the meaning of the extra elf now with Fuilin and Glilavan? Who could that be? One of Manadhien's other servants, who had been in the village and now had left it? Another spy they did not know about? A prisoner? And why had they split up and moved, some straight north and some east? Another attack, like the ones Dolgailon already thwarted, no doubt. Most likely the backup plan Hallion warned Manadhien would have.

Hopefully when Hurion returned from the village, he would have an answer for at least some of these questions. Hopefully he would confirm Dolgailon's warrior were already prepared for the attack.

At least Tulus's spies were with his enemies to make sure they did not escape the forest. Better still, Radagast had promised to show him safe paths to find them. They would be arrested soon. Just as planned. And since Hurion carried orders to Dolgailon to arrest Manadhien on the morrow, this would be over soon.

*~*~*

Manadhien sat in her talan, watching the lanterns flicker in the distant courtyard where the evening dancing was in full swing. Her thoughts were not on merrymaking. A knock on her talan door preceded the entrance of Mornil and then Gwathron. She sat up a little straighter. "What news?" she asked, a smile already forming on her lips. Their expressions as they rushed in were clearly excited.

"Our scouts found the King," Mornil whispered. "Exactly where our spy in the stronghold said he would be. He is just outside the western edge of the forest, less than half a day's travel south of here. Engwe and three guards are with him. So is some old man. The scouts await your orders, my lady."

Manadhien's smile faded. "Who is the old man?"

Mornil and Gwathron both shrugged. "They do not know," Mornil said.

"Some wayfarer," Gwathron added. "Dressed in rags. Thranduil probably arrested the poor fool for eating a mushroom in his precious forest."

Manadhien waved a hand. "No matter. Kill him along with the guards. I want Thranduil alive. And Engwe. I think I will enjoy watching Thranduil lose his dear father's brother. I want to see that myself. Take them now."

"It will be done immediately, my lady," Mornil replied gleefully, but he did not move to leave. "First, we have another stroke of luck to report. While the scouts were searching for the King, they caught one of his guard traveling from the forest border to this village. He carried no written message and, like Tulus, he could not be compelled to speak, but whatever message he was to carry to Dolgailon, it will not reach him. That could only be good news for us." Now Mornil smiled so broadly he might have been mistaken for mad. "Perhaps Dolgailon does not even know the King is nearby."

"Perhaps," Manadhien agreed. "What of the orcs? Are they in position?"

Gwathron nodded. "The ones in the east are ready to attack Maethroness's village. Fuilin is with them. I ordered a legion of orcs up from the south. They will be here by midday tomorrow. The ones diverting here from the east should arrive before nightfall tomorrow. I ordered their captains to drive them all night and all day. We could be ready to attack this village by this time tomorrow."

"Attack Maethorness's village first," she ordered. "As soon as you can get word to Fuilin. Tonight while the village sleeps would suit me best. Raze it. That should draw the patrols nicely. Have the orcs move straight into this village the moment they arrive. Command that attack yourself, Gwathron. Remember, I want Dolgailon alive. I will manage Galithil myself. And I want as few deaths to the people here--the ones loyal to me--as possible, so keep tight rein over those disgusting creatures. Once the King's family has been dealt with, order the orcs to withdraw and return to help me manage these villages. With luck, the people will be ready to name a new ruling house in this forest by the time the sun sets tomorrow."

Gwathron and Mornil nodded and rushed so eagerly from the room that they barely bowed.

Manadhien disregarded their lack of courtesy. Soon, she thought. Soon.

*~*~*

AN: My apologies this time to Abraham Lincoln for the chapter title. Thank you for your patience. The pieces are now in place and the battle will be joined in the next chapter.

elleth -- female elf
Adar (S.) -- Father
Atar (Q.) -- Father
Naneth/nans (S.) -- Mother/mum
Emme (Q.) -- mummy

Chapter 5: What fruit would spring from such a seed

When he remained very still, Tulus could manage two, maybe three comfortable, if shallow, breaths. That was a boon that did not last long. All too soon he could no longer ignore how his muscles cramped and his joints ached after days of restraint and he was forced to strain against his bonds to shift position. He resisted movement as long as possible. It invariably sent pain spiking through his broken leg, which caused him to gasp and that turned his broken ribs into knives in his side.

From the intermittent shuffling and weak groans just to his left, Tulus knew the prisoner next to him, the one that the orcs dumped there a few hours before, was already suffering the same fate. He took no absolutely no comfort in the knowledge that he was not alone. In fact, the thought sickened him. Terrified him.

There were not many elves the orcs would deign to leave alive and, unless his fellow prisoner was another guard also deemed knowledgeable enough to have worth for further questioning, all of them were people Tulus had once been charged to protect...people he had failed to protect. He had failed so many people. So many....

Footsteps scraped against rocks and roots nearby.

Tulus froze and stopped breathing--anything to avoid attracting attention and the resultant passing kick or cuff that would be aimed at some part of him that had already suffered too much.

He heard a smack, a moan and cackling laughter as the orcs ambled by.

Tulus's stomach twisted. Elbereth, please do not let that be Galithil. Or Dolgailon. There was no possibility he could help either one of them. He could not help himself. He prayed they were still safe in their village.

It was a futile prayer.

The sounds in the camp told him that even if they were in the village, they would soon be in terrible danger. Sharpening blades, leather and metal slapping together or onto flesh and being fastened, stamping feet, shouted orders. Or at least that is what the orc's obscene language sounded like--orders to arm and form ranks. All these noises meant one thing: a very large-scale attack would soon be launched, undoubtedly against that village.

The thought made Tulus struggle to stifle a sob. There were so many orcs here. So many. So many. The phrase bounced around in his half-conscious mind, beating against his skull in rhythm with the orcs' movements.

Dolgailon's village would be overrun and the mountains breached--those were the orc captain's orders to his troops. Rather than serving as a barrier between the elves and orcs' territories, the mountains would be infested with orc lairs. They would be a place from which those vile creatures would launch raids against the villagers. The Enemy would effectively control the southern part of the forest.

Tulus's breath hitched. So many lives would be lost, in this battle and the long years after it, including Dolgailon's and possibly even Galithil's. That was too much to bear. Surely Dolgailon would at least ensure Galithil escaped before the fighting began.... Assuming this was not Dolgailon or Galithil right here next to him.

He had to know.

Tulus forced his eyes open. Or at least one of them. His left eye was still swollen shut. His right allowed him a slit of vision, though he had to blink vigorously numerous times to bring what little sight he had into focus. Letting his head loll to the side, Tulus squinted at the form next to him. After a mere glimpse, he let his eyes close again and his head fall back against the tree where he was bound.

It was Hurion.

He appeared every bit as badly beaten as Tulus and Tulus definitely pitied him that. Hurion was a friend, once his fellow guard, and he was here in large part due to Tulus's failures. Worse, his presence was clear evidence of still more fearful news. Hurion had not accompanied Dolgailon and Galithil to the village. That meant he was here with some other member of the King's family. Let it not be the King. Not the King, Tulus repeated silently to himself, as if doing so could will it to be true. But he knew it could be no one else.

Thranduil would be in this battle too.

His death would be a disaster. A loss the Woodland Realm would never survive.

If only Tulus had acted sooner. Told the King where Manadhien was the moment he found out. Or simply finished her himself the first time he came to this village and realized she was here. If he had, then none of this would be happening. Dolgailon and Galithil would not be in that village at her mercy. The King would not be here facing a battle of this scale. And.... Tulus screwed his eyes tightly shut against the memory of one, last person.... If he had simply confessed all to the King immediately, Glilavan would not be amongst the orcs.

His son. With orcs. Allied with orcs. Tulus had sacrificed everything to try to save him and Glilavan had still fallen to a fate beyond Tulus's worst imaginings. The thought of his son fighting alongside the enemy tore a wracking sob from Tulus that he could not repress in his weakened state.

Everything...absolutely everything was lost.

Manadhien would command the orcs to target the King and his family above anyone else and the orcs would be all too eager to comply. Dolgailon and Galithil would be killed when the village was overrun. Thranduil would be killed.  The Woodland Realm would fall. The forest Tulus had defended since long before the moon and sun arose would descend into shadow without Thranduil, and Tulus's own son was instrumental in engineering that defeat. Grief wrenched through him. Broken ribs stabbed him as he gasped for breath and tears tracked through the blood on his face. So much loss. Everyone and everything he had ever cared about...sacrificed for.... Elbereth be praised that at least Legolas had not traveled to the village, inseparable from Galithil as always.

Legolas.

Tulus struggled to bring himself under control and think clearly.

Surely it was safe to believe that Legolas would not be anywhere near this battle. Thranduil had not allowed him to go to the village and he would certainly not send him to fight. Legolas would survive and with him survived hope for the forest. Tulus knew Legolas better than anyone else, save the child's own parents. He was his father's true son. He would take his father's place, should the worst happen, and protect the forest. Manadhien and her evil allies would not win. Tulus clung to that thought and forced all others from his mind.

After a few moments, he drew as deep a breath as his damaged ribs would allow and tried to re-focus on his one, remaining personal goal. He had no hope of escape. Not with his leg so badly broken. Not with this many orcs around him. But they were going into battle and Tulus wanted to be ready for their departure. If he could draw their attention, provoke them enough, when they were whipping themselves up for that battle--probably literally, he thought with disgust--perhaps their blood would be up enough that they would forget whatever orders they had about him and they would kill him. And if he could free his hands between now and then, maybe he could manage to seize one of their weapons and eliminate one or two more orcs from this forest before he was forced to abandon it. That fate would be much better than the alternative. He went back to twisting his wrists against his bonds.

Tulus had made little progress when the nearby lines of orcs began snarling and their officers snapped orders even more forcefully. Something was happening. Tulus tried to force his eyes open again. Moments later, he heard a steady pulse of iron stamping against earth and rock and root. It grew louder, closer. More orcs were arriving! More! How could there be more? They pushed into the camp, screeching and snorting, clamoring for position. The orc that for the last three days most often shouted over all the others was yelling again, telling the new arrivals how to arrange themselves--some to the west, near the rocks, some to the east near the stream, spears with the others in the front, but stay put. No further forward. Not yet. Not until the signal came.

Tulus braced himself for their passing, praying they would be too busy fighting amongst themselves to notice two elves bound to a tree.

The orders stopped, whether drowned out by rattling armor or because the captain stopped issuing them, Tulus could not tell.  

The spears passed by. If any of them saw Tulus and Hurion, they did not take the time to molest them. Confusion still seemed to reign in the camp, given the random shouting and growling all around him, but the captain did nothing to shut it down.

Tulus listened tensely for some clue as to what was happening.

"We are going all the way to the forward camp," a voice sounded above the grunting of the orcs. It was like a bell amongst a cacophony of discordant horns. It was an elf. "We are to march without rest until reaching it."

Tulus's injuries screamed as his muscles clenched. The arrival of any elf that commanded orcs meant nothing good for him or for Hurion.

"This is the forward camp, you mangy dog," the familiar orc's voice snapped.

For moment, there were no coherent voices. Just the ever-present background noise of snorting orcs.

"You have a prisoner here. An elf. Where is he? Is he still here?" the clear voice asked.

The question was answered by an incoherent growl.

Tulus's heart raced, but not in fear. Or at least not only in fear. He recognized the elf's voice. It was Glilavan.

Light steps, far too light to be those of an orc, raced closer. There was a gasp and a quiet groan. Something, probably knees, thumped the ground next to him. Then Tulus tried and failed not to flinch as a hand touched his face.

"It is only me, adar," Glilavan whispered. And he whispered other things. Tulus's head was not clear enough for him to grasp them all. Fingers gently cupped his chin and something pressed against his lips. Cold trickled over them. "Try to drink this, adar," Glilavan said.

Tulus's worn body seized onto the invitation to drink automatically and sucked down the liquid.

"Not too much. It will make you sick," Glilavan said and the water was withdrawn.

Tulus's tongue darted out, licking up water and blood from his lips and chin.

A moment later, a cold cloth wiped across his cheeks and forehead. Then it passed carefully over his eyes and lips. "I am going to get you out of here, adar," Glilavan breathed into his ear.

Tulus forced open his good eye to stare at his son in disbelief.

Glilavan nodded, his nose so close it practically touched Tulus's. "When the battle begins, when they march out, I will stay here under the pretense of guarding you." He hesitated and pulled away enough to glance at the other elf, as if just noticing him. "And Hurion," he added. Did he sound dismayed? "Once as many of them are gone as possible. We are leaving. Can you walk?"

Tulus flinched in pain and nausea as he tried to shake his head. "Leg," he wheezed. After days of refusing to talk and hours of screaming to prevent himself from doing anything else, speech came with difficulty.

"No matter," Glilavan said quickly. "We will find a way."

Tulus shook his head again. "You... help...village. Not me," he choked out.

Glilavan clasped a hand on either side of Tulus's face. "Adar, I am sorry about the village. I would stop the attack if I could, but I cannot. Every time one of these things looks at me and does not eat me, I am shocked. I have no real authority here. I have a slim hope of saving you and that is what I am going to do. I will knock you unconscious to prevent you from sacrificing that hope for the sake of the village. Escape is more likely if you are conscious to cooperate with it in any way you can, so please do not make me do that."

"Galithil...is in the village," Tulus managed to protest. The water had soothed his throat a little. "And Dolgailon. Your friend. If Hurion is here, the King must be too. The orcs plan to destroy the village. Breach the mountains. That will threaten the entire southern realm. Our home."

Glilavan's hands tightened their grasp enough to make Tulus try to pull away. "Manadhien will order the orcs to pull back once her goals are achieved. She does not want too many villagers injured. The villagers are loyal to her. Their losses will be limited and she will protect the southern realm..."

"The orc captain said..."

"Manadhien will manage the orc captain," Glilavan interrupted.

"And kill Thranduil, Dolgailon and Galithil," Tulus said.

"Why must you always think about the King and his family?" Glilavan bit out. "Have you ever had a thought for yourself or your own family?"

Tulus stopped struggling and looked at Glilavan. "Everything I have ever done has been to save you from this. From a life like this."

"Everything you have done--for the last forty years, at any rate--has been for Legolas and a king who has rewarded your loyalty by discarding you repeatedly this entire Age," Glilavan retorted.

Tulus closed his eyes and slumped back against the tree. Hopeless. The thought echoed in his pain-wracked brain.

*~*~*

Dolgailon lay flat on his stomach, perfectly still, bow in hand, arrow nocked--eyes wide, watchful--pressed against the wet, slimy roots near the stream he had followed into the orcs' territory. Galudiron flanked him, equally motionless and quiet. The newly arrived orcs that had charged into the camp moments before stopped so close to them that Dolgailon could see the flies crawling on the few bits of skin exposed under their armor. He was certain they would catch him. He had readied his bow to take out as many of the stinking things as possible before being killed himself. Now, as the orcs concentrated on forming the ranks their whip-wielding masters seemed to expect, Dolgailon allowed himself a shallow breath.

A soft tug on his tunic sleeve was Galudiron's only signal that it was time for them to move.

Dolgailon carefully turned to face him and nodded. His guard could not be more right! They needed to find relative safety and higher ground. Someplace from which they could bring this situation under control and do what they came to do.

Galudiron flicked a finger south and then his thumb north, a question in his eyes: which way?

Neither choice was good. Circling the camp to the south brought them in behind the orcs, but it meant risking that there might be another legion of them coming up from the same direction whence the last had arrived. If that were the case, Dolgailon and Galudiron would be trapped between them and the camp with no hope of escape. Circling north meant crossing the path the orcs would take to the village. If they marched soon, Dolgailon and Galudiron would be caught by their advance.

Dolgailon chose. He pointed north and began sliding backward while keeping his eyes on the enemy. As they moved, he measured his options.

He did not really see that he had any.

They had come south to ensure Fuilin and Glilavan would not escape arrest, expecting to find at least one of them and hoping to find the spies that were supposed to be guarding them. Dolgailon was worried when they discovered this camp and did not see either of their quarry or any sign of the spies. They had only just approached within scouting range when Glilavan appeared with this regimen of orcs. Commanding them, it appeared. Bile rose in Dolgailon's throat as the vision of his old friend commanding the orcs replayed in his mind. Glilavan was leading their most hated enemy into a battle that would kill dozens of elves in the village and patrol where he once lived and served himself.

Dolgailon had no delusions about what had to happen next. He had known what he might have to do since he proposed to the King that he should travel to the village. Now he was here to do it. He wished--fervently--that he could find a way to arrest Glilavan, but knew it was impossible. Glilavan was surrounded by orcs, barely visible in their midst, unapproachable, even by stealth. And he could not be allowed to escape. No more hoping to avoid it: Dolgailon was here to carry out the King's sentence and execute Glilavan. He was here to kill one of his oldest friends. The elf that was his mentor when he was a young warrior. An elf that had saved his life more times than he could count. And the elf that had plotted against the King's family for years while Dolgailon defended him, had helped kill Uncle Celonhael and had tried to kill Legolas before his eyes. Dolgailon's heart beat uncomfortably in his chest as he steeled himself to do what was necessary.

They reached the mid-point of northern border of the camp.

Galudiron tapped his shoulder for attention and then pointed to an outcropping of rocks to the west. They would provide cover, height from which to launch an attack and an escape route, west to the open border. It would be daylight shortly. If Dolgailon could kill Glilavan swiftly and quietly with a well placed arrow and flee to the forest edge, he and his guard might manage to return to the village before these orcs advanced on it, and that was vitally important. He had a battle to command and Manadhien to arrest, not to mention Galithil to keep safe.

Dolgailon nodded and they continued creeping around the perimeter of the camp towards those rocks.

As they moved, Dolgailon peered through the rows of orcs bearing spears. Glilavan was crouched over something on the ground, next to a tree, completely focused on it. For now, his lack of attention was a blessing. An elf should certainly spot Dolgailon and his guard moving amongst the roots and muck-covered tree trunks. And these trees were treacherous. They did not ally with him. Their voices betrayed his presence, but Glilavan did not hear their warnings. He was too preoccupied with whatever he huddled over.

Galudiron froze.

Dolgailon automatically matched his guard's actions, his gaze darting about, searching for what ever Galudiron saw and finding nothing. He risked looking over his shoulder at his guard and followed his gaze to the rocks. Then he gasped. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of the light of the orcs' fires glinting off something gold--golden hair--amongst the rocks. Looking closer, he saw a shadowy form holding an arrow at the ready, aimed at the spot Glilavan would occupy if he stood up and away from the tree. It was Thranduil! It had to be. How could he be here?

Before Dolgailon had time to contemplate that or even begin to determine how he could best support the King, the orc captains called the order to ready to march. The orcs that had already been in the camp lumbered into place amongst the ranks of their newly arrived fellows. All the orcs faced north--directly at Dolgailon's position. His heart raced. Time was up.

The roots and trunks that concealed them from a distance would no longer serve to hide them once the orcs advanced. As one, Dolgailon and Galudiron looked around themselves for somewhere to take cover. They found flat ground--no ravine or cavern or even rocks to crouch in or behind anywhere near them. Only trees. Withered trees, leafless, with rotten branches that were too low to the ground to offer shelter, even assuming they did not drop the elves altogether.  

"North?" Galudiron mouthed, gesturing in that direction with his thumb.

Dolgailon frowned. They could try to flee north, back to the village. If they were very lucky, they would be able to dodge the orc archers. They were both wearing mail. They had a fair chance of escape. But if they retreated, they abandoned the King. And the opportunity to finish Glilavan. Dolgailon refused to do either.

He shook his head. "We will continue west, as fast as we can, and try flank them. From there we can join the King and aid him--both in his own escape and his attempt against Glilavan," he whispered.

With that they resumed crawling, now faster and with much less care for stealth. Dolgailon kept his eyes fixed on Glilavan, waiting for him to rise. He soon did, when one of the orc captains approached him, barking orders. Dolgailon nocked an arrow, but the fully armored orc stood between him and his target. His arrow might not penetrate the orc's armor to strike Glilavan soundly enough to kill him.

The King stepped out from behind the rock that sheltered him, raised and drew his bow. From his angle, he had a shot.

The moment he released his arrow, Glilavan flinched in response to the twanging bowstring and automatically took cover, pressing himself against the nearest tree. The King's arrow sliced his arm. Blood flowed freely from the wound. Nothing more.

The orcs all screeched, spun around in panic and drew their weapons.

Another arrow instantly followed the King's.

Glilavan was ready this time. After an Age as a warrior, he reacted on instinct, first determining the direction of the attack against him, then placing the tree between it and him. The second arrow flew through the empty space he occupied the moment before and buried itself in the orc captain that had been yelling at him. Glilavan did not spare the orc a glance. Instead, he turned to face his attackers.

The other orc captains followed his gaze.

Dolgailon did the same. Now he saw the King, Engwe and three guards, all at full draw.

Upon spotting the elves amongst the rocks, the orc captains called for their archers to return attack.

The King's guards released their arrows, targeting the archers. The King and Engwe shot at either side of the tree Glilavan hid behind, clearly hoping to flush him out. Glilavan stayed put. He only hunched over what ever it was he had been fussing with earlier.

Suddenly, between the panicking orcs, Dolgailon had a clear shot. He raised up and took aim. Galudiron stood, taking his customary place, slightly in front of his charge, to shield him. Dolgailon drew.

"Hold, my lord," Galudiron said, pressing Dolgailon's bow to the side.

Dolgailon looked at him. His explanation had better be good.

"Behind Glilavan," Galudiron said. "That is an elf. I saw him. The hair and face of an elf, though I could not see who. One of the spies, perhaps?"

Dolgailon released a sharp breath and nodded at his guard. Killing Glilavan was bad enough. Killing an innocent elf to get Glilavan? He would not do that.

But the game was up. The orcs had gathered themselves and they were charging at the King's position. Within moments, he would be overrun.

Dolgailon reached into his quiver for a handful of arrows and nocked one. "We have to draw them away from the King," he said. "Give him time to escape." Without waiting for any acknowledgment, as swiftly as he could, he began releasing arrows into the mass of orcs. Galudiron did the same. And, to Dolgailon's great shock, though he had no time to spare to try to figure it out, more arrows, from somewhere east of them, flew at the orcs as well.

The sudden appearance of more enemies temporarily confused the orcs once again, but quickly, their captains brought them under control. The spear-bearing orcs--the orcs closest to Dolgailon and Galudiron--charged them.

Grabbing another handful of arrows, Dolgailon turned his attack on them, dropping at least a dozen before they reached him and a spear struck his shoulder. His mail held. The spear was deflected. He shifted his bow to his left hand, closed on the orc and drew his sword, driving it home before the orc could turn its spear to a more useful attack. Galudiron was doing the same to another orc that had targeted him. But they were impossibly outnumbered. The next orc, smart enough to figure out Dolgailon was wearing mail, drove its spear into his thigh, just above his knee, where his tunic and mail ended.

The barbed--and poisoned, Dolgailon noted--point of the spear ripped into his leg and tore a scream from him as its impact drove him off his feet and onto his back. As he fell, he looked again towards the rocks. The King and Engwe were falling back, making good their escape. Dolgailon forced himself to take comfort from that small mercy as the orcs grabbed at him.

*~*~*

"I am not going to allow you to give your life in order to claim Glilavan's, Thranduil," Conuion yelled over the screeching of orcs while dragging his charge away by his left arm.

Thranduil loosed a growl that was no less animalistic than the orcs' as he wrenched his arm free and snatched a dozen arrows from his quiver. Holding them all in his hand, using the same technique he had used against Legolas in their archery contest only a few day before, he nocked his bow and sent them into the charging orcs in quick succession. A dozen orcs dropped to the ground in front of him.

"There will be other opportunities to capture or kill Glilavan, but only if you escape alive," Counion shouted into his ear while seizing his arm again.

Thranduil took a step back from the tree he sheltered behind, turned and leveled on his guard the same blazing glare he had directed at the orcs moments before.

Conuion released him. "There are too many and we have lost the advantage of surprise. We have to retreat and plan another approach."

Thranduil glanced at Pendurion and Belloth, still firing arrows as quickly as they could draw them. They barely held back the orcs' onslaught. Then he looked at Radagast, who stood in front of them all. His brown robes, stained with what appeared to be years of use, blended perfectly with the mucky tree trunks. He softly chanted a spell that had, thus far, managed to compel these wild trees to at least not betray them and even to shield them. As more and more orc arrows drove into their trunks, the trees grew increasingly restless and ill-tempered.

Thranduil was loathe to admit it, but Conuion was right. They needed to yield. At least for now.

"Thranduil, I think Dolgailon was one of the archers that supported us from the northeast," Engwe exclaimed, appearing abruptly at his elbow, an arrow still nocked against his bowstring and his eyes fixed on the orcs that the guards and Radagast still held back. He resumed fighting as soon as he stopped speaking, releasing the half dozen arrows that remained in his hand and then grabbing more.

Thranduil turned to him, eyebrows raised. He assumed the source of those arrows was the spies charged with watching Glilavan and Fuilin. He was relieved to see evidence that they were still alive. From the corner of his eye, he saw Conuion nodding.

"It was," the guard confirmed. "I saw Galudiron clearly." He appeared ready to say more, but Engwe cut him off.

"Then Dolgailon fell," he said.

Thranduil's full attention snapped to his uncle.

"I saw him--or an elf that I believed was him, at least, and if Conuion saw Galudiron, the elf I saw must have been Dolgailon--I saw him take a spear to the leg and fall, surrounded by orcs."

Thranduil's heart contracted with grief and his gaze darted over the orc camp, searching for even a hint of silver amongst the sea of black. He saw nothing but darkness. If Dolgailon had been there....

He refused to accept it. Not Aradunnon's oldest son, the first child of his generation! The nephew Thranduil had so thoroughly enjoyed spoiling. Dolgailon could not have fallen. Dismay warred with grief as another thought surfaced: Eryn Galen could not afford to lose its Troop Commander. Then one, final realization caused cold fear to spike through Thranduil. If Dolgailon just fell here, Galithil must now be alone with Manadhien in the village.

Thranduil was torn in two directions. He most wanted to go back into the camp to slaughter the orcs that killed his oldest nephew. Oh, his blood sang at that idea! He reached into his quiver, taking a step towards the camp. But he also needed to go north, to the village, to protect his younger nephew.

"There is more, my lord," Conuion said, his hand closing again around Thranduil's arm to arrest his movement. "The elf Glilavan was speaking to. The one sitting against the tree. I only saw the contours of his profile in the shadows, but I would swear it was Tulus. And the elf that was bound and lying on the ground near them--I am certain that was Hurion and he was badly injured. If the orcs have Tulus and Hurion, that almost certainly means Manadhien knows you are here. We need to retreat to where we can carefully consider what to do now, my lord."

Thranduil stared at his guard. If Conuion was right...if Tulus was speaking with Glilavan in that camp....

Thranduil's fist contracted involuntarily around his bow. If Tulus had betrayed them, and Dolgailon had been lured here and killed because of that... If the village was unprepared to face this attack because Tulus lured Dolgailon here... If Galithil was alone in that village at Manadhien's mercy...

A terrified screech claimed Thranduil's attention and he whirled to face it. Through the shadows, he saw an orc, very nearby, pulling frantically at his foot or leg. It appeared to be stuck fast in some roots. Other orcs around it began to panic and stare at the ground. Thranduil looked at Radagast. He was frowning severely in concentration, still chanting, but in response to the orcs' screams, he fell silent and stared in alarm at the orcs' plight. The forest itself was perilous beyond even the influence of the Maia, it seemed.

"We retreat," Thranduil ordered, loudly enough for Belloth, Pendurion and Radagast to hear him. "North. Back towards the village. We can discuss how we will approach it on our way there, but I want to reach it before these orcs do."

"What about those poor elves?" Radagast protested, but he did join Thranduil, Engwe and the guards in retreating.

"If we can manage these orcs and protect the village, we will be saving more elves then just those," Engwe replied, loosing arrows to cover their retreat.

"And we will come back here to try to find them again once we are certain the village is safe," Thranduil added. Yes, we will find Glilavan and Tulus--especially Tulus--again, he repeated to himself looking back over his shoulder even as he ran north to protect his brother's village and youngest son from Dolgailon's fate.

*~*~*

Arien's golden rays were just beginning to light the highest leaves in the trees as Galithil stepped out of his family talan. Galuauth followed him closely. Galithil bowed his head so that his hair screened his face, ostensibly to watch his step as he bounded down the stairs, but in truth, he surreptitiously looked into the branches of the surrounding trees. He spotted Lanthir first, climbing through the trees to follow them. He was supposed to be openly guarding him, so Galithil was not surprised to see him so easily. Then he found Heledir, more thoroughly hidden, though still nearby.  And there was one of Tulus's spies, high in the most heavily leafed tree over Manadhien's talan, wholly focused on it.

Galithil saw no sign of the King, either near Manadhien's talan or in the spies' other hiding places.

If the note he received in the middle of the night had not contained the coded symbol, Galithil would not have believed Legolas truly sent it. He certainly would not have believed the information in it. How could the King be near the village? Surely if he had traveled south, Dolgailon would have been informed. And why would Legolas's note be carried by a bird used by the Western Patrol? Why would Legolas, and not Hallion, be responsible for reporting the King's movements? None of it made any sense, but it was frightening news, if it was true. The situation in this village was very dire.

Galithil eyed the flickering lamp light behind the curtains in Manadhien's talan as he hurried south down the path that led to it. Then he held his breath as he passed under it.

He knew her attack would be today. He was awake to receive and read the patrols' reports when their couriers delivered them this morning. The orcs were assembled south of the village. And the attack in the east against Maethorness's village had already begun. Galithil passed that news to Seregon and his loyal village guards. Then he decided to immediately make his inspection of the talan the villagers sheltered in during battles. Doing it this early altered his normal routine slightly, but it was worth the risk of raising Manadhien's suspicions. That talan was about to be critically important and Manadhien naturally knew its function here in the village. It beggared belief that she would leave its defenses intact if she expected her orcs to win this battle.

Once he was well past Manadhien's talan, Galithil turned his attention from it to the southern forest. He saw no signs of orcs despite the fact that the reports said as many as a hundred of them were just outside the village's hunting and patrol range. His heart raced a little at that thought and his hand drifted unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword. Anticipating the upcoming battle over the last day and night had left him starting at every little noise and movement. He wondered if he should be ashamed that he would be glad when the attack finally came.

"My lord," Galuauth whispered, laying a hand on Galithil's shoulder firmly enough to draw him to a stop.

Galithil gripped the hilt of his sword, glanced over his shoulder at his guard and followed his gaze to the talan they were going to inspect.  There he saw a figure moving in the early morning shadows on its platform. Galithil instinctively stepped off the path and closer to a large tree.

"It has to be Mornil or Gwathron," he whispered, as Galuauth pressed against his back. "What do we do? Confront him? Wait for him to leave?"

"I recommend letting him leave," Galuauth said. "We can undo any damage he has done quickly and secretly enough. Letting him think he accomplished whatever he is doing might serve us if it means our enemy will think us weaker than we really are. Confronting him, on the other hand, would likely drive him to flee before Dolgailon returns and is in position to arrest him. That would certainly do much more harm than good."

Galithil nodded. Galuauth was right that they dared not make any of Manadhien's servants disappear, but he doubted their ability to quietly replenish any supplies that might be damaged. He wished Dolgailon would return. Or the King would make whatever move he intended to make. Hiding behind the tree and waiting for the figure to descend from the talan, Galithil kept half an eye on the forest, watching for orcs or for his brother and uncle.

The elf in the talan--it was Mornil--climbed down the rope ladder, put a heavy bundle on the ground, and raised the ladder. Then he picked up his burden and hurried south, out of the village and into the forest.

Galithil pressed closer against the tree, leaning around it and watching the disappearing shadow. If Mornil had just escaped.... If he left, never to be seen again, and did it while Galithil watched and did nothing....

Galuauth must have sensed his charge's tension and guessed at its cause. He tapped Galithil's shoulder for his attention and then, with his hand carefully concealed between both their bodies and the trunk, he pointed upward. Galithil moved only his eyes in the direction Galuauth pointed.

Tureden followed Mornil, almost directly over his head in the tree tops, bow in hand.

Galithil relaxed slightly. "Let us go see what Mornil took from the talan and whatever other damage he did," he said.

Rather than openly walking down the path, Galithil remained hidden amongst the trees. Once they reached the talan and let down the ladder, Galuauth held Galithil back and climbed up first himself after exchanging a nod with Lanthir in his tree. Galithil tried not to fidget as he studied the shadows surrounding him and waited. Once Galuauth signaled it was safe for him to come up, Galithil hurriedly did and he raised the ladder behind himself to conceal his presence.

"The water is drained," Galuauth said, gesturing towards the barrel closest to him.

"All of it?" Galithil asked, walking over to another of the barrels and looking into it. "Also empty," he answered his own question. "It seems we can expect the orcs to be using flaming arrows then, if they want us to be without water to fight the fires. That is going to be a bother to correct." Fetching and hauling up enough water to fill four barrels would not go unnoticed. Galithil pivoted on his heel and strode to the locked cabinet against the outside wall of the small shelter in the center of the talan. He ran a finger over fresh scratch marks on its lock. "This has been picked," he said, pulling keys from his tunic pocket. He opened the cabinet door and cocked a thumb towards the empty rack inside it. "The bundle Mornil was carrying must have contained the bows and spare arrows. They are gone too. Fortunately, we are not surprised by that. Not surprised and therefore prepared."

The moment they figured out that Manadhien planned to attack the village, Dolgailon anticipated the removal the defensive weapons from this talan. He ordered the Southern and Western Patrols to deliver some of their spares to him and he kept them stored in his talan. Galithil would only need to bring them here.

"It might have been better if Dolgailon had ordered a village guard to keep watch in this talan," Galuauth said quietly.

"He considered it," Galithil replied, heading toward the shelter door. "But he decided doing so would make Manadhien realize we were aware of her plans. Of course, she figured out we were aware of them anyway--apparently after discovering of the owl, according to Legolas's message--but Dolgailon also did not post a guard because he feared the risk was too great that the guard who drew that duty on the day of the battle would share Ferenil's fate," he said, referring to the guard that disappeared with Celonhael. "Better bows go missing than guards. Bows are much easier to replace."

"Undoubtedly true," Galuauth muttered in agreement.

"Let us check if he stole the medicines too," Galithil said, "and then we will start re-supplying the talan. We likely do not have very much time. At least, since we cannot possibly hide refilling the water, we can ask the village guards for help." As he spoke, Galithil opened the door to the shelter where the medicines were stored. Galuauth followed.

Just inside the shack were several small cots where the most seriously injured would be treated during a battle. On the back wall were several tall stacks of blankets that could be spread on the floor for other wounded and shelves lined with jars that should contain medicines. Galithil approached them.

As he extended his arm to retrieve a jar and check its contents, a stack of blankets next to the shelves began to tumble over. Galithil's tense nerves reacted on instinct to the unexpected movement. His hand jerked back from the jar and grabbed his sword. His focus narrowed to its hilt and the falling blankets. Before he could draw, a dark form filled his vision. Something closed around the wrist of his sword arm and he felt a prick under his chin.

"Do not move," Manadhien's voice ordered, cold and fell.

At the sound, Galithil froze, hand still gripping the hilt of his sword, his mind trying to process what was happening. Blankets landed around his feet, bumping against his legs. He glanced at them and then back in the direction of the shelves. Where the stack of blankets stood moments before, now Manadhien loomed, both her arms stretched towards him. It was her hand grasping his right wrist, he realized. And the prickling sensation was the point of a knife driving just into the flesh of his neck. His breath stopped.

"You think you tricked me with your little ruse, pretending to want my tutelage?" Manadhien asked, her hand tightening painfully around his wrist as her eyes bored into him. "You take me for some sort of fool? You are the fool. And I am going to make sure you pay for your stupidity dearly." Her voice shook with fury.

Galithil tried to open his mouth to make some sort of a response, though his mind was still struggling to produce one. No matter that it could not. He could not manage the breath to speak and even if he could, he could not move enough to do so without driving the knife further into his flesh.

"You have no hope of escaping this talan," Galuauth declared into the silence. His voice rang in Galithil's ear.

Unable to turn his head to look at his guard due to the pressure of the knife, Galithil shifted his gaze to his left. His eyes widened and darted back to Manadhien, following the length of Galuauth's blade.

Galuauth held his sword thrust in front of him, level with Manadhien's throat. The slightest lunge forward would take her head.

And a flick of her wrist would take Galithil's.

"Put that knife down and let him go," Galuauth commanded and Galithil had to admire his nerve. He sounded as if he were issuing any other order that he expected to be obeyed. "If you comply, I will let you live."

Manadhien laughed and the knife dug a little deeper. Something warm trickled down Galithil's throat to pool at his collar. Blood, he realized in an oddly detached way.

Galuauth's sword twitched.

"If you are lucky, I will allow you to live," Manadhien retorted. "Now strip."

Galithil frowned at that order, not understanding it at all.

Apparently Galuauth did. He shook his head. "It will take more than my clothes for you to pass as me and escape with him. Your hair is far too dark and your build does not match mine. Two other guards are watching this talan, along with several other warriors. All have orders not to allow you to leave this village, much less with Galithil."

"Lucky for me you are wearing a cloak. The hood and cape should conceal both problems. Strip. Now. Before I decide the Troop Commander's assistant," she jerked Galithil's wrist, "will not have enough value in Dol Guldur to make him a worthwhile hostage. Do as I say before I kill you both right now."

Galuauth remained perfectly still, unwavering, but, unless Manadhien moved the knife, this was a standoff the guard could not win.

Galithil's heart made an effort to beat its way through his ribs and out of his chest. Dol Guldur! He would rather she kill him. As that threat echoed in his ears, so did Uncle Thranduil's admonition not to hesitate to defend himself and Legolas's heartfelt agreement with that command. A dozen years of Master Langon's training rose above his fear.

In one smooth motion, Galithil lifted his chin and leaned away from Manadhien while drawing his sword. He bent backward sharply, nearly enough that his hair brushed the floor, to duck under the knife that she thrust at him while she tried to pull his sword arm down. He proved the stronger. Breaking her grip on his wrist, he swung the sword in a wide arc in front of himself when he finally yanked it from its scabbard. It was enough to force her to dance back against the wall to avoid his blade.

The moment Galithil was out of range of the knife, Galuauth lunged forward, pressing his sword fully against Manadhien's throat with enough pressure to draw a thin line of blood. He pinned her to the wall and closed in on her. With his left hand, he grasped the hilt of her knife, twisted it from her hand and threw it behind him. Then he seized her wrist, immobilizing it.

Her left hand flashed towards her waist.

Galithil drove it down and out to her side with the flat of his blade.

"If you so much as blink, I will slit your throat," Galuauth growled, nose-to-nose with her.

She stayed perfectly still, but her eyes remained defiant and full of hatred.

For a long moment, the only sound Galithil heard was his own blood pounding in his ears.

"My lord?" Galuauth said into the silence.

Galithil's eyes darted from the blade at Manadhien's throat to his guard's face.

Galuauth returned his gaze steadily, as if awaiting something.

It took Galithil several, still panting breaths to determine what his guard expected: his decision on Manadhien's life. That realization did nothing to help bring his breathing under control, unless stopping it all together counted. Galithil gave a quick shake of his head. He could not order Galuauth to kill an elf.

Even as he was thinking that, he suddenly became acutely aware of the weight of his own sword, still in his hand. He swallowed and looked at Manadhien.

She glared back at him with open contempt, as if daring him.

He shook his head again. He was not executing her himself either, not when she was subdued and could be arrested instead. Deciding her fate was the King's right--and duty--not theirs.

"Manadhien, by the command of the King of the Woodland Realm, you are under arrest for high treason," he finally said quietly. And so, at least Manadhien will be out of the way before the battle begins, he added to himself.

"Turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands out, away from your body," Galuauth ordered, stepping back and releasing a bit of the pressure against her neck--just enough that she might comply with his order without slicing herself against his blade.

She turned and faced the wall.

Galuauth ran his hands over the bodice of her gown and seized the hidden knife she had been reaching for. He tossed it aside and again placed the point of his sword on her neck, this time at the base of her skull. Then he looked at Galithil. "Take off your belt and use it to bind her hands behind her back," he said. Then he leaned forward slightly, his sword forcing her to turn her face to the side in order to press herself more firmly against the wall. "Make even the slightest move towards him and I will kill you. Put both your hands behind your back."

Galithil hesitated only a moment, trying to decide if he could bind her hands while still holding his sword. Obviously, he could not, though he wished he could. He sheathed his sword. He would not sacrifice his sword belt to bind her. He ran a finger over his quiver strap. No. That was far too valuable as well. Finally, he settled for removing the belt that held his knife. Thrusting the knife between his sword belt and body, he took a step toward Manadhien.

At the same moment, she stepped to the side, away from him, and flung herself back, almost sliding down the length of Galuauth's blade. She threw herself against his body and inside the range of his sword. Before he could shift it or move his arm to hold her in place, she drove her fist downward and into his groin.

Caught unprepared, Galuauth doubled over in pain.

Manadhien dove towards the small window in the back wall of the shelter and clambered, head first, through it before Galithil again drew his sword.

"Stop her!" he shouted and he pursued her straight through the window.

The hem of her skirt caught on the windowsill as she righted herself on the talan platform. Galithil grabbed a fistful of it as he passed through the window himself, but the delicate fabric easily tore when she continued to flee.

If she got away...if she made good her escape and commanded the upcoming battle, Galithil's decision to arrest her rather than execute her when they had the chance would mean that he was responsible for the damage she wrought on this village....

"Stop her at any cost," he yelled, knowing the spies and guards would understand that order.

Manadhien leapt heedlessly over the talan railing, caught a branch and rode it to the ground as it bent under her weight.

Rather than following her, and placing himself between her and any arrows that might fly her way, Galithil reached for his own bow and an arrow from his quiver. Quickly scanning the area to make sure he would not strike any unintended victims by accident if he missed his target, Galithil loosed an arrow, aiming for Manadhien's thigh through her skirts. At the same moment, he heard several other bows twang. Two silver and black fletched arrows flew at Manadhien. Those arrows belonged to his guards, Lanthir and Heledir, still in the trees. A moment later, another arrow originating from the direction of her talan whistled towards her.

Manadhien dodged right at the sound of Galithil's bow. His arrow sliced into her skirts. She stumbled enough that he thought it might have cut her, but it did not hit her directly. One of the silver fletched arrows missed her entirely, flying to her left. So did the one that the spy over her talan loosed. The second silver arrow, aimed to the right of her original path, drove through her shoulder, wrenching a pitiful scream from her. She staggered, falling against a tree, and clutched at her wound. Blood gush between her fingers. With effort, she leveraged herself away from the tree and dashed further into the forest to the south.

Galithil nocked a second arrow and drew, aiming again for her legs.

"What in Morgoth's name are you doing?" a horrified voice cried from north of the talan. Galithil recognized it as Lumil--one of the village guards. He was loyal to Manadhien, but Galithil and Dolgailon had agreed it was doubtful this particular guard knew the extent of her evil.

Galithil loosed his arrow at Manadhien's fleeing shadow. Where it struck, he never knew.

Lumil appeared below him, arrow nocked and aimed at him, though not on a drawn bow. "Stay this insanity," he ordered. His tone was more pleading than demanding.

Almost before Galithil registered an arrow was pointed at him, Galuauth's back filled his vision. The guard positioned himself between his charge and any threat from below. His bow was fully drawn. "Drop both bow and arrow to the ground. Now," he shouted. "Else face arrest for treason-- for threatening the king's foster son."

Lumil did as he was told, slinging his bow aside and reeling back a step as he did, closer to the small group of elves that had raced to the talan in response to the shouting. Some were village guards; others were elves that had been about their morning work. They all stared up at Galuauth, mouths agape, as the guard shifted his aim to the forest and searched for his fleeing target.

"What is going on here?" Lumil asked again, voice high pitched.

"Manadhien...Moralfien, as you know her, is guilty of treason. She escaped while we were arresting her," Galithil replied, but stopped short of offering any further explanation of her crimes. To do so would waste time. The villagers would not easily believe the outrageous charges against her until they heard the witnesses testify, and she would not stand trial unless they caught her again. Galithil looked over Galuauth's shoulder for any glimpse of her. Nothing. He turned to his guards in the trees. "Do you see her? Did we stop her?"

"I do not see her, my lord," Lanthir answered.

"Nor do I," Heledir called.

"We have to go after her," Galithil said. "I should have finished this myself...."

"I saw the spy go after her, my lord. He will catch her. That duty is his, not yours," Galuauth replied, using his most stern tone, though quietly enough that only Galithil, not the crowd below, could hear him. "And you made the same choice anyone would have made," he added in a softer voice. "Even the King would have tried to arrest her, so he could hold a trial. So the populace would understand his decision."

Galithil shook his head, refusing the absolution his guard was trying to offer. And his implied order not to follow Manadhien. There was no possibility he was going to face the king and admit he watched her escape. "I am going after her," he said loudly enough for all to hear, hoping to forestall a public argument. He took a step towards the talan ladder.

"I will help, my lord," Seregon called up to him.

That voice--the captain of the village guard's voice--reminded Galithil of his other problem: the missing supplies in the talan. He drew a breath to order Seregon to work with the rest of his guards to bring water and weapons to the talan.

Before he could speak, two horn blasts sounded to the south--the village guard's signal that orcs were approaching.

Galithil stared southward. Too late to make preparations. Too late to pursue Manadhien. The battle was here and she had fled to the protection of her dark servants. He squinted, trying to make out movement in the morning mist.

The guard's horn was answered by a sharp whistle.

At least the patrol is in place, Galithil thought. And Manadhien would have to cross its lines to escape. With luck, they and the spy would stop her. With even greater luck, perhaps she would be caught between the battle lines and die there.

Seregon lifted the horn from his belt and blew it, long and clear. Then, he began calling orders to his guards.

All around, the village erupted into action. A swell of shouting voices arose, punctuated by wood striking wood as talan and cottage doors flew open and elves poured through them. Some were still fastening or even pulling on tunics or gowns due to the early hour. Others were strapping on quivers and stringing bows. All were either calling for their families and friends or were yelling orders. The elves carrying bows or spears ran towards the various officers of the village guard and then scattered to the village borders. The rest ran straight towards the talan Galithil occupied.

Galithil darted to the talan ladder and let it down.

"Seregon," he yelled, sliding down the rope even as the first elves reached the talan.

Seregon turned towards him, hand up to signal the guard he had been speaking with to wait.

"Moralfien took the weapons from the talan and emptied the water. Tell as many people as you can to bring their own hunting bows and any water from their homes that they can carry to the talan. Galuauth and I will go get the bows Dolgailon held in reserve."

Seregon nodded, called a guard to him and sent him off through the village, shouting that news.

Galithil turned and raced towards his talan in the center of the village, fighting the crowds running in the opposite direction. Galuauth remained at his side. Lanthir and Heledir converged upon him as well. As they ran, Galithil could not help but worry over Manadhien's escape. And Mornil's. And he did not even know what happened to Gwathron.

"Is Gwathron in his talan? Do we know? If he is, we must arrest him immediately," Galithil said.

"Gwathron left the village last night. Presumably to command the battle," Heledir answered. "One of the spies followed him. Tureden was on Mornil this morning..."

"I saw that," Galithil interjected.

"And Geledhel went after Manadhien," Heledir concluded as they reached the foot of the stairs leading up to Galithil's talan and the weapons they sought. "He followed her when she fled."

"So Galuauth told me also," Galithil said, stopping on the bottom step. He turned to Heledir. "Go find Tureden and make sure he heard the warrior's signals and that he arrested Mornil. Then help Geledhel if you can. Make certain Manadhien does not escape, one way or another. We," he gestured between himself, Lanthir and Galuauth, "will help the village guard. They will be outmatched in this battle."

All three guards began to shake their heads. "Our duty is to you, my lord, not to chasing Manadhien," Heledir protested.

"And the Troop Commander ordered you to go to that talan when the battle began," Galuauth reminded him.

"Obviously that is where I intend to go with the bows we are fetching. You and Lanthir will be with me, satisfying the king's order that two guards stay with me. Heledir will be of more service to the entire realm if he ensures Manadhien and her servants are not left free to command orcs and target the king. He is going after her, we are fighting, and we are not arguing about any of this. We are out of time." With that, he jumped up the talan stairs by threes to retrieve the weapons. Galuauth and Lanthir followed.

Heledir leapt into the trees and headed south.

*~*~*

Legolas awoke to the unusual sounds of birds chirping. Even more strange: sun light streamed down on his face. As his eyes came into focus, he saw red oak leaves, rather than the stone ceiling of his room in the stronghold. His brows drew together as he tried and failed to remember agreeing to spend the night in one of his friends' cottages.

Even if he had, that would not explain the voices he heard. He recognized none of them. Nor did he recognize this tree.

He pushed himself up, looked around and finally remembered: he was in a camp of the Western Patrol--in its officer's talan along with Colloth, Berior and Anastor.

"Good morning, my lord," Colloth said quietly.

Legolas turned towards the sound of his voice. His guard was sitting on a cot on the opposite side of the talan, leaning back against the wall. "Good morning," Legolas replied, as he swung his legs off the cot and looked around for Anastor and Berior.

Anastor was lying on his side, face towards the wall, with his arm across his eyes. Berior's head was still pillowed on his balled up cloak, but he was watching Legolas and he resolutely pushed himself upright when Legolas sat up.

Legolas nodded and mouthed a 'good morning' to his cousin as he stood. "I want to speak to the couriers and officer before we head home to see if they have received any interesting news from the south overnight. At the very least, I want to confirm Dolgailon got the message I sent." As he spoke, he stepped quickly over to a stand with a pitcher of water and a shallow bowl. He splashed water on his face and swiped his sleeve across his eyes. Then he once again faced Berior. "Come find me once you have managed to roust our fine warrior friend here," he concluded, gesturing towards Anastor.

"Not a member of this patrol yet. Do not need to wake up on its captain's orders," Anastor muttered pulling his cloak over his head. "Or yours. My lord." That last was tacked on in a snide tone.

Legolas laughed. He was used to Anastor and Noruil applying that title to him with the expressed intent of implying the exact opposite of the courtesy it was supposed to signify. In his defense, Anastor did not seem nearly as mocking this morning as he often had in the past. In fact, he had largely stopped teasing Legolas altogether since their shared experience with the men.

"Respect," Colloth demanded. He leaned over, grabbed Anastor's cloak and snatched it off him entirely, tossing it on the floor at the foot of his cot.

Anastor groaned again, but he did sit up, if only to glare at Colloth. "I am not serving in a patrol with any of you. I refuse to do it," he said, stumbling to the pitcher to wash his face.

"None of us are serving in a patrol at this moment. Indeed, we need to return to the stronghold with all haste before our parents are worried enough to lock us in a cell until we come of age," Legolas replied and he started towards the talan ladder.

"About that," Colloth began, but Legolas's attention was drawn away by one of the unknown voices outside the talan.

"I will fetch Lord Legolas, sir," it said.

Legolas peered over the railing of the talan at the sound of his name. His eyes widened when he saw the elves sitting below, on a grouping of logs, along side the lieutenant of the Western Patrol that commanded this part of their territory. "Oh, that cannot be a coincidence. We are not even close to still being inside the Guard's territory," he exclaimed, irritation creeping into his tone despite his best efforts to stifle it. He stalked the remaining distance to the ladder to climb down from the talan.

"I was about to tell you," Colloth said, following him. "He arrived this morning, before dawn, looking for you."

"Who?" Berior asked, also trailing after Legolas.

Legolas did not reply. He simply hurried down the ladder, ignored the warrior approaching the talan and walked straight to where the lieutenant sat with one of his archers, a warrior from the Palace Guard and the Guard's captain, Dollion. Dollion stood when he saw Legolas, prompting the others to do so as well. That courtesy almost made Legolas laugh out loud. He stopped nearly toe-to-toe with him and spoke into his ear.

"I cannot believe Hallion diverted the Captain of the Guard from his duties--duties the king assigned and ones intended to keep the stronghold safe while we are moving against a serious threat--to fetch me home after a single night's absence," he said in a very low voice.

"He did not," Dollion replied in an equally quiet voice.

Legolas frowned. Then what was Dollion doing this far outside his assigned territory?

"The queen gave me that order," Dollion said.

Legolas clenched his jaw to remain silent. Hallion he might be able to manage. If nana was angry enough to send warriors after him, that was another problem all together.

Berior and Anastor, who had followed him from the talan, whispered amongst themselves in response to that declaration. Legolas could not make out their words, but they undoubtedly were saying something about the amount of trouble they were obviously in.

"It seems it is quite fortunate that she sent me," Dollion continued without acknowledging them. "Far too much is happening here. Rossoth," he gestured to the lieutenant, "has asked my advice on how to manage it and my suggestion was that we should speak to you."

Legolas's gaze darted between Dollion and the lieutenant.

Dollion stepped back and indicated the logs where he had been sitting. "Please join us, my lord. There are some patrol requests that I think you should look at. Any assistance I might be to you..." He left that offer open while holding out his hand for the tightly rolled papers Rossoth held--obviously reports delivered by bird.

Rossoth surrendered them, clearly relieved to do so, and Dollion gave them to Legolas with an level, dead-serious stare.

Legolas lowered himself onto the log while straightening the papers. Berior and Anastor blatantly stood behind him, one on each side of him, to read the reports over his shoulder.

The first was from Delethil, Dollion's eldest son and the captain of the Eastern Patrol. Orcs--most likely the ones Legolas had read about yesterday while summarizing patrol reports--attacked Maethorness's village in the middle of the night. Nearly one hundred of them. Legolas took a quiet, deep breath to keep himself from reacting visibly to that number and he read on. The village apparently was expecting the attack, because Delethil mentioned the full village guard, as well as half of his patrol, had met it. Even thusly prepared, at the time Delethil sent this dispatch, the orcs were on the verge of over-running the village.

Behind him, someone--either Berior or Anastor--gasped.

Legolas tensed and glanced at Dollion. He was watching Legolas read, stone-faced. Legolas returned his attention to the paper, pulling it a little more tautly between his fingers.

Delethil was requesting that any warriors that could be spared from Rossoth's patrol be sent into the central and northern territory along the eastern border. This was necessary because Delethil had ordered all warriors in the Eastern Patrol to go south to help protect Maethorness's village and stop the orcs before they pushed further north. In case their efforts failed, and some of the orcs punched through, Delethil wanted someone to be in position to stop them and protect the villages on the eastern border ahead of their advance.

That was only the first paper.

Dreading what he might read next, Legolas shuffled the second message forward and scanned it. It was from Morillion, the captain of the Western Patrol. He was ordering his lieutenant--Legolas looked up at Rossoth quickly--to spread his warriors further west to compensate for the fact that Morillion had pulled all the warriors on the western border south to Dolgailon's village, to aid the Southern Patrol against a massive orc attack there. Legolas's jaw clenched when he read 'over one hundred orcs' once again.

"My warriors cannot be in two places at once, my lord," the lieutenant said softly when Legolas stopped reading, but remained silent.

"Obviously not," Legolas replied, handing the papers back to Dollion.

This was a very bad situation. Legolas was no captain and he knew that very well, but he also knew enough about the defense of his father's realm to understand how important it was that the orcs be held south of the mountains. From these reports, it appeared likely that they would push past them in the east and possibly even in the west. And they would certainly take the lives of a good many villagers while attempting it.

And there were even bigger problems than that if the orcs were massing in the west.

"Legolas, what about..." Anastor began, his voice filled with worry.

Legolas waved him silent. "Did we receive any response from Dolgailon's village to the bird we sent there last night?" he asked the lieutenant.

Dollion raised a curious eyebrow.

The lieutenant handed Legolas another small paper, still rolled and sealed shut. "This arrived moments ago, my lord," he said. "I was just sending someone to tell you."

Legolas took it, pulled it open and read: "First matter: No communication. Second: already knew." That terse message was written in Galithil's hand and contained the coded symbol, so it had to be authentic.

"Oh!" Berior whispered behind him. He cut himself off from saying anything else and a glance showed Legolas that his cousin was trying his best to maintain a neutral expression. Anastor, on the other hand, looked at Legolas with open panic.

Legolas sympathized with that. Fear churned in his own gut.

What was happening in that village? What had Manadhien done to reveal she had discovered the spies--the 'second' matter Galithil referred to? Worse still was Galithil's response to the first matter--the fact that the King was in the south. The village had 'no communication' with him yet? What had happened to him? He was supposed to send word to Dolgailon that he was moving to arrest or execute Glilavan and Fuilin so that Dolgailon would know to arrest Manadhien. And why had Galithil, not Dolgailon, responded to the message? Where was the Troop Commander? If he was not in the village, who would arrest Manadhien and lead the battle in the west?

Legolas looked south, causing Colloth to shuffle anxiously.

"I could send an order to my Guard to go further east and south," Dollion said, interrupting Legolas's worries about Manadhien, the King and Troop Commander. "To help cover the Eastern Patrol's territory, so that the Western Patrol's warriors could manage their own territory per their captain's orders..."

Legolas automatically shook his head, despite the fact that he had no right to question a captain's orders to his warriors. "Weakening the stronghold's defenses at this moment makes me very nervous," he hastily explained. "Since Manadhien is certainly behind both these attacks, that might be precisely what she is trying to accomplish. We might be playing directly into her hands."

"My fears exactly, my lord," Dollion replied. "Another option--a better one--is to send the warriors of either the eastern Path Guard or eastern range of the Northern Patrol further south. The Path Guard could be in position the fastest. The problem with that idea is: I am not the captain of either group of warriors. I do not have the authority to order them any more than Delethil could order Rossoth. I can only explain this situation, suggest their warriors move and then, if need be, argue why mine should not. That process would waste time--a luxury we do not have."

"Indeed not," the lieutenant agreed. "I cannot wait for that argument to be won or for someone in the stronghold to make the suggestion into an order. But, if I obey my captain's orders--something there should not even be a hint of doubt that I will do--and I move west right now, without waiting, I will do so knowing that I am leaving the eastern border as far south as Nenon's village and as far west as our current position badly exposed."

"Six villages are in that territory," Legolas muttered to himself.

The lieutenant nodded. "Exactly. But if I disobey and wait to move my warriors while Delethil's request travels to the stronghold--and the suggestion to move the Path Guard is approved, delivered and executed--by then the battle in Dolgailon's village will already be decided. If the orcs prevail in the west, they will have spread well north before I am in a position to stop them. And there are seven villages threatened in that territory. Either decision I make has the potential to cost too many lives."

"There is no time to send this request to the stronghold. Decisions need to be made now, my lord," Dollion emphasized, looking at Legolas steadily. "By someone with the authority to make them."

Legolas's eyes widened and his gaze darted up meet Dollion's before he could stop himself. Surely Dollion was not suggesting....

Dollion leaned towards him, eyebrows rising almost imperceptibly.

Legolas drew a breath to respond that he had no authority to order any patrol anywhere. He should not even be in this camp. Dollion's presence, at the Queen's order, testified to that.

He blew out the breath without speaking.

The fact was, he was here and the orders did need to be sent immediately. More significantly, he had better information than anyone else that might make those orders--more than the patrol captains, Hallion in the stronghold, the Troop Commander in the village or even the King, where ever he might be. He knew the immediate status of all the patrols, Manadhien's knowledge of her impending arrest, the King's position and lack of communication with the village and Dolgailon's apparent absence from the village on the eve of battle.

In other words, he knew how far this situation had deteriorated and that it could not be allowed to grow worse.

It was his duty to see to the safety of these villages, a duty he was born to and had been raised expecting to shoulder at some point, though certainly not so soon.

Still, he hesitated. He was not of age. Not a warrior. His father had vigorously resisted every effort Legolas and his underage cousins had made to involve themselves in military matters. He could not imagine how his father would react to Legolas usurping authority--Hallion's, Dolgailon's and the captains'--to make this decision.

On the other hand, he could easily imagine how the King would respond to hearing multiple villages were overrun by orcs due to his inaction, and he had no more desire to see that response than he did the destruction of the villages.

Legolas's heart began to race in anticipation of what he was about to do.

"You both agree that the best course of action is for the Path Guard to move south?" he asked. He did not want to make the situation worse while trying to address it, and he was acutely aware that he had little knowledge of warfare, but he knew he could trust these officers' judgment.

The lieutenant nodded.

"Yes, my lord," Dollion answered and he seemed to relax slightly.

"You have served closely with them," Legolas said, addressing Dollion. "In your opinion, the warriors in the Path Guard have the skill to face those numbers of orcs, should Delethil's defense of Maethorness's village fail?"

"The more experienced ones, yes," Dollion replied.

"Very well," Legolas said. "I will write an order to the captain of the Path Guard asking him to send..." he hesitated, trying to remember the number of warriors specifically in the eastern Path Guard. This was simply not information he managed as regularly as Galithil did. "To send two dozen warriors as far south as Nenon's village. If Dollion's warriors can cover the Path closest to the stronghold, that should not spread the Path Guard too thin."

Dollion nodded.

Legolas turned back to Rossoth. "That should make it safe enough for your warriors to immediately obey Morillion's orders."

The lieutenant also nodded and called for writing materials and a bird.

Even as Legolas accepted the quill, ink and paper the warrior brought to him, while ignoring Anastor and even Berior's wide-eyed stares, he wondered if he would have to mark the message he sent to the Path Guard with the King's device instead of his own to ensure the order was obeyed. The thought made him laugh dourly as he wrote. That sort of forgery bordered too closely on Manadhien's deceptions. He instead wrote as thorough an explanation of the current situation as he could entrust to a bird, ended it with the order for two dozen warriors to take position between the Path and Nenon's village, carefully worked in the required coded symbol, and signed his own name.

When he was finished, he turned to Dollion and again spoke quietly into his ear. "I am not of age, nor am I a warrior. Do we honestly expect that the officers of the Path Guard are going to accept these orders from me? Would it not be best for you to sign them as well? Or at least note your agreement with them?"

Dollion pulled away to stare at Legolas a moment before answering. "I do not believe for a moment that Denoth or any of his officers would question your authority, my lord. Any more than I would."

Legolas pressed his lips together, still worried.

"Denoth knows you, my lord. So do his lieutenants. Perhaps not as well as I do, but they do. They have guarded your hunting trips and Denoth has first hand knowledge of how you handled...the incident during that training exercise and its aftermath. He knows these battles are related to that. And this would not be the first time his officers looked to you for guidance, after all."

Legolas loosed a short laugh. "Using me to dodge their captain's unpleasant orders regarding an insane old man hardly counts," he said, but he did begin to roll the paper. As he stuffed it into the bird's pouch, he turned a more serious look on Dollion. "In addition to repositioning your own warriors, you will take a report of these orders to the stronghold, along with the message that the King has not yet arrived in Dolgailon's village and Dolgailon is apparently absent from it as well. Report directly to Hallion, outside the Queen's presence. There is no need to worry her unnecessarily."

Dollion frowned. "I will be happy to confirm to Hallion that I agreed this is the best course of action when you speak to him, if you fear he might question you over it," he said. "Though I doubt he would do so even more than I doubt Denoth would. And surely you can speak to him about the King yourself. I did not even know he had left the stronghold."

"No one is supposed to know, for his own safety," Legolas said as he stood, raising Dollion and Rossoth to their feet. "But I am not going back to the stronghold. I am going to Dolgailon's village."

The lieutenant, who had already begun signaling his warriors to break camp, stopped and raised an eyebrow at Legolas.

Dollion shook his head. "But the queen..." he began.

Legolas cut him off. "One hundred orcs are going to attack the village Manadhien and two of her most dangerous servants are in. Both the Troop Commander and King's locations are unknown. We only know for certain they are not in that village, where they are both supposed to be. I trust Morillion and Ostarndor to manage the orcs, but someone has to make certain Manadhien and her servants do not escape. The King and Dolgailon were supposed to do that, but something has obviously disrupted their plans, so it falls to me. I am going to the village."

Dollion looked from Legolas to Colloth, obviously hoping for support.

Colloth's expression was the most grim Legolas had ever seen on the normally cheerful guard. But he remained silent.

"If you wish, my lord," Rossoth interjected, "you can accompany the warriors I am sending closest to that village. They will not be going nearly so far south, but you will have safer travel for as long as they can stay with you."

"Thank you. Colloth and I will travel with them for as long as it is practical," Legolas agreed. "See to it that Berior and Anastor get back to the stronghold safely," he said to Dollion. Then he started towards the path south.

Berior caught his arm. "I have every bit as much training as you, and as much cause to want to see Manadhien arrested. I am going with you."

"I want to come too," Anastor began.

"No," Legolas said flatly. "I have taken responsibility for enough. I am not taking responsibility for either of you." He pointed at Berior. "The King needs you doing your adar's duty. There is no one else that understands those accounts as he did, except you." He swung his finger towards Anastor. "And you have precisely half a year's training with a sword. I am walking into a battle the warriors of the Southern Patrol will be hard pressed to survive. I will not allow you to go and that is my final word on it." He glared at Anastor and prepared to order Dollion to bind him and carry him back to the stronghold, if necessary.

"Very well, my lord," Anastor said softly. "Only remember that you may have more training, but you have never served in a patrol and, like Berior, I would wager the King believes you also have value to this realm."

Legolas openly blinked at that easy victory. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Your word that you will return directly to the stronghold. Both of you."

"You have it," Anastor and Berior said in unison. "Do be careful, Legolas," Berior added.

"I will," Legolas promised. Then he turned once again to join the warriors Rossoth suggested he travel with.

After speaking swiftly to the warrior from the Guard that had accompanied him, Dollion jogged to catch up Legolas, taking up a position next to Colloth. "The Queen ordered me to bring you home safely and I intend to obey her, even if we must return by way of Dolgailon's village," he said in explanation. "I assure you that I have left my patrol, your message to the stronghold and your friends in good hands. If I was not certain of that, I would return to the stronghold. Since I am, I am coming with you, and I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but I will not be deterred."

Legolas only nodded. That was a battle he had little hope of winning, and given that he would almost certainly face more of those this day, an additional experienced warrior could not possibly go amiss.

*~*~*

Naneth/nana -- Mother/mum
Adar/ada -- Father/dad

The title of this chapter is a quote from Lord Byron.

Sorry to be so long in updating. I have been concentrating on real life the last month, and to good end: I have a new, full-time job in a library, meaning that for the first time in three years, I am no longer among the ranks of the under-employed. Hooray! :-)

Chapter Six: The children shall lead

The sound of screeching orcs and shouting elves spurred Legolas and the warriors he had accompanied south from a jog to a flat run, closing the short distance to Leithor’s village as swiftly as possible. Two of the warriors drew arrows from their quivers; the more experienced warrior drew his sword and took the lead in their charge. Dollion pulled his blade and rushed forward along side him. Without giving his guard a chance to protest, Legolas matched the archers’ pace, also drawing and nocking an arrow. To his surprise, Colloth’s only reaction was to ready his own bow.

‘Telain,’ Legolas whispered to himself only a few breaths later. “The outskirts of the village.’  His hand tightened around his bow in anticipation. The villagers’ voices were getting closer, their screams more desperate. Despite having run the entire day after leaving the patrol’s camp just after dawn, Legolas pushed himself harder…faster towards the village courtyard. They needed to reach the battle soon if they were to do any good….

Two bows twanged.

Legolas’s attention snapped east in time to see the archers, a few paces ahead of him, drawing more arrows from their quivers. Amongst the trees, two orcs pitched backwards and fell. They had been trying to circle around the village to present a more scattered attack.

‘That is an obvious tactic when attacking superior numbers in a superior defensive position. One I should have expected,’ Legolas scolded himself.

He widened his focus to the entire village perimeter, searching for other enemies that might be attempting the same strategy. There had to be more than two. He immediately spotted a second pair of orcs now skulking in the shadows of dusk a few paces further west. He drew his bow and sent an arrow into one orc’s neck. Colloth’s shaft struck the other. Cold satisfaction surged through Legolas as the orcs dropped hard to the ground, no longer able to damage village or forest again.

He raced on.

The fight in the village center finally came into view. It was a larger battle than Legolas had expected. Quickly counting the enemy, he tallied three dozen orcs, facing many fewer elves, apparently the village guards. They fought with swords, though with less skill than many of Legolas’s fellows in the training program. The majority of the villagers had taken shelter in telain, but they still wielded their bows, shooting any orcs they safely could target. Half a dozen orc archers returned attack on the telain while hunkered down behind trees for protection. The sight of them made Legolas’s heart race and blood heat, all at once.

The senior warrior and Dollion charged straight down the path towards the battle.

Legolas, Colloth and the archers spread out. Following the example of the warriors, Legolas took up a position partially obscured by a broad oak, drew his bow and released an arrow. An orc archer fell to his attack. Three others dropped moments later, victims of Colloth and the warriors’ bows.

The two remaining enemy archers cringed back behind their trees, squealing in panic and searching the forest for this new source of danger. When they finally spotted the patrol, they broke and ran. Legolas swiftly sent them to their death and turned his attention to the sword battle in the village center.

The orcs there were attempting to flee as well. Dollion and the senior warrior, along with the village guard, surrounded as many of them that they could. The ones they could not corral fled into the forest in all directions. The villagers in the telain targeted them, but some escaped.

The archers turned and looked at Legolas.

“We will chase down the ones fleeing west. You go east,” Colloth replied to their implied question.

Their only acknowledgement was to dash away.

Legolas followed Colloth in the opposite direction. They had not run a half dozen steps when he spotted two orcs. One was dodging from tree to tree, hiding. The other was running straight towards them, wielding a spear. It hefted its weapon to shoulder height the moment it saw the two elves.

A glance at his guard showed Colloth already at full draw, aiming at the charging orc, so Legolas targeted the other. His arrow went through that orc’s head before it even realized it was under attack. He automatically drew another arrow and turned his bow in the general direction of the remaining threat, searching for it quickly to make sure it was eliminated. It was not! That orc had ducked behind a tree, evading Colloth’s arrow. By the time Legolas found it again, it was hurling its spear at them.

“Move,” Colloth shouted, side-stepping right.

Legolas had already jumped left. He drew his bow and let fly the arrow on its string. Both he and Colloth struck the orc despite its clumsy efforts to allude death a second time. It fell heavily onto its back and did not move again.

Without pause, Legolas and Colloth rushed onward, searching for more orcs. Colloth shot one in the back as it fled. Legolas finished another. Finally, reaching the southern edge of the village, they met again with the two warriors that had run east.

The warriors gestured into the village and moved off in that direction. Colloth pursued them, and Legolas followed, racing towards the sound of clanging swords while shouldering his bow and drawing his sword. He held its hilt with a strangling grip that would have earned him a sharp rap on the wrist from Master Langon if this were only a training exercise.

A dozen orcs still fought Dollion, the senior warrior and the village guards. That many more were strewn about on the ground. As Legolas leapt over their bodies to join the battle, their blades caught his attention. They were smeared with a dark, sticky goo. Poison.

Colloth glanced back at him, noted the direction of his gaze and nodded with apparent satisfaction that his charge had already recognized the danger.

A moment later, Legolas was side-stepping one of those poisoned swords as it swung at his shoulder. He lunged inside the range of the orc wielding it and drove his sword into its gut. It fell. Legolas wrenched his blade free of its body and used the force of the effort to parry another blow aimed at his neck. Colloth finished that orc as Legolas cut the legs from under the next to attack them. He automatically repositioned himself in preparation for another attack, but none came. Looking around himself, Legolas saw only elves—the village guards, the warriors, Dollion and Colloth. They all stood over orcs on the ground—some writhing in pain, some motionless, but all adequately disabled.

Legolas forcefully loosed a breath, a little stunned by how abruptly the battle had ended.

Colloth inspected him briefly. “You fought well, my lord,” he said in a quiet voice.

The surge of pride that compliment elicited helped compensate, if only slightly, for Legolas’s suddenly wobbly limbs. But, unless he counted that forced duel with Tureden—and Legolas did not count that—this was the first time he had drawn a sword since his fight with Demil. At least he had proven to himself that he could do it. That was an encouraging thought.

Colloth turned his attention to the village perimeter, studying it.

“Did any escape?” Dollion and the senior warrior asked at the same time.

Dollion cast the warrior an apologetic glance and took a step back while wiping the worse of the muck on his sword off on a nearby orc’s corpse.

The warrior smiled and also took a step back. “You are a captain, after all,” he said with a half bow. “Even if not in this patrol.”

“None escaped to the east,” Colloth said, answering the original question.

“Nor to the west,” one of the archers said.

During this exchange, Legolas focused on the village. Leithor was approaching the group of warriors, a relieved and grateful expression on his face, but as he passed under the telain, he was ordering the villagers in them to get back to work. Legolas frowned as he watched the elves shoulder their bows and head towards several half-loaded hand carts and a wagon he had not noticed during the heat of the battle. The carts contained food, cloth, and even furniture. A horse—one of the horses recently gifted to the village—was tethered to a tree near the wagon. Its nostrils were flared and the whites of its eyes showed as it reared, fighting against its restraints. Fortunately, an elleth had descended from one of the telain to sooth it.

“You have been sent to cover our retreat?” Leithor asked the warriors as he drew near. “Your timing could not have been better. We thank you for your help. That was the biggest group. We held off the other two smaller ones, but that one would have had us. And now that night is near, we expect even worse.”

Legolas’s eyes widened. Retreat? What retreat? And this village had been attacked twice today before this? His attention was drawn to two ellyn. They bent down, seized an orc by its ankles and dragged it towards the far side of the village. With a start, Legolas realized there was already a mound of orc bodies there, along with a pile of armor and weapons.

Dollion and the senior warrior glanced at each other, whether in confusion over Leithor’s reference to a retreat, surprise at the number of attacks the village had faced or indecision over who would speak for them, Legolas did not know, nor did he bother to try to guess. He stepped around Colloth to address the village leader himself.

“You are very welcome, Master Leithor,” he began.

Leithor’s mouth popped open slightly when his gaze shifted from the warriors to the king’s son.

“May I ask what you meant when you mentioned a retreat?” Legolas continued, gesturing to the carts and wagon. “It appears you are moving your village, but surely that is not the case.”

“Well,” Leithor stammered. “Yes, of course we are retreating…moving…further north. The orcs are about to breach the mountains. If they have not already.” He looked over his shoulder to survey the dead orcs scattered about him and the mountain slopes rising in the distance. “We are far too close to the Emyn Duir. We must get out of the orcs’ path.”

The warriors began murmuring. Dollion and Colloth took a step forward to flank Legolas, obviously eager to ask questions.

Legolas did not give them the chance. “The orcs are going to breach the mountains, you say? That information came from whom? The Troop Commander? The King? And when? Within the last hours?”

Leithor shook his head. “It came from Moralfien. This morning before dawn. She sent word that her village was under a massive attack and the warriors there said they could not hold it. She told us to move before we were overrun. She said she was sending that same message to Nenon, Pellion, Nindor and Selwon too. She said, if we were smarter than Maethorness, who she also warned, we would move quickly. Maethorness’s village was destroyed. Of course, you must already know that.”

Legolas had to force himself not to scowl. “I do not know that,” he replied, his tone much sharper than he had intended. “Who told you Maethorness was overrun? A courier from the Eastern Patrol?”

“No. Moralfien included that in her message this morning,” Leithor answered.

Legolas put his hands on his hips. “Well, this morning I saw a message from Delethil—who is commanding the defense of that village—saying his patrol still held it. And we sent reinforcements to ensure that did not change….”

“Apparently it did,” Leithor interrupted.

“To the best of my knowledge, it did not,” Legolas countered, cutting Leithor off in turn and allowing annoyance to creep into his tone.

Leithor pressed his lips together and appeared flustered.

“My information,” Legolas continued before Leithor could argue further, “comes from reliable sources. Yours, on the other hand, comes from a traitor who the King is in Dolgailon’s village to arrest….”

“A traitor! Who?” Leithor exclaimed. “And…it is true the King is in Moralfien’s village?” He sounded oddly fearful asking that last question.

“Moralfien is the traitor,” Legolas replied. “She is commanding these orcs herself. She wants you to yield ground before them…”

“That is insane!” Leithor spluttered, gaping at Legolas.

“As insane as it may sound, I assure you that it is true,” Legolas said, making a conscious effort to imitate his father’s most stern court manners. It seemed to work. Leithor mouth was open and forming words, but he did not dare voice any contradiction. “Do you remember the elleth from Dannenion’s village that plotted with Easterlings to abduct the Queen shortly after my birth?” Legolas asked.

Leithor nodded. “Manadhien, the warriors told us her name was. They searched throughout the southern realm for her, at the king’s orders. We were to report any elleth by that name entering our villages. She was never found, I heard.”

“Moralfien and Manadhien are the same person,” Legolas said.

Leithor’s eyes flew open. “How could that be? How would no one recognize her? Report her?”  

Legolas remained silent and gave Leithor time to think through his own questions—a tactic he had seen his father put to good use in court, at least with elves smart enough to make it worthwhile, and Legolas knew both Thranduil and Dolgailon counted Leithor amongst those.

“I never met Manadhien, of course. No one in my village did. Dannenion and Dolwon’s villages were on the eastern border, far from here, and everyone that associated with her in their villages was taken north,” Leithor said, thinking out loud. “I suppose no one is left in this part of the forest that would recognize Moralfien as the same elleth that was accused in Dannenion’s village.” He looked back at Legolas. “What about Lord Dolgailon, or the King himself? How could they not recognize her? She has led that village—all of us in the south, to be honest—since Lord Aradunnon fell.”

“Lord Dolgailon is too young to have met Manadhien when she lived in the Old Capital. He knew her as Moralfien, just as you do. And Moralfien has dodged every summons the King has sent to speak with her, including one when he traveled to the village himself to meet with her. A warrior of the King’s Guard finally recognized her and reported her presence to the King.”

“Mercy!” Leithor exclaimed, finally believing it all. Then he drew a sharp breath and took a short step closer, holding out his hands and then pulling them back, as if stopping himself from grasping Legolas’s arms. “You said the King was in her village right now? To arrest her? Are you certain he is there?”

Legolas nodded.

“Elbereth, preserve us,” Leithor whispered, wringing his hands together. “In her message,” he continued, speaking quickly, “Moralfien said the King and Lord Dolgailon both fell in the battle in her village. We heard Lord Dolgailon was there, so we feared that might be true. We had not heard the King traveled south, so we could not believe….We thought she must be mistaken….” He stopped speaking, almost as if he ran out of breath, and looked Legolas up and down with obvious mounting panic. “That is not why you are here, is it? Because it is true that…. No, I refuse to believe that! The King surely is not dead.”

“He is not dead. He is alive,” Legolas immediately replied, ignoring the alarmed looks Dollion and Colloth cast towards him in response to Leithor’s claim.

Though they had no word from the King since he left the stronghold, Legolas had no doubt he spoke truthfully. Galithil said he felt the absence of his parents fear after their deaths. Legolas could not believe he would fail to feel his father’s loss. The whole forest would surely feel that. Besides, every word of Manadhien’s message was lies. There was no reason to believe her claims about the King and Dolgailon were anything other than more lies.

“I have come south to help ensure Manadhien cannot use these battles to evade arrest,” he continued. “Nothing more. If she is claiming the King has fallen, she is only doing so as part of her plan to usurp his rule. Her intention is to kill him and Dolgailon—and me—and lay claim to this forest while rewarding her orcs by earning them more territory to ravage, but she will not succeed in any of those endeavors. Not while I still breath.” Speaking of her schemes had left Legolas with clenched fists. He looked down the path leading south and west. He needed to hurry on to Dolgailon’s village. Things were obviously much worse than he expected.

“She intends to try to…!” Leithor gasped, before cutting himself off. Then he glanced at his people, still loading carts and frowned. “Our retreat is part of her plan, then? To yield ground to the orcs? We should stay put and fight?”

Legolas’s gaze darted from the path back to Leithor. He had not intended to try to sway him, one way or the other, with regards to the best decision for his villagers’ safety. “That choice remains yours,” he said quickly.

“But, Lord Legolas sent reinforcements to Maethorness’s village, as he already said,” one of the warriors interjected, “And he sent warriors from our patrol to each of the villages you named—Nenon, Pellion, Nindor and Selwon’s—to help protect them. We were sent to stand with you, if you choose to stay.”

Legolas stared silently at the warrior. Strictly speaking, that was not true. The captains had made those orders. He only facilitated them somewhat, by moving the Path Guard….

“I will not give up any part of this forest, much less my home, uncontested and betrayed by secret allies of the Evil One,” Leithor declared, pumping his fist up and down in the air to punctuate his words. “We will stay, if the King’s patrols will help us defend the forest.”

“We will,” the warrior answered.

With a nod, Leithor turned on his heel and marched over to speak with his villagers.

“I suggest we go find out precisely what is happening in Dolgailon’s village,” Colloth whispered into Legolas’s ear.

“Indeed,” Legolas replied. He turned to the three warriors. “We will leave you here, then. To coordinate the defense of this village. Any communications I send to it…”

“Will contain the symbol,” one of the warriors finished for him. “Understood, my lord. Good luck. Catch her before she makes this worse.”

“I intend to,” Legolas answered. Then he jogged down the darkening path that led from Leithor’s village, south and west, to Dolgailon’s.

*~*~*

The failing light would not have been a barrier to elven archers, even on a starless night such as this promised to be. The smoke, on the other hand, made seeing the enemy-not to mention breathing—much more challenging.

Galithil reached over his shoulder and his hand fumbled for an arrow before finally encountering one. He yanked it from his nearly empty quiver, nocked it and thrust it through the protective slats of the talan railing to aim at the neck of a spear-bearing orc on the eastern side of the battle front. He let the arrow fly. The orc jerked back and fell several paces short of the warrior it was charging. Instantly, another orc filled the hole in the enemy line. A villager near Galithil in the talan dropped that one as Galithil groped at his quiver again.

“Arrows!” he shouted, and nearly choked on the words. He spared a glance at the fire devouring the trees and telain on the eastern side of the village and cursed it.

“Curse the orcs and the flaming arrows that set the fire instead,” Galuauth muttered to him as he continued to cut down orcs. “Besides, the fire is better over there than here. We are lucky the wind is blowing eastward, toward the mountains.”
 
“True enough,” Galithil agreed.

Despite the lack of water in the talan’s barrels—Mornil’s attempt to cripple the village’s defense—the ellyth had thus far managed to beat out any flames that orc arrows brought to their shelter and the tree that held it. Their efforts had allowed the village archers, Galithil and his guards to fight longer than the enemy commanders seemed to expect. They had been able to eliminate a large portion of the orc archers and even some of the spears.

But there was no end of orcs stepping forward to take the place of those that fell. The number of elven warriors, on the other hand, was quite finite and slowly declining. And the fire meant the villagers would not be able to remain in this talan forever.

Galithil felt a downward pull on his quiver and it was full again, courtesy of the elleth that had been replenishing the archers' arrows. “Thank you," he called as he dropped another orc.

"This is the last of the arrows," she replied, her voice just over his shoulder. "And you are welcome, my lord."

From the corner of his eye, Galithil saw her stuffing arrows into Galuauth's quiver. To his left, Lanthir elbowed him and gestured with his bow to the east.

The wind had picked up again. The flames in the trees were growing taller. And moving faster. That fire was a much more serious threat than the orcs—one the village had no defense against. Even as Galithil stared at it, embers danced upward, swirling out of the flames and through the air, landing on telain, cottages, and the grass in the village courtyard. Galithil held his breath as his eyes followed several bright sparks floating towards the platform of the talan. Ellyth darted forward and pounced on them quickly, before they had a chance to catch.

More ellyth scrambled into the branches to extinguish the embers that fell on the tree. Unfortunately, this time there were too many and they fell where the limbs were too slender to reach. In several places, the bark on the branches glowed red. Small flames flickered. Then dry autumn leave caught.

“Our luck has run out,” Lanthir said even as he continued to release arrows. “We need someplace else to send these people."

"The orcs will advance if we come out of this talan," Galuauth countered, also still shooting orcs. “And there are not enough warriors to hold them back.”

"We will have to hold back any orcs that charge ourselves,” Galithil replied. “Our choice is that or burn to death.”  

But where could they go? When Dolgailon and Seregon had briefed him on village defense, none of their lessons mentioned how to respond to forest fires. He scowled and looked over the villagers around him. There were wounded. It would be impossible—far too slow—to retreat north while carrying them. But going to another talan would do little good. Aside from the fact that they could not escape the fire that way, the rest of the telain in the village were designed as homes, not fortified shelters for the poorly skilled to fight from like this one. These people needed someplace safe to wait out the battle. He looked back into the village. The Hall was still a good distance from the fire, and it was the most strongly built, defensible building in the village. He loosed two short whistles.

Seregon, still commanding the village guards at the rear of the ground battle, replied with two short whistles of his own. He immediately began repositioning his guards, spreading them further apart.

"Prepare to retreat to the Hall," Galithil called. He pointed at the elleth that had been replenishing arrows. "Go get the medicines and bring them with us." He pointed to another elleth. "Help her."

They both ran into the shelter.

Galithil pointed at four ellyn--the ones he had noted were the worst archers. "You carry the wounded. Go now."

They passed their arrows to the nearest elves and rushed into the shelter after the ellyth.

Finally, Galithil pointed at the five best archers. "You stay with Galuauth, Lanthir and I. We will cover everyone's escape as best we can."

They answered by continuing to release arrows into the orc ranks.

Galithil glanced at Galuauth.

The guard nodded once. "I cannot think of anything else you could do, my lord," he said softly.

Galithil drew a long breath and then whistled again. "Go," he ordered a moment later.

The ellyth with the medicine and the ellyn with the wounded scrambled down the rope ladder first.

At the sight of them, apparently defenseless and on the open ground, orcs screeched in excitement and surged forward in disorderly furor, thirsting for blood.

The tiring and thinning ranks of the patrol and guard did their best to hold them, but the sudden reduction in support from the archers in the talan and the enemy’s renewed enthusiasm severely tried their strength. The elven lines were pushed back enough to allow some orcs to flank them, squeezing between the warriors and the mountains.

Galuauth, Lanthir and the five villagers targeted them, trying to cut short their charge, as Galithil directed the retreat as quickly as possible.

The first to flee, including the ellyn carrying the wounded, reached the Hall unscathed. They flung open its doors and disappeared inside. The next few groups Galithil sent also made good their escape without incident. But the orcs could not be held back entirely.

“To the east! Stop them! Hurry!” Galuauth shouted as the final groups of elves began to descend the talan.

Galithil looked over his shoulder. Well over a dozen orcs were running straight at the fleeing elves, frothing in anticipation.

Some had bows.

Elves screamed and others yelled for help as orc arrows hit their targets.

Galithil spun around to face the orcs, drawing his bow. He, his guards and the remaining five villagers dropped over half the charging orcs before they passed under the talan and into the village, but the rest raced forward, through the courtyard, and closed in on the escaping elves.

Those orcs, armed not only with bows, but also with spears and swords, did real damage.

Galithil watched, helpless, wishing for his cousin’s precision with a bow, as the village potter was struck in the calf by a thrown spear. He struggled to limp away and managed to reach the Hall, but he would likely lose the use of that leg. At least. The orcs’ weapons were poisoned.

Several orcs surrounded an elf Galithil remembered gathering berries with when he lived briefly in this village as a small child. Cackling with laughter, the orcs poked him in the gut with a spear. The rest of the elves turned to help him, leaping onto the orcs and attacking them with their knives. Some dragged their wounded friend to the Hall while the others fought, but Galithil knew such wounds were fatal. He clutched the railing of the talan, anger and grief at the death he had allowed making his breath come with difficulty.

The villagers managed to bring down the remaining orcs at least well enough to resume their retreat.

Galithil gritted his teeth and watched them flee while trying to decide how to convince Galuauth and Lanthir to allow him to join the village guard in the battle. He could not bear to retreat to the Hall.

Before he could form an argument, one of the wounded orcs the villagers had left behind raised himself up on one arm.

Gauluath and Lanthir already had their bows drawn. They released.

The orc threw a spear at the same moment.

It hit an elleth in the center of her back. Her body arched and her arms flew up in the air before she dropped like a sack to the ground and did not move.

Galithil stared at her, momentarily paralyzed in shock. It was his friend Galasserch’s mother, Naineth. Galithil had a sudden flash of memory—Naineth, framed in the doorway of her cottage with a jar in her hand, offering him bread and jam while scolding her much older elfling when he teased Galithil for still wanting such ‘baby’ treats.

Galithil’s focus shifted back to the wounded orcs. The guards’ arrows already protruded from the one that killed Naineth. Galithil sent five of his own swiftly into the remaining orcs.

He should not have discounted them so quickly. What would he say to Galasserch? He turned and looked towards the battlefront, searching for some sign of his friend amongst the village guard. He found him, struggling with a large, brutish orc and not with all the skill Galithil had come to know his friend had cultivated with that sword. He was distracted by his loss—by the sudden absence of his naneth’s fea. Galithil knew that grief.

‘Please do not let Galasserch fall,’ he whispered to himself, watching.

Seregon’s blade fell across the brutish orc’s neck.

Another took its place but Seregon pulled Galasserch to his feet and back into proper position to defend himself and the village.

"That is everyone but us," Lanthir declared, drawing Galithil’s attention back to where it should be—his own surrounds.

And not a moment too soon.

The southeastern corner of the talan was fully engulfed in flame. It was so hot on the platform that Galithil's skin felt dry and taut. "Get moving," he ordered the five elves he had asked to stay. “Go to the Hall. Close and bar the doors when you reach it. Lanthir, Galuauth and I will cover your escape." He grabbed the arm of a passing elf. “Keep an eye on the fire. Get the wounded out of the village and to the north if it turns west. And, obviously, keep an eye on the battle. Flee north at the first sign they have broken through the lines. You will have no time to waste.”

“Yes, my lord,” the elf said.

Galithil released his arm.

The platform listed violently as one of the branches supporting it collapsed.

“To the ground," Lanthir yelled, scrabbling towards the ladder and sliding down its ropes along with everyone else.

Once on the ground, the five villagers began to run for the Hall.

“Move,” Galuauth ordered Galithil, also taking a step backwards towards the Hall while still facing the line of orcs to the south.

"I am not going with them," Galithil replied. "Once they reach the Hall, we will join the village guard."

That announcement was enough to drive Galuauth to turn and stare at Galithil, shaking his head.

"I am not hiding in that Hall," Galithil forestalled him. "Not as long as I am capable of defending this village. We are going to join the guard.” Without waiting for further argument, Galithil drew his sword and ran south.

*~*~*

Thranduil planted his foot against the ribcage of the orc he had just killed and pulled, heaving his sword from its gut. He used his backward momentum to leap away from the blade of another orc. Conuion finished that one as Thranduil smoothly parried a spear thrust, turning the much lighter weapon easily while, at the same time, slashing the throat of the orc that held it with the knife in his off hand. Then he retreated back several paces to survey the field. Belloth and Pendurion filled the void he left in the line, but orcs pressed in against them, lunging viciously at their preferred target.

It was clear since the battle was joined that the enemy had specific orders: capture or kill the king.

Thranduil barely repressed a snarl in response to their efforts. To his increasing frustration, Manadhien had proven herself a capable tactician. She consistently recognized and resisted his attempts to draw the orcs into vulnerable positions that his more skilled warriors could exploit, despite their lesser numbers. Instead, she held the despicable creatures to unprecedented levels of discipline, settling for a battle of attrition that the elves had no hope of winning, given how badly they were outnumbered.

A quick scan of the battle front showed her strategy was well chosen.

The lines of warriors from the Western Patrol that fought with Thranduil near the forest border were thin and tiring. On the far front of the battle, the fire from the orcs’ flaming arrows was now consuming the pines half way up the slopes of the Emyn Duir. Those flames would be a much greater threat than any orc if the winds should shift. Recognizing that danger, half a dozen or so warriors of the Southern Patrol had diverted from the fighting to open a wide swath of cleared land between the fire and the battle. Thranduil could not fault them for trying, but he doubted the strip they managed to clear would be sufficient if tested and, worse still, it weakened the elves’ efforts against the orcs near the mountains.

He spared a glance upward at the now black skies, trying to determine if clouds or smoke blocked the stars. A heavy rain would be welcome, but not something he could control. He turned his attention back to the battle.

The eastern and western fronts were bad enough. It was with great reluctance and no small amount of fear that he turned his gaze to where the village guards struggled to hold the center of the field—to where Galithil had joined the sword battle after signaling the village archers’ retreat just before nightfall. Thranduil automatically noted the guard’s depleted ranks, but that was not what caused him to hold his breath.

There!

He closed his eyes and loosed a quiet sigh.

Galithil was still fighting.

All too aware that he should be focused on the battle as a whole, Thranduil could not stop himself from taking a moment to study his foster son. To his relief, both Galuauth and Lanthir still stood with him. And Galithil was skilled with that sword! Much more so than the village guards around him. But Thranduil’s next realization made his breath stop again: Galithil was fighting with his off-hand. His right arm was held tightly against his body.

He clenched his fists and looked away, studying the orcs’ positions for some exploitable weakness. He was running out of both time and warriors. He needed to finish this battle. Where were the reinforcements he had called for? Surely Engwe had time to deliver his orders and return with more warriors by now. If they did not appear soon….

Thranduil ground his teeth. ‘I will not retreat from her!’ an angry voice growled in his head.

‘I will not sacrifice the better part of this realm’s warriors in a hopeless battle either,’ a more reasonable voice answered.

Conuion stepped into Thranduil’s field of vision, expression fixed, staring steadily past him, over his shoulder.

Carefully, concealed as much as possible by Conuion, Thranduil glanced towards the village.

On its far edge, pressed against a tree in the shadows, stood Engwe. When he saw the king looking at him, he held out three fingers, low next to his hip.

Thranduil nodded almost imperceptibly. Engwe had managed to muster enough reinforcements for all three fronts of the battle. That was very good news. The key was to use it wisely. That meant, above all else, quietly. No audible or visible signals. It also meant employing tactics Manadhien would not expect him to dare. Shielding his hand from view with his body, Thranduil made circular motion with his index finger.

Engwe frowned slightly and slipped deeper into the shadows of the trees.

Thranduil again faced the orcs, suppressing a grim smile. Now he needed a diversion to keep the orcs’ attention focused forward. He had the perfect idea for that. One that would solve two problems. He called Galithil’s signal, loud and clear. He wanted Manadhien to see what he did next.

Across the battle field, his foster son finished the orc he faced and appeared to argue for a moment with his guards. Thranduil’s eyes widened. He could not believe Galithil would disobey any direct order, much less one he issued. Finally, Galithil and Galuauth disengaged from the fight, leaving Lanthir with the village guard. That must have been the cause of their dispute. Lanthir had hesitated to leave Galithil. Thranduil understood that—his orders were to protect Galithil—but Thranduil also could not argue with Galithil’s reasoning to leave Lanthir in place. The village guard would be strained to their limit by the loss of even two warriors, much less two of their best. Still, Thranduil wanted Galithil out of this fight.

“My lord?” Galithil panted as he approached. His gaze was focused on the line of orcs behind Thranduil. Their shouts reached a frenzied pitch at his arrival. Galithil automatically assumed a mid guard and eyed them defensively.

“Have they been targeting you, specifically?” Thranduil blurted, his battle plans temporarily forgotten.

Galithil shrugged, lifting his chin. “She did not kill me this morning,” he replied, with a level of hatred Thranduil had never heard from his young foster son. “Her orcs will not manage it now.”

Thranduil stared at him. Manadhien had tried to kill him this morning?

“I should have killed her myself, when I had the chance, before this battle began. I regret that I did not. Deeply.” Galithil turned grief-filled eyes from the remains of the surrounding dead elves to face the King. “I beg your pardon for it.”

Frowning, Thranduil reached to grasp Galithil’s shoulder, but stopped himself short. That shoulder’s arm was tucked securely between Galithil’s sword belt and body. Thranduil’s hand hovered in the air as he tried to determine exactly what wounds Galithil bore.

“It is nothing, my lord,” Galithil said. “A broken bone. I am wearing mail, as you ordered. It held.”

Thranduil silently thanked the Valar he had made that order. A blow heavy enough to break bone? Delivered with a poisoned weapon? His mind reeled at what the result would have been if Galithil had not been wearing a full hauberk.

“And I can fight just as well with my left hand,” Galithil continued. “Master Langon saw to that.” He snorted derisively. “But I need more practice fighting while wearing mail if you intend to require me to use it regularly. It makes me much slower.”

Blowing out a long breath, and hopefully some shock with it, Thranduil scowled at him. “It kept you alive,” he retorted. Then he forced himself to practicalities. “Do something to bind his arm and your own wounds while there is time,” he said to Galuauth. Then he looked back at Galithil. “You have fought very well,” he said. “And as for Manadhien, she was never your responsibility. Put her out of your mind. I want you to go back to the village…”

Galithil immediately began shaking his head and mounting a protest.

“Silence,” Thranduil commanded. “Go back to the village.” Then he leaned closer to conceal his words. “Do not react to what I am about to say. There are reinforcements in the forest behind us working their way into position. Engwe is going to lead them behind her lines, but it is imperative that Manadhien not discover them. I need her focused on something more interesting and you are it. Go to the Hall, tell the villagers what we are planning and make them ready to retreat, if needed. Then order some of them—the ones most able to fight, if it should come to that—out of the Hall and make it look as if you are evacuating them. Take your time. Perhaps pretend you are moving the wounded. That will give Engwe time to get into position and should make Manadhien believe we are preparing to surrender the village. She will focus her attention on stopping us from escaping and Engwe will be able to take her by surprise. Be prepared to flee in earnest if this goes badly and the orcs break through. If they do, get the villagers north as quickly as you can. Understood?”

Galithil nodded and grasped Thranduil’s arm, pulling him closer to speak into his ear. “What if she has more orcs in reserve herself? What if Engwe comes in behind her and is trapped between the orcs here and her reserves?”

Thranduil felt a flash of irritation. It had been a very long time since anyone dared question his orders. Anyone other than Aradunnon, that is. He always questioned any order. And, in his youth, that was one way he developed the knowledge to become such a strong tactician.

“You are wise to fear she might have more orcs. Wise to advise caution,” he replied, forcing himself to patience. “The possibility of more orcs is why I sent Engwe and not just any officer to command this attack. I trust him to make good judgments.”

Galithil’s brows knit, but he did nod his acceptance.

Thranduil gave him a light shove in the direction of the village. “Go, then,” he said and watched with no small amount of relief as his foster son raced back to the village.  Then he turned back to the battle and adjusted his grip on his sword while scanning for the weakest point in his front. He would reenter the battle there to reinforce it.

Immediately, his breath caught.

There she was! Right in front of him! Manadhien! She was leaning out from behind a thick trunk, watching Galithil while giving orders to an orc. It was the first clear glimpse he had of her since he last saw her in the Old Capital. He only saw her face now. Her head sticking out from behind the tree. Well, he only wanted her head, so that was enough for him. Without taking his eyes off her, Thranduil thrust his sword into Conuion’s hands and reached for his bow. In one swift motion, he nocked an arrow, drew and released, sending the arrow flying towards her nose.

He followed its path with his eyes. It flew true—straight at her as she spoke. He had her. He had her! His fist tightened around his bow in anticipation…

At the very last moment, Manadhien finished speaking. The orc stepped back towards the enemy lines and Manadhien moved to hide behind her tree.

The arrow struck.

Rather than hitting her squarely, it tore across her cheek opening a gaping wound, but not a fatal one.

Thranduil loosed a curse and reached into his quiver.

Manadhien squealed in shock and pain, sounding very much like one of her orcs. Her hand flew to her face and she spun around again, searching for her attacker.

Her face contorted with fury upon finding Thranduil glaring at her.

Thranduil’s jaw clenched as he nocked and drew his bow a second time, hurrying before she darted away.

But she did not flee. Instead she stepped fully from behind the tree—Thranduil tracked her movements, keeping his arrow trained on her—and she raised her own bow, arrow nocked.

Conuion was instantly between the king and the arrow threatening him.

Thranduil released.

So did Manadhien.

Conuion stepped back, pushing Thranduil bodily to the side. A blue-fletched arrow with a silver shaft whistled by them.

Manadhien was on the move as well, bolting behind her tree. Not fast enough. She loosed another scream.

Thranduil peered around Conuion, searching for her and trying to determine what damage he had done. He could not find her. He shoved Conuion aside and took a step forward, squinting into the gloom. Where was she?

Deeper amongst the trees, in the shadows, too far away from her original position to be her, Thranduil glimpsed something else. A slender form. Long braided hair. Another elf, certainly. This elf was pointing straight at Thranduil. Orcs scurried forward at his commands. The elf had to be one of Manadhien’s servants. Thranduil searched the trees above him and found Tureden. He continued searching. Yes, there was Geledhel, another of his spies, leaned low over a branch, poised for movement or attack, taking little care to avoid discovery for the moment. He intently examined the ground below him, near where Manadhien has just been, his expression grim but….hopeful?

Could that mean that Manadhien was wounded at least badly enough to eliminate her as a threat in this battle?

Belloth shouted a sharp series of commands to the surrounding warriors, pulling Thranduil’s attention back to the battle. The warriors near him tightened their ranks and met the onslaught of charging orcs sent by the elf in the shadows.

Whether in response to Thranduil’s attack on Manadhien or the evidence of their supposed impending retreat, this attack was the most ferocious thus far.  Thranduil shouldered his bow and reclaimed his sword from Conuion. Even as he raised it, an orc lunged through the elven warriors, landing a cut on Thranduil’s sword arm and forcing it down. His mail prevented the poisoned blade from cutting flesh. The orc stepped forward to press its advantage. Thranduil closed range also and, with his left hand, drove his knife up, under the orc’s armor and between its ribs. It convulsed and dropped to the ground.

Another instantly took its place. Conuion’s sword flashed across that one’s throat, but not before it delivered a bruising blow across Thranduil’s shoulder. His mail again protected him, but Thranduil loosed a pained growl as still more orcs surged against the elven warriors.

To his left, Pendurion screamed, staggered back and fell, clutching his leg.

The warriors of the Southern Patrol struggled to close the gap his loss had caused.

Thranduil brought his sword from a high guard down across the shoulder of the nearest orc with enough force to cleave its arm from its body and send the plates of its shoulder pauldron flying through the air. With his upswing he gutted another orc.

In his peripheral vision, he saw several orcs to the east break past the village guards and rush north.

Thranduil struggled to turn…to see if anyone was in a position to stop those orcs before they reached Galithil and the Hall. He sidestepped an orc’s blade. He ducked under another attack and hamstrung that orc with the knife in his offhand. He parried the next sword that came at him and shoved the orc bearing it back. Conuion finished it. Another orc swung a mace at his head. Cursing, he stepped out of its range.

Behind him, in the village…he strained to hear over the screams and clanging swords around him. Did he hear arrows? Orcs screeching? Or elves screaming?

“Galuauth stopped them all,” Conuion said through a grunt as a blow fell on his right shoulder. The orc that landed it lost its legs at the knees. “But the village guard will not hold much longer.”

Thranduil nodded and tore his attention away from the attack long enough to confirm Tureden and Geledhel were still in place. They were. Enough of this, then. He called a signal ordering some of the Southern Patrol to reinforce the guard. He immediately heard the patrol’s captain signal warriors to comply with that order.

“Too thin,” Conuion warned. “The orcs will flank the patrol near the mountains.”

“No,” Thranduil replied, speaking loudly enough that all the warriors around him should hear. “They are going to come to us. Be ready.” He shifted his attacks until he had drawn near to the captain of the Western Patrol. “Morillion,” he called, “Take command. You need only hold them back from the village a little longer.” He glanced at Conuion. “I am going after Manadhien. You stay here and help the patrol. Belloth, you are with me. If they still have archers, I do not care to be shot.”

Conuion loosed a scoffing noise and shook his head at Thranduil.

Thranduil’s brows drew together. “You are no archer,” he said to the captain of his guard, jerking his chin at Conuion’s right shoulder. It had been so badly damaged in the last battle they fought against Manadhien that he had been rendered incapable of wielding a bow, or even a blade with his right hand. “You will be no use in the trees. Stay here.”

With that, Thranduil lunged against the nearest orcs with a flurry of attacks that might not destroy them, but would certainly drive them back, if temporarily. That was all he needed. He and Belloth leapt into the trees and quickly climbed as high as the branches would support them.

“I can still prevent arrows from reaching you,” Conuion shouted, following them. “And that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Orcs screeched furiously, scrabbling ineffectively at the trunks their prey had scaled so easily.

Thranduil ignored them and Conuion’s disobedience. He pulled a dozen arrows from his quiver, adjusting them in his hand. Belloth did the same.

Even as orc officers called for archers to stop Thranduil and for other warriors to go east to make the attacks Conuion predicted, Thranduil called a signal that Manadhien and her allies would not recognize. Glilavan had not known it and could not have taught it to them. It was a signal known only to him and his spies.

Instantly, arrows rained down from Tureden and Geledhel’s positions, as well as one other deeper behind the enemy lines, destroying the orcs that guarded Manadhien and her servants. An eye blink later, writhing orcs covered the ground.

Wood creaked as the surviving orc archers tried to return that unexpected attack while seeking cover behind trees.

Thranduil dropped them with the arrows he had readied.

The few orc-archers that managed to escape cowered behind trees.

Belloth moved through the branches to finish them.

Thranduil nodded his approval and headed straight towards Geledhel, knowing that spy targeted Manadhien and the orcs around her.

“Get them under control! Send them forward! Overrun the western flank. Force Thranduil back,” he heard Manadhien yelling as he approached her position.

The orc officers around her brought their whips down on their underlings in an effort to comply with her orders, but one by one, they fell to Geledhel’s arrows.

Manadhien, still mostly hidden from Thranduil’s sight behind a broad tree, put a stop to the spy’s efforts, sending half a dozen silver and blue arrows at him in fast succession, driving him to take shelter on the far side of the tree. But the damage was done. The orcs around Manadhien, now largely bereft of leadership, ran chaotically, this way and that without reason, desperate to escape the sudden onslaught of arrows, completely out of control and useless for any defense.

A slow smile reached Thranduil’s lips and he focused solely on his prey. Creeping forward, ignored by the orcs below, he sent a handful of his own arrows towards Manadhien, sinking them into the trunk of her tree and pinning her down. One even grazed the tip of her longbow when it peeked from behind the tree.

Geledhel immediately complimented his efforts, targeting her from his position as well.

“Shadow take you, you cravens!” she shouted and she jumped out from behind her tree, arrow nocked, at a full draw. She raised her bow and quickly found her mark amongst the trees. Her arrow flew straight at Thranduil.

Conuion leapt between it and the king. The arrow struck him squarely in the chest, throwing him backward, knocking the arm of Thranduil’s bow hard enough to cause his nocked arrow to fly aimlessly. Conuion fell from the branch to the ground, face down, and did not move. The orcs swarmed over him.

Glaring at one another, Thranduil and Manadhien simultaneously reached for another arrow, nocked and drew.

At the same moment that Thranduil released, Geledhel also loosed an arrow. It drove through Manadhien’s skirt. She screamed and doubled over, dropping her bow and letting her next arrow fly wild. Thranduil’s arrow skimmed her back as she bent over. Manadhien clutched at her thigh and yelled orders in a voice that was high-pitched and rough with pain.

Reaching for a third arrow, Thranduil’s brows shot up—she spoke the Black Speech. He had heard enough of it in Mordor to learn the meanings of those words. As he drew his bow again, he felt something heavy shove his calf hard enough to force it to move under him. He released his arrow, sending it straight at Manadhien’s back. As it left his fingers, he registered pain—sharp, biting pain in the same calf. His leg crumpled under him and seemed to be weighted down, pulling him from the branch. His hand moved automatically for another arrow but he began to slip. Looking down at his leg, he saw a black spear pierced through his calf and more spear-bearing orcs gnashing their teeth below him. He gasped his sword instead of an arrow as he tumbled backwards off the branch.

Orc claws tore at him even before he landed hard enough on the ground to steal his breath. Reflexively, he slashed at them with his sword. Screams told him his efforts succeeded to some extent, but it was not enough.

Blinding pain split the back of his head and he heard no more.

*~*~*

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel o menel palan-diriel le nallon sí di'nguruthos! A tiro ven, Fanuilos!” Legolas whispered as he and Colloth took up the position Engwe had ordered the elven archers to assume.

It was not so much the orcs that elicited that prayer, or even their numbers. He had seen more orcs than this before. What shocked him as he looked past the enemy’s rear lines was the carnage on the battle front. Blood and broken bodies littered the forest floor—a fire-blackened forest floor if he turned east. Elves and orcs mingled together in death. Their proximity—and similarities—were almost obscene. Some were propped, dying or dead, against trees or rocks. Many lay prone with gaping wounds or missing limbs. The only difference between the orcs and elves was that the orcs lay undisturbed where they fell. The elven bodies that were left behind the advancing enemy lines were not all so fortunate. Most, the orcs had taken time to ravage.

Legolas clenched his jaw and coldly chose his first few targets, waiting for Engwe’s signal and flicking his fingers across the fletching on his first arrow. It was already nocked.

Colloth laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Legolas turned a faint but appreciative smile on his guard and watched over his shoulder as more elves crept silently into place around them. The ones furthest east were led by Dollion, who had followed Legolas all the way south, responding to the King’s call for reinforcements. He did not have nearly enough warriors with him, it seemed to Legolas. “Why does Engwe not send more elves further east?” he whispered to his guard.

“For the same reason I insisted you stay near the border: in case the orcs also have reinforcements to bring up from the south. He does not want our force trapped.”

Legolas glanced behind himself. “But, if we cannot cover the mountains, a good many of these orcs will be able to escape south between us and them,” he said and the thought made his breath come harder. He wanted this enemy eliminated—unable to wreak this sort of destruction again.

“So long as they leave off their attack on the village,” Colloth replied, “let them go where ever else they will, for now.”

Legolas shook his head. He could not agree with that.

“Thranduil would not tolerate the sacrifice of half his warriors solely to pursue these orcs into their undisputed territory,” Colloth said, now speaking firmly and with a tense edge to his voice. “Engwe will let them leave and we will obey that order.”

“No part of this forest is the orcs’ ‘undisputed’ territory,” Legolas snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Legolas,” Colloth interrupted, his tone now forbidding. His grasp on Legolas’s shoulder tightened.

Legolas turned his glare from the orcs to his guard. “I am not so undisciplined that I cannot obey a captain’s orders in battle. I will do as Engwe commands. I simply will not like it.”

Colloth’s lips formed a thin line for a moment, but his hand relaxed. “None of us will like it if too many of these evil things escape,” he finally replied. Then he reached into his own quiver and withdrew a handful of arrows.

The warriors around Legolas were now all perfectly still, poised, bows at the ready. Legolas kept his gaze fixed on the first target he had chosen, waiting with them, but deeper inside the enemy forces and closer to the northern front, some sort of commotion had erupted. Hopefully the elves there were pressing an advantage they had found.

A horn blew—Engwe’s signal.

Instantly, two dozen orcs in the center of that neat rearward line pitched forward and fell, face first, to the ground. Before the surviving orcs even began to scream or turn, Legolas sent a second arrow into another orc’s back. A breath later, Colloth and the other warriors followed suit. More orcs convulsed and collapsed.

The rest crouched down behind trees or rocks, spun around and searched for their attackers. Officers began to shout orders, but to steadily decreasing ranks. A few orcs raced south, hoisting spears, ready to throw them into the trees. Just as many balked, skittering back and forth, trying to determine the best path of escape. Colloth shot two that were running straight at them, spears ready. Legolas targeted the fleeing orcs—the fewer that got away, the happier he would be.

Engwe called another signal, this one to press forward.

Legolas gladly obeyed. He followed the ranks of the warriors around him while continuing to loose arrows.

As he had feared, the orcs recognized the weakness in the elven lines and began to steadily stream southeast, flanking them.

Half the elves focused on those orcs, pursuing them in the trees. Ignoring Colloth’s demands that he not press so deep into the enemy’s territory, Legolas remained with those warriors.

The other half of Engwe’s forces continued to advance, squeezing the orcs between themselves and the elves on the northern front nearest the village, driving even more orcs to rush towards the mountains.

“Will they not turn back on us once they flank us?” Legolas shouted to Colloth over the screams of orcs.

“They might,” his guard shouted in reply. “They are cowards. Normally once they break, they do not stop running. But Engwe will not allow our lines to advance so far east that we cannot retreat quickly ourselves, if need be.”

To confirm that statement, Engwe’s horn sounded once again, this time a signal to the archers to halt their forward motion.

Legolas’s jaw clenched. A large portion of the orcs still fell to elven arrows, but far too many skirted around them and out of range to the east. Instinctively, Legolas climbed higher in his tree to increase the distance his arrows could fly. The archers around him did the same, going as high as these sickened trees could support them.

It was when Legolas had paused to find a sturdier foothold that he saw them: two elves running amongst the orcs. One carried a third elf. That one must be injured.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Legolas aimed at the orcs around them. How those poor elves had managed to evade death thus far, he could not imagine. They were completely surrounded and they were not warriors. They were dressed in blue, not the greens and browns the warriors wore to better conceal themselves amongst the branches. They must be villagers. Whoever they were, Legolas had no intention of watching them die. He pulled his bow hard, straining to reach their pursuers, but the fools were moving east, outside the protection the warriors could offer. They must be running blind in panic.

An arrow struck the calf of the elf carrying his injured friend.

The elf stumbled and fell to his knees, allowing his burden to spill to the ground. It was an elleth! Her skirts tangled around her legs.

Legolas watched in horror as a large orc scooped up the elleth and made off with her flung over its shoulder. The second elf stopped and grasped his wounded friend’s arms, yanking him to his feet.

Another arrow tore into that elf’s shoulder, knocking him away and causing them both to fall to the ground.

Legolas hurried to destroy the orcs nearest them and managed to prevent them from reaching the elves. That was when he realized the arrows that hit those elves were from a long bow. Specifically, the arrows’ yellow and black striped fletchings signaled they were from the bow of one of the King’s Guard.

“Morinco!” a voice yelled. “Haldince!” More arrows flew into the orcs near the fallen elves, driving the last of them off.

The elves turned to face the voice.

Legolas froze. He recognized that voice and those names.

Tureden came into view from the shadows, charging towards the elves on the ground, bow drawn. “Do you know me?” he yelled as he closed on Manadhien’s servants.

They each shook their heads, reached for an arrow and raised their bows.

Tureden loosed two arrows of his own, sending them into their bow hands.

Morinco and Haldince—known to Legolas, through his cousins’ reports from the village, as Mornil and Gwathron—shrieked in pain and dropped their bows to clutch their hands instead.

Legolas leaned forward, trying to determine what, if anything, he might do to help ensure Tureden would successfully capture them.

The guard stopped a few dozen paces away from them.

Legolas frowned. Why would he do that? Why not arrest them? He had them and the orcs had abandoned them. Legolas took a few steps east on his branch. Colloth’s hand closed around his arm, but Legolas pulled free of it. He had come south—and insisted upon entering this battle, an act he had no doubt would earn his father’s full wrath—solely to make sure these very servants, and their mistress, did not escape. He intended to do exactly that.

“For Elured and Elurin!” Tureden shouted. “For the king’s sons!”

Briefly—for no longer than an eye-blink—Mornil and Gwathron’s faces registered recognition. Then they contorted in pain as arrows sank into their chests and protruded from their backs.

Legolas spun around, facing Tureden in time to see him lowering his bow, a look of pure, cold satisfaction on his face. Legolas’s mouth fell open and he gaped at his guard. He could not believe…

Colloth grabbed Legolas’s collar and pulled him back hard, almost abruptly enough to cause him to lose his footing on the branch. “We are still in the middle of a battle!” he yelled. At the same time, a spear sailed through the empty space Legolas had occupied only moments before.

Legolas scowled and shifted to turn in the direction the spear had come from. He drew three arrows and, using the shooting technique he had just learned from his father, sent them in quick succession towards the three orcs that might have thrown it. They crumpled to the ground.

And orc horn blew to the south.

“There are those reinforcements Engwe was worried about,” Colloth said. He sounded concerned.

A glance at the surrounding warriors showed they were as well.

Engwe almost immediately responded with the signal to retreat.

All around, elves began to fall back north. Even Tureden ceased his pursuit of Manadhien and instead drew back towards the group of archers Legolas accompanied.

Still searching the shadows to the south, Legolas did not move. He resisted Colloth’s pull on his arm.

“No, my lord,” Colloth said. “I cannot allow you to pursue her. It would mean your life to follow her so far south alone. Defeating Sauron himself would not be worth that price in the King’s eyes.”

Legolas held his ground. All this—all these deaths, the destruction of Dolgailon’s village, and Maethorness’s village—would be for naught if they did not capture Manadhien. If she were free, she could muster more orcs and bring another assault down upon the southern realm…

“Follow orders, my lord,” Colloth demanded. “Engwe and the King are commanding this battle. Not you. They have sounded retreat.”

Legolas hesitated a moment longer and then relented. Colloth was right. His place was to report where they had last seen Manadhien to the King and let him decide how it was best to pursue her. At least she appeared to have been injured. Injured badly enough to be carried from the field. He retreated along side Colloth, but refused to budge even a step westward. Here, at least, he and the other archers could still pick off the fleeing orcs.

They withdrew steadily northward.

Soon the only targets Legolas found were orcs that were already disabled, but trying to drag themselves away on the ground. Not long after finishing them, he met the warriors that had been defending the village on the northern flank of the battle. At that point, the archers around him dispersed, seeking the warriors and officers of their patrols, regrouping and receiving orders. Some relieved the exhausted warriors keeping watch on the southern border of the village. Others began to help with the wounded.

Legolas scanned the village. There were so many wounded. He looked about, trying to decide what he should do to help and dreading the moment his father spotted him.

Where was his father? Or Dolgailon?

Instead of them, the first face Legolas recognized was Dollion. He rushed out of the forest amongst the group of warriors he had commanded and hurried straight to the center of the village to confer with Morillion and Ostarndor. Next, Engwe emerged from the trees at the rear of the retreat. He issued a few orders to the warriors with him while looking about, presumably also seeking the King and Troop Commander. Finally, Legolas saw Galithil stepping out of the Hall, surrounded by several villagers, including Seregon and Galasserch. Galuauth and Lanthir flanked him. Legolas stared at his cousin. He had not truly expected to see him here. He assumed Dolgailon would have sent him north, ahead of the battle. Galithil noticed Engwe and shouted for him.

Legolas began to pick his way through the warriors and wounded to join his cousin as well. He might as well face his father’s fury and get it over with, preferably in a public place where decorum would force Thranduil to temper his reaction at least a bit. Besides, the faster the King heard where Manadhien had escaped, the faster he could send someone after her. And perhaps the renewed possibility of capturing her would placate him somewhat.

Dollion, Morillion and Ostarndor were also converging on the Hall, Galithil and Engwe. They looked grim.

“What in the name of the Everlasting Darkness are you doing here!” Tureden’s voice shouted from somewhere behind Legolas.

Legolas turned towards it. The guard stalked towards him, on a course to intercept him. His glare had already shifted from his charge to Colloth. Colloth’s back stiffened.

“Now is not the time, lieutenant,” Legolas replied in his most authoritative voice. Experience told him it would have no effect on Tureden, but it was worth a try.

“Now is not the time?” Tureden repeated, taking up a position on Legolas’s left side, opposite Colloth, and scowling at him.

Legolas did not pause in his march towards the Hall, nor did he say another word.

“No! I am telling you! You are wrong!” Galithil was shouting at Engwe as Legolas approached.

“I beg your pardon, my lords, but, as unfortunate as that news would be, we cannot allow it to distract us. We must discuss the security of this village,” Morillion spoke over him.

“This village is lost,” Engwe replied, ignoring Galithil. “We are retreating north. Prepare the wounded to be moved.”

“After all we have sacrificed,” Seregon said, voice raised, “I protest that decision in the strongest of terms.”

“As do I,” Galithil agreed.

Legolas’s eyebrows shot up. He could not believe his cousin would publicly challenge their uncle. Engwe was certainly only conveying the king’s own orders.

“Perhaps Lord Legolas can settle this,” Dollion said, stepping between Galithil and Engwe.

Everyone spun in the direction Dollion was looking.

Legolas found himself confronted with an utterly astonished cousin, relieved uncle and five grave warriors.

“Thank the Valar!” Engwe exclaimed. “When I heard what happened to Thranduil on the northern front, I bitterly regretted allowing you to join that battle.”

“Allowing?” Dollion repeated, with a disapproving tone.

“You are responsible for him being here?” Tureden asked.

“Certainly not,” Engwe replied. “I ran across him while gathering the reserves…”

“I am responsible for myself,” Legolas cut over all of them. “And my presence here is not up for discussion at the moment.” He was focused on his uncle. “What do you mean ‘when you heard what happened to Thranduil?’ Where is the king?” A cold, uneasy feeling churned Legolas’s gut in response to the sudden guarded expressions surrounding him. He searched for and found the familial bond he shared with his parents. He could not understand Engwe and Galithil’s somber attitudes.

“Legolas,” his cousin said quietly, “Uncle Thranduil…your adar…he is badly wounded. Unconscious. He will not awaken. Salabeth and Radagast are with him.” He paused and continued in an even softer voice. “He has several poisoned wounds, but they are most concerned about a blow to his head that…well, it…there is a visible indentation…they say it is very serious.” Galithil’s brows drew together and he looked down. “They—Salabeth and Radagast—are not…very hopeful.”

Ignoring Colloth and Tureden’s sharp gasps, Legolas tried, but failed, to respond to his cousin’s words. All his blood had sunken to his feet. His head swam. He struggled to breath. His father was a powerful, skillful, experienced warrior. Invincible. This was impossible.

“He is in the Hall,” Galithil added.

Legolas managed to lift only his gaze to the doors of the village Hall. He wanted to run towards them, but he could not force his body to move.

“Where is Lord Dolgailon?” Colloth asked, somewhere in the haze that surrounded Legolas.

“Engwe said he was dead. Killed by orcs in the south, where Glilavan is…” Galithil began in an angry tone.

Legolas’s gaze turned back to his cousin and uncle. All his remaining breath rushed out of his lungs. “Is that true?” he whispered. “Are you certain?”

Engwe nodded. “I saw him fall. With my own eyes.”

But Galithil shook his head. “He may have fallen but I would feel my brother’s death, just as I felt my parents’. I do not believe he is dead,” he retorted.

“Regardless,” Dollion intervened before Engwe and Galithil could begin arguing again. “The King and Troop Commander are both incapacitated and there are decisions to be made before what ever force the orcs still have can return and catch us at unawares.”

“Indeed,” Seregon, Morillion and Ostarndor agreed in unison.

“The decision is made,” Engwe said. “We are retreating. We do not have the strength to stand against another assault.”

“To where shall we retreat?” Seregon asked. “How far will we allow them to chase us?”

“The river offers a natural defense,” Ostarndor began.

“The river!” Seregon, Galasserch and Galithil all exclaimed.

That suggestion cleared the fog in Legolas’s mind. He focused silently on the captain of the Southern Patrol, stunned he would suggest falling back so far.

“The people of this village refuse to retreat to the river,” Seregon stated flatly.

“Agreed,” Galithil said.

Legolas stared at him.

“We do not know what forces the orcs have,” Ostarndor countered. “We cannot withstand another night of fighting. Not on the scale we saw today. You will retreat or you will be forced back.”

“If we bring the western Path Guard south,” Dollion suggested. “Perhaps even some of the Northern Patrol…”

“The Northern Patrol to the southern-most reaches of this realm? To what end!” Engwe cut him off. “To see their ranks decimated as the Western and Southern Patrols’ have been?”

“I see well over half the Western and Southern Patrols’ warriors still alive,” Galithil replied sweeping an arm to point at the warriors scattered around the village.

“Because we held them in reserve and then retreated with those reserves rather than waiting for Manadhien’s fresh forces to surround us,” Engwe countered.

“If we retreat from this village and yield the mountains to the enemy, we will be lucky to stop them at the river,” Dollion argued. “They will control the southern forest. Over two thirds of this realm.”

Ostarndor’s only reply was a frown, not a denial. Legolas’s brows drew together sharply.

“The people of this village will die before we will allow that to happen,” Seregon declared. “To the last ellon and elleth.”

Several people in the crowd that had gathered around them shouted their agreement.

“I will stand with the village,” Galithil declared.

Again, Legolas’s gaze darted to his cousin.

Galithil looked back at him steadily.

No one said anything else.

Everyone was looking at him, Legolas realized. He could not imagine why.

“This is absurd,” Engwe said into the silence, his tone irate. “It is not your choice. Neither Seregon’s nor yours,” he said to Galithil.

“Nor is it yours, my lord,” Dollion said. “It should be the king’s, but in his absence….” Dollion let that statement drift off while shifting his gaze from Engwe to Legolas.

Engwe sucked in a breath to reply. Then, also glancing at Legolas, he stopped himself and pressed his mouth shut.

The captains, guards and surrounding villagers all still looked at Legolas.

For a long moment, Legolas had absolutely no idea what they expected. Then he noticed a flicker of sympathy in his cousin’s expression and a hint of concern in Colloth and Tureden’s.

Realization hit him like an arrow in the back.

They—everyone here—expected him to decide how and where to defend the southern forest? He had fought in two battles in his entire life! He was only one year into the Training Program. He was not even of age. He could not possibly…!

For a single beat, Legolas’s heart tried to burst through his ribs and out of his chest. Only the fact that his lungs held no air prevented him from blurting out that he could not make such a decision.

That was fortunate.

He looked to Engwe. He had more experience,longer experience in war than any of the king’s family that was still…standing.

Engwe, like the others surrounding him, remained silent.

Legolas took a slow, deep breath.

In the absence of the king…in the face of his imminent death…

Legolas forcefully shoved those thoughts aside and grasped instead at any that might help him make the decisions he must now make.

“Do we have any idea how many orcs Manadhien has remaining? Did anyone see any part of her reserves? The force that blew that horn and prompted our retreat?” he finally asked.

“No, my lord,” Dollion answered. “I was in the southern-most position. I heard the orc horn. Nearby. But I saw no orcs.”

“So she might not even have any,” Seregon interjected. “It might have been a ruse to trick us into retreating.”

“Would you wager the lives of these people on that?” Engwe asked.

“Yes,” Seregon began, voice raised.

“Silence,” Legolas demanded. “How many warriors do we have here, capable of fighting?”

“Ten of my warriors are uninjured,” Ostarndor replied. “Another half dozen could at least wield a bow.”

“I have only five uninjured and perhaps that many more that could fight with a bow,” Morillion added.

“Plus five village guards and most of our archers,” Seregon chimed in.

Tureden was scanning the crowd around them. Legolas followed his gaze and found only Belloth in addition to Galuauth, Lanthir and Colloth. “Five of the Guard, my lord,” he said. “I do not see any of the king’s spies.”

“Geledhel is in the Hall with the wounded,” Galithil supplied. “So are Conuion, Pendurion and Heledir. Where the king’s remaining spies are, including Tulus, we do not know.”

“I saw Tulus in the camp with Glilavan,” Engwe said. “Just before Dolgailon fell.”

Legolas’s heart pounded uncomfortably again at that news. His cousin and one of his dearest friends were captives. He frowned. Dolgailon was his cousin, but more importantly, he was this realm’s troop commander. A warrior with experience Legolas would badly need if…. He squelched that thought and refocused on the decision at hand.

“A little over two dozen warriors and that many more archers,” he summarized to himself. “And Manadhien badly enough wounded to be carried to safety.”

“How do you know that?” Engwe asked.

Legolas ignored him. If Manadhien could not command the orcs herself, two dozen warrior should be able to hold back fifty or so orcs, at least. It seemed possible to hold this village, but he needed to know how large her reserve was. And how badly wounded she was. To find that out would require some well coordinated scouting. Perhaps he could use that to an even greater advantage.

He turned to his uncle. “Tell me what you saw in this camp Dolgailon and Tulus were in. And tell me where it was.”

Legolas listened silently while Engwe related how he, the king and the guards had tried to approach Glilavan, had seen Dolgailon fall, surrounded by orcs, and had glimpsed Tulus before being forced to retreat.

“But you do not believe Dolgailon is dead?” he asked Galithil again.

“No,” his cousin replied firmly.

One more question to consider, Legolas thought. “Do any of you have any idea what happened in Maethorness’s village? Did Delethil hold it?”

All the captains shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.

Legolas’s frown deepened. This decision would be easier if he knew whether the eastern side of the mountains had already been lost.

Finally, he turned to Dollion. “If we try to make a stand here and fail…if all the Southern and Western Patrol falls…if Maethorness’s village is already lost or falls tonight…could the Path and Palace Guards still hold the orcs at the river? Could they defend the villages north of it alone or would we be forced back as far as the stronghold?”

“If they are properly warned and positioned, yes,” Dollion responded. “We could hold the river.”

Legolas nodded. He made his decision. If this was to be the start of his reign, he would not begin it by surrendering half his realm to orcs. Not if he still had hope of avoiding that fate. And if—as he prayed—his father recovered, he could not face him having allowed half his forest to fall the enemy.

“See to it that the Guards are warned and send word to the villages between the mountains and the river on both borders to be ready for further attacks,” he ordered Dollion. Then he turned to Ostarndor, Morillion and Engwe. “Work with Seregon and Lord Galithil to try to prepare a defense of this village. We will hold it if we can. I will try to get you information regarding the number of orcs we are facing. Belloth, take the king north to the stronghold. The rest of you,” he looked over the King’s Guard, “minus Colloth, come with me. Colloth, stay with Galithil.”

A chorus of ‘yes, my lords’ arose around Legolas as he turned and strode toward the Hall. Before he could do anything else to plan this battle, he had to see…see for himself how his father fared.

Belloth came up on his left side, Tureden on his right. Galuauth and Lanthir trailed behind him.

Galithil murmured a promise to Engwe, Seregon and the captains to return quickly. Then he also followed on Legolas’s heels.

“The king may not be fit to travel, my lord,” Belloth said into his ear, using the most respectful tone Legolas had ever heard this surly guard apply to him. “And even if he is, he would not appreciate being carried to the stronghold. When he is injured, he prefers to recover in whatever village he was defending until he can ride home on his own.”

Legolas loosed a bitter laugh as he mounted the stairs of the Hall. If only his father were in any condition to express his preferences! “Well, since the village he was defending is about to be attacked again,” Legolas replied, “and since I do not care to see the king killed in it if it is overrun, you will do as I order and move him, regardless of his wishes. If he regains consciousness, I promise you that I will take responsibility for that decision.”

“Very well, my lord,” Belloth said.

Legolas reached the top of the stairs and grasped the carved, wooden handle of door of the Hall. He hesitated a moment, gathering himself, grateful for his cousin’s presence at his back. Then he pulled.

The smell of blood and death assaulted him the moment the door opened. Then the moaning hit him. Wrenching groans. The floor of the Hall was covered with rows of bodies, some unmoving, some twisting in pain. The healer’s apprentices hurried here and there, while villagers carried water, cleaned minor wounds and did whatever else they might to make the wounded and dying comfortable.

Once the first villagers noticed him, a rustling whisper passed through the Hall. Then, all conversations fell silent. Again, everyone present stared at him.

At the moment, that attention meant nothing to him. Legolas adopted as neutral a mask as he could muster and began to make his way to where he saw Radagast and Salabeth bent over a figure on the far side of the Hall. They looked up at him, expressions full of pity. He could not bear to see it. Not now. He focused instead on his father.

The sight of him drove Legolas to close his eyes.

Thranduil’s mail and tunic lay on the floor beside him. The worst of his wounds had already been cleaned, stitched and bandaged. He was covered by a blanket pulled up to his bare chest and his head was wrapped with a compress. A cold cloth, no doubt, soaked with some sort of herb that Legolas should be able to identify by smell, but could not. His father’s injuries did not seem terribly disturbing. It was the sight of him so still that was…dismaying, frightening, alarming.

A hand grasped his shoulder.

Legolas opened his eyes and looked into Radagast’s.

“This is very serious, child,” the wizard whispered. “My herbs will draw the poison from him, but he needs a surgeon.”

“I do not have the knowledge to treat such a wound,” Salabeth added.

Legolas nodded. “I have already asked Belloth to take him to the stronghold,” he replied. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was both pleased and amazed by how steady his voice sounded. “Perhaps Nestoreth will will have the necessary skill.”

Salabeth tried to appear encouraging. “I saw her manage injuries as bad as this one in Mordor,” she said, managing a hopeful tone.

Radagast patted his shoulder. Galithil took a step closer to him.

Legolas could only nod again, knowing he would not sound so calm a second time. He turned his attention from them and focused on his father, kneeling next to him and groping for his hand through the blanket. He squeezed it, but received no response. “Please do not do this, adar,” Legolas whispered so low no one else—not even Galithil—could possibly hear him. “You have fought too many battles and prevailed. Fight this one. Please.”

His father remained perfectly still and silent.

“I am so sorry, Legolas,” Galithil croaked, emotion making his voice raw. It was right in Legolas’s ear. “If I had killed her when I had the chance…”

Legolas turned sharply, nearly nose to nose with his cousin. “Manadhien? You had a chance to kill her? How?”

“Galuauth and I had her. After she tried to capture me. Drag me off with her. I had a choice to kill her or arrest her. I should have…but could not…I thought it would be better to take her to justice…I was so wrong. None of this would have happened…”

Legolas shook his head vigorously. “No, Galithil. Do not be a fool. Nothing would be different. She might not have commanded the orcs, but her servants still would have…”

“Your adar was injured chasing after her, something he would not have done if I…”

“He might have been injured at some other time in the battle. At any other time. It was a battle, Galithil.” Legolas grasped his cousin’s arm. “This is not your fault. If I had been in your place, I would have made the same choice.”

“You do not know that…”

Legolas glanced at Tureden, idling by the door of the Hall with Colloth, Galuauth and Lanthir. “Yes, I am certain of it. You are not a murderer. She is. And from what I can see, you defended this village well. That is the important thing.”

That made Galithil look back up at him. “I did what I could. Everyone in this village did the same.” He paused and looked at his cousin cautiously. “Legolas, not that your presence is not fortunate, but: what are you doing here? Hallion did not give you permission to lead warriors to this battle.”

Legolas loosed a hallow laugh. “No, he did not. I made that choice myself. I was dreading adar’s reaction to it.” His voice broke. “Now I hope to see it.”

Galithil closed his eyes. “I never thought I would wish this, but I hope you do too, gwador nin,” he whispered.

Legolas tightened his hand around his cousin’s arm. “We cannot do this now. We both have duties to attend to.” Despite his words, Legolas’s voice shook.

Galithil nodded. When he looked back at Legolas, his gaze was steady and strong.

Legolas squeezed his father’s hand one more time through the blanket. Then he and Galithil stood.

“Take care with him, Belloth,” Legolas said, gesturing for the guard to take charge of Thranduil.

Salabeth signaled for an apprentice to come help him.

“What will happen to the village, my lord?” Salabeth asked as Belloth and the apprentice lifted Thranduil onto a litter. “Will you evacuate it? Should I prepare to move them all?”

The enormity of that task…the impossibility of it… who would carry all these elves to safety?

The warriors had to hold this village. These peoples’ lives depended on it.

“Lord Galithil and I intend to continue to defend the village,” Legolas replied. “The captains are preparing a new strategy and we will stand with them.”

Salabeth looked relieved at that.

Many of the elves that had fallen silent at his arrival began murmuring again, hopefully.

Legolas nodded to Salabeth, took one last glance at his father and turned to leave the Hall.

As he approached the door, Tureden grasped his arm and pulled him to the side. “May I suggest, my lord, given the fragility of the king’s condition, that you cannot afford to fight in whatever battle this village will face,” he whispered. “I recommend that you return to the stronghold with him.”

“No,” Legolas replied. “We,” he let his gaze fall on Galuauth and Lanthir before settling again on Tureden, “are going to see if we can find and free Dolgailon. In the process, I hope we can determine what forces the orcs intend to send against the village and get that information back to Morillion and Ostarndor before battle again reaches the village.”

Tureden’s jaw fell open.

“Legolas! You cannot be serious!” Galithil exclaimed.

“You and the captains need to know what you are facing to formulate an adequate battle plan,” Legolas explained. “Moreover, if the king dies, I need Dolgailon. I do not have sufficient knowledge of warfare to defend this realm. Even if the king survives, I will not knowingly leave my cousin in the hands of orcs without even trying to rescue him.” He moved to leave the Hall.

Galithil blocked his path. “Legolas, that is my brother you are speaking of. I would do anything for him. But I agree with Tureden. You cannot risk yourself…”

“I am going, Galithil. Wasting time arguing about the difficulties involved will not make matters easier…”

Galithil shook his head and drew a breath to argue, just the same.

Legolas frowned. “Let me be clear,” he intervened. “I am not arguing about this.”

Galithil scowled at him a moment, his jaw clenched shut. Then he blew out the breath he had drawn and took a step back. “I am not questioning you, my lord,” he said quietly.

Legolas’s gaze snapped to his cousin.

“This is insanity,” Tureden whispered, mostly to himself, preventing Legolas from thinking too much about his cousin’s form of address.

He shrugged. “It may be. But I am going after him. It is your duty to do what is needed to support my decisions.”

Tureden’s brows drew together severely, but, to Legolas’s surprise, he did not contest that statement.

“I can help you,” Radagast said, coming up along side them. “I can lead you to that camp.”

Legolas raised an eyebrow at him.

Radagast nodded eagerly. “I was with the king. I saw Dolgailon and I know exactly where the orc camp is. And how to safely approach it. I want to help those elves.”

“In that case, I would appreciate your help immensely,” Legolas replied. And he started from the Hall.

*~*~*

talan/telain—flet/flets; the houses in the trees woodelves dwell in

adar — father

elleth/ellyth — female elf/elves

ellon/ellyn — male elf/elves

fear -- elven spirit

gwador nin—my brother (brother in the sense of sworn brothers, not blood brothers)

A Elbereth Gilthoniel, o menel palan-diriel le nallon sí di'nguruthos! A tiro ven, Fanuilos! — O Elbereth Starkindler, from heaven gazing afar to thee I cry now beneath the shadow of death! O look towards us, Everwhite! (Very similar to Sam’s prayer in Cirith Ungol. I only changed nin (me) to ven (us) for Legolas).

Chapter 7: The self must not be sacrificed

Glilavan’s fingers dug into Tulus’s side as he hefted him up, the better to drag him along to the border and relative safety of the light on the open plain.

“Stop! Please stop!” Tulus begged.

He had been pleading with his son to go back since he came to. Again. Tulus had reached, and surpassed, the limits of his endurance long ago. No matter how he tried, he had not managed to remain conscious for any length of time since their escape from the orc camp. Nor had he convinced Glilavan to stop. Despite that, as long as he was awake, he would try.

His hands flailed out, searching for anything to anchor himself in place, but the pouring rain made the branches of the sickened trees slimy. They slipped through his fingers. Cursed rain. One more misery amongst many.

“We cannot stop, adar,” Glilavan whispered. “Please be quiet.” His hair brushed Tulus’s face as he cast a glance over his shoulder to look for any sign of the enemy. Only the noise of splattering water and thunder hid their escape from the orcs that hunted them. “I am sorry I am hurting you,” he continued. “But you must be silent and we must move faster.”

“No further,” Tulus insisted, ceasing any effort to support his own weight. He sagged to his knees.

“Adar, please. Just try to hold out a little longer…”

“No,” Tulus breathed, letting out a long sigh as his body settled on the ground and some of the pain abated, if only temporarily. “You must go back for Dolgailon.”

“Dolgailon!” A low, frustrated groan escaped Glilavan as he gathered the fabric of Tulus’s tunic to hoist him up again. “I barely managed to get you this far. I certainly am not going to turn around and drag you back that distance, so I can walk into an orc camp and try to escape it a second time, only to gain a another elf that can do almost nothing to participate in his own rescue. It is all I can do to help you, adar. I pity Dolgailon his fate, but I cannot help him. Now come along.” He pulled his father up.

“Leave me here. Go back for Dolgailon.”

“Do not be absurd! There is no possibility I am leaving you alone. You could not defend yourself from a squirrel and much worse things than black squirrels roam here. Let’s go.”

Tulus stayed limp, resisting in the only way he could. His head lolled back and he caught a glimpse of the forest around him. “There is an outcropping of rocks,” he said, pointing. “Over there.” He had no idea what direction that was. Even if the sun was not obscured by thick, black clouds, it would not have penetrated the unnatural gloom in this part of the forest. “Hide me amongst them and go back for Dolgailon. He is your friend. You cannot leave him there.”

Glilavan let Tulus ease back to the ground, propping him against a tree trunk. Then his knees sloshed in the mud as he knelt in front of his father to look him in the eye. “Adar, I cannot go back. If I do, they will kill me for freeing you. Then they will hunt you down and kill you too. Or worse. Fuilin told me they intended to take you to Dol Guldur…”

“I know that,” Tulus whispered.

“I am not letting it happen…”

“And I appreciate your efforts. But how can you leave Dolgailon to that fate? He would not have left you. Not even now.”

Glilavan’s hand tightened, pulling the fabric of Tulus’s tunic taut. “No. Dolgailon would kill me if he could. Or take me to Thranduil, so he could kill me.”

“Both the king and Dolgailon chose to simply exile you for your part in Celonhael’s death, even after you tried twice to kill Legolas before their eyes. You repaid that mercy by killing the guards sent to escort you to the Havens….”

“I did not kill Celonhael. Or the guards. Fuilin did,” Glilavan snapped.

“And what did you do to stop Fuilin? Or to help Celonhael or those guards? The same that you are doing for Dolgailon, your friend? If you want to redeem yourself, and I pray that you do, you must go back for him. If you are indifferent to the death of your fellow elves, at least be merciful and slip back into the camp to kill Dolgailon. Better death than Dol Guldur.”

Glilavan roiled back on his heels. “I cannot kill him, adar!”

Tulus grasped the hand still clutching his tunic. “Then help him, ion nin. Please help him. In doing so, you will help yourself. I promise you.”

Glilavan glared silently at his father for a long moment before standing and pulling Tulus up along with him.

Tulus’s heart twisted in his chest, wrenching a sob from him. Then he realized Glilavan was dragging him towards the rocks.

*~*~*

“Do you see him?” Tureden breathed into Legolas’s ear, his voice nothing more than a whisper amidst the gale of the storm.

Though Legolas doubted anything would hear him over the lashing rain, he responded with the merest shake of his head, not daring any more conspicuous movement. The first time he lost sight of Radagast and failed to find him again, he was quite ashamed of his apparent lack of vigilance. After traveling all night and most of the next day with the wizard, Legolas had come to expect that outcome every time Radagast scouted ahead. He had long heard warriors’ tales of The Brown’s ability to disappear in the forest. They called him a master of shapes and hues. Legolas believed those stories now.

He crouched low, hidden amongst the twisted roots of a blackened tree, and waited for Radagast to reappear. The tree did nothing to help conceal the elves’ presence. In fact, if anything, its song mocked them and their efforts to go unnoticed. And they needed to go unnoticed.

All around, rather than the night calls of frogs delighting in the rain, the forest was filled with snorts and grunts. Orcs.

Not a dozen paces to Legolas’s left, one of them limped along, its injured leg scraping the ground, its head bowed with the effort to keep moving. It was close enough that Legolas could see that the water dripping off its nose was black with filth after running in rivulets through the orc’s sparse hair and down its scarred face. It was traveling slowly south, one of many stragglers from the battle the previous day. Most, like the black shadow Legolas kept in his peripheral vision, were wounded in some way and had fallen behind their fellows. Still, if they had managed to come this far, they were not injured enough. Unlike the mortally wounded that Legolas and his guards had passed hours ago, these orcs could and would fight if they discovered four elves amongst them.

Between being surrounded by orcs and malevolent trees, Legolas was quickly coming to understand why Tureden, Lanthir and Galuauth were so reluctant to allow him to pursue this course of action. He would never admit it—for many reasons—but this place terrified him.

Behind him, Tureden flinched sharply.

Legolas clenched his jaw to keep from yelping and spun around. He found himself nose-to-nose with Radagast.

“Not much further. Follow me,” the wizard whispered. Then he slipped silently away.

Legolas obeyed, never taking his eyes off the tangle of long, brown hair and hat flattened under the weight of the rain as Radagast dashed from tree to tree. So far on this journey, when the wizard intended for the elves to keep up with him, they had succeeded. So far. Legolas liked to hope that was intentional, but he did not care to wager his life on it.

As they crept forward, a cloud of bats arose from an outcropping of rocks, off to the east, on the far side of the orc they were pacing. Their squeaks and flurry of beating leather wings drew the nearby orc’s attention.

That was not the first time on their journey south such a distraction had given the elves and wizard room to steal past an enemy.

They traveled a fair distance before Legolas noticed the trees beginning to thin. He glanced away from Radagast long enough to see a void he could not imagine safely crossing—even with the wizard’s aid. Further inspection caused his eyes to widen and he bit back a gasp. That treeless area was absolutely filled with neat ranks of orcs.

‘Please do not let that be where Radagast is leading us,’ Legolas thought, but to no avail. The wizard motioned them forward, straight towards the unnaturally evenly defined, long, narrow clearing.

Holding his breath, Legolas slipped through the shadows to join Radagast, tucked behind a gnarled tree.

Radagast immediately pointed west, to the far side of the lines of orcs.

Legolas leaned around the tree and his hand tightened reflexively around his bow. Radagast was pointing at Manadhien. She was propped up against a large rock. Her skirt was torn, exposing her left leg, which was wrapped in ragged cloth, as was her torso. Her head rested against the rock and she was breathing heavily. She seemed to be asleep or possibly even unconscious.

That suited Legolas perfectly well.

The guards must have spotted her too. Tureden took up a position next to the tree, in front of Legolas, blocking all view of him. Lanthir and Galuauth pressed against his back.

Taking advantage of the safety they provided, Legolas turned his attention from his own surrounds and searched first west and then east of Manadhien, but he did not see any other elves—no sign of Dolgailon, his guard or Tulus. No sign of Glilavan or Fuilin, the last of Manadhien’s servants. Frowning, he drew a quiet breath to ask Radagast where they were.

Before he could speak, his head snapped east at the sound of a scream. An elven scream. Though rough with pain and nearly drowned out by orc laughter, Legolas recognized it. Dolgailon.

Peering through the murky gloam, Legolas saw a pack of orcs huddled at the edge of his vision. They were jostling for a better view of something…a fight, it seemed from the glimpses Legolas could catch. The throng of orcs spurred on two of their fellows struggling on the forest floor with…an elf!

The elf’s face was not discernible, but it had to be Dolgailon. His was the only voice Legolas had heard.

Legolas took an involuntary step forward as the two orcs alternated between pummeling the elf, beating him to stillness on the ground, and grappling with each other. A cheer arose when one of the orcs punched the second hard enough to knock him down, leaving himself the elf’s sole attacker. The orc pinned the elf by kneeling on his back and leaning with its full weight on his forearm.

When the orc reached for its victim’s hand, the elf closed his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Silver glinted.

All the nearby orcs dove upon it, clawing and scrabbling.

Legolas recognized what they were after and it offered certain proof this was Dolgailon—the glinting silver was Dolgailon’s mithril ring. Aradunnon once wore that ring. It was made by Oropher himself for his second son and it bore the inscription, ‘Ernil o Eryn Galen.’ Dolgailon inherited it upon Aradunnon’s death. In four short years Legolas looked forward to receiving its mate, the ring his own father wore before Oropher fell in Mordor.

Legolas’s whole body stiffened. That ring, like Dolgailon himself, were not going to fall into the hands of orcs! Legolas shifted the arrows he held in his hand and fit one against his bowstring.

Tureden leaned against him. “We need to plan this, my lord,” he whispered. “We need to be certain we can escape with anyone we manage to rescue.”

Legolas knew that. He had never truly intended to loose an arrow. Not immediately. But it was nearly impossible to stand idly and do nothing more than watch while the orcs abused his cousin.

One of the orcs standing over Dolgailon yanked a knife from its sheath and brandished it about while snarling, driving off any competition for the prize. Then it raised the blade over Dolgailon’s still prone wrist.

Legolas partially raised his bow. Plan or no plan, he would not allow this to happen.

The orc still pinning Dolgailon to the ground lunged for the knife.

Another fight ensued. The two orcs battled for the weapon while a third grabbed Dolgailon by the collar of his tunic, hauled him up and pressed him, face first, against the nearest tree, dragging his arm at an unnatural angle behind his back and wrenching another scream from him. Still, Dolgailon’s hand remained in a fist, thwarting the orc’s efforts to take the ring. The orc holding him pulled his own knife and made to drive it into Dolgailon’s back.

Legolas and the guards with him drew their bows and took aim.

A large orc wearing full armor swiped a heavy arm at the orc threatening Dolgailon, knocking him to the ground. Dolgailon sank to his knees.

“Tha’ one goes to Dol Guldur. Alive,” the large orc growled. It reached for Dolgailon, pulling him to his feet and holding him in place against the tree with a hand around his throat.

Dolgailon gasped for breath and failed to draw it.

“But ‘e ain’t gonna die if ‘e loses a hand,” it concluded and its face contorted into an obscene imitation of a smile. With its free hand, it caught Dolgailon’s arm and forced it out to the side. Then it glanced over its shoulder at an underlings—a much smaller orc. “Get it for me,” it ordered.

Cackling gleefully the little orc pup dodged through the crowd, weapon drawn, eyes fixed on Dolgailon’s ring.

“For pity’s sake, my lord,” Galudiron begged in elvish from somewhere behind the crowd of orcs. “Lose the ring or lose your hand along with the ring. Let them have it.”

Dolgailon did not release his fist.

“We can retrieve the ring,” Galudiron pressed. “But only if you have the strength to escape. You will not have that strength if you lose an arm on top of your other injuries. Let them have the ring!”

The orc pup raised a long knife over Dolgailon’s outstretched arm.

Dolgailon struggled hard against the orc captain holding him, but, unable to even breath, there was no chance he would prevail. With an angry, frustrated cry, he relented and opened his hand.

The orc pup seized the ring, twisted it off Dolgailon’s finger, and darted a safe distance away with it.

The captain let Dolgailon drop and pursued his underling. Most of the orcs swarmed after them. Only one remained, towering over the elven prisoners.

Dolgailon gasped for air.

For the first time, Legolas could get a clear view of the elves. Dolgailon’s leggings were covered with blood from above his knee down to his ankle. His face, turned towards Legolas, was black with bruises. Galudiron and Hurion were bound to a tree a few paces west. They looked to be in no better shape than Dolgailon, especially Hurion.

Legolas squinted harder into the shadows, searching for Tulus. Engwe said he saw Tulus when Dolgailon fell, but Legolas saw no sign of him now.

The remaining orc pushed Dolgailon down, seized his arms and dragged them behind his back. There he pinned them in place with an armored boot while binding them. That done, he tossed Dolgailon, like a sack, closer to the tree and gave him a kick which sent him sprawling, face down. He did not move.

“We have to get him—all of them—out of here,” Legolas whispered.  

“My lord, there are too many orcs here,” Tureden said. “And only four of us. We have no hope of fighting our way free while carrying three injured elves with us. Even if we tried some diversion to draw some of them off, we would still be too few to do Dolgailon any good. I cannot imagine the strategy that would result in us surviving a rescue attempt.”

“We will follow them and wait for a better opportunity,” Legolas replied. “Both to finish Manadhien and help Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion. But I refuse to abandon them or allow her to escape.”

“And if they split up?”

“Then so will we. You and I will follow Manadhien. She is my responsibility now. Galuauth and Lanthir will go after Dolgailon and the guards.”

Tureden pressed his lips together and did not argue further, whether in fear of attracting attention or out of respect for his prince’s authority, Legolas chose not to speculate. Instead he turned his attention to the ranks of orcs.

“I count two hundred on the Road, my lord,” Galuauth whispered in his ear. “One hundred in the group facing east and another one hundred in the group facing north.”

Legolas’s eyebrows leapt upwards. “That,” he gestured towards the clearing, “is…what is left of the Forest Road?” He had no idea they were that deep into the enemy’s territory. He would have never guessed it from looking at that clearing.

Galuauth nodded. “I know it well,” he said with a carefully measured tone. “My first duty as a warrior in this realm was to guard it.”

A vision of what Galuauth must remember of this part of the forest flashed into Legolas’s mind—the Road bright and alive, when it was part of Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood was inarguably a better description now, at least for this part of the forest. Shaking his head, Legolas tamped that traitorous admission to the back of his thoughts and focused on what he must do to prevent any more of his realm from falling to this fate.

“We need to warn Galithil and Maethorness about these orcs,” he whispered.

“True enough, my lord,” Tureden agreed. “But if our numbers are already too few to carry out rescues and arrests, adding the task of courier duty will not make matters better…”

Making a face, Legolas opened his mouth to tell his guard to be quiet if he could not be helpful.

“Something approaches,” Radagast interrupted.

Legolas glanced over at him. The wizard had shrunken closer to the withered tree they sheltered behind and was staring south with wide eyes. Legolas followed his gaze. The orcs were stirring as well. Captains shouted sharp orders in their foul speech and their minions jumped to obey. Their ranks tightened. Some screeched in eager anticipation. Most whimpered and did everything they could to make themselves smaller.

Legolas stared at them, his heart speeding up. What could frighten orcs?

Something black moved in the darkness behind Manadhien. It was coming towards them.

A chill hit Legolas. At first, it seemed like the cold air that arose from deep caves, but there was no such structure nearby. He quickly found himself gasping for breath, his blood pounding, as if he had been running for hours.

He wanted to run.

He did not understand why, but he was overcome with an almost irresistible compulsion to flee. Or scream. Or simply throw himself to the ground and disappear into it. It took all his will not to give in to one of those impulses.

A firm hand closed over his shoulder, making him jump.

“His greatest weapon is the terror he embodies,” Radagast’s voice breathed into his ear, “He is imbued with his master’s evil. And the wickedness of his own foul deeds. But he is little more than shadow. Do not fear him and his ability to hurt you will be greatly lessened.”

The Maia’s voice and strong presence pushed back, if slightly, the worst of the utter panic Legolas was experiencing. He struggled to bring himself fully under control while staring at the dark form emerging from the pall of the forest. It seemed to consist of nothing more than swirling, black robes. Under its hood, where its face should be visible, Legolas saw nothing. Nothing at all.

It moved straight towards Manadhien and she pulled herself up to face it, leaning heavily against the rock behind her to compensate for her injured leg. Legolas felt a stab of pity for her. She looked as frightened as he felt.

“What is that…thing?” he finally managed to whisper.

“A wraith,” Galuauth replied. His voice shook.

Legolas tore his gaze from the dark creature now looming over Manadhien to look at his guards. Perversely, he felt at least a little stronger seeing that they also were affected by…whatever that was.

“A wraith? What do you mean?”  

“Nazgul,” Tureden said so quietly Legolas barely heard him.

“A deathless servant of the Evil One,” Radagast added in an equally soft voice. “A thrall, formerly a king of men, who accepted one of the Rings of Power and now has no will of his own, save to serve his master.”

Legolas’s breath caught again and he looked back at the black form, now blocking his view of Manadhien. A Nazgul! A Ring Wraith!

Those terms, like the Evil One’s name, were words he heard whispered only a handful of times, most of them when discussing the recent fall of the mannish Northern Kingdom. Even then, he doubted he would have learned any more than the most general account of the Witch King’s part in that war had he not heard the stories directly from Barad, a captain of the mannish armies.

‘It is not wise to study too deeply the crafts of the Enemy,’ his tutor always told him.

So this was a craft of the enemy! Now he understood Rodonon’s fears. And how an entire mannish kingdom could fall. How the Woodland Realm might fall.

Legolas forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

The wraith was speaking to Manadhien, its voice raspy, its words more like the cries of a wounded animal than intelligible speech. They made Legolas feel as if his spine was twisting…disintegrating. From its gestures—first towards the injured orcs and then the fresh troops—Legolas gathered it was demanding an explanation of what Manadhien was planning now.

“The elvenking is dead,” she exclaimed, her voice high pitched and defensive.

That claim managed to heat Legolas’s blood. ‘Liar,’ he yelled at her in his mind.

“The villages blocking our advance into the forest are all but destroyed, their people ready to flee north…” she continued.

“Liar!’ Legolas thought again.

The wraith cut her off, gesticulating angrily at the injured orcs. Somehow, amongst its hissing, Legolas made out it was displeased with the orc losses and fact the elf villages had not been utterly destroyed already. A shudder ran through him.

“I was not promised an empty realm to rule, but one that still has subjects to order as I will,” Manadhien retorted, leaning forward and scowling angrily.

More shrieks issued from the wraith. It deliberately drew a long sword.

Manadhien leaned back against the rock and for a fleeting moment Legolas believed he might be spared the need to capture or kill her.

“Both the villages on either side of the mountains are ready to fall,” she insisted, forcing herself to a quiet, placating tone. “I need only to eliminate a few more surviving warriors and the mountains will be ours. Possibly the entire forest. This will be an easy battle. I promise you that. And even if we cannot press them to the elf stronghold itself, we have prisoners. The captain of the elf warriors.” She pointed at Dolgailon. “He will have the knowledge we need to prevail. To defeat that stronghold. We will get it from him.”

The wraith slowly twisted its head around to look at Dolgailon and the guards. Its gaze lingered on them long enough to draw an audible cry from Hurion and drive Dolgailon, who still laid flat on his face where the orc captain had dropped him, to struggle to turn away.

Finally, without another sound and without sheathing its sword, the wraith strode away from Manadhien and towards the elven prisoners.

Bracing himself against the terror still coursing through him, Legolas stepped away from the tree and drew his bow again, this time targeting the wraith as it stalked onto the Road.

“You cannot kill the Nazgul, or even slow them, with arrows,” Tureden said, reaching towards Legolas’s bow arm.

Legolas made to glare at his guard’s interference, but was brought up short by the expression on his face—respect. The first Tureden had truly shown him. “I will not let that thing have Dolgailon and the guards,” Legolas settled for saying, keeping his tone even. He lowered his bow and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “How can we fight it?”

Before Tureden could answer, the wraith took up a position alongside the ranks of orcs. With a screech that sent a jolt of cold fire through Legolas, it spurred the eastward-facing orcs to a swift march and it pursued them into the enveloping darkness as they followed the Road towards Maethorness’s village.

Their clanking armor and stamping feet had almost faded away before anyone—the remaining orcs, the hidden elves or even the Maia—recovered and stirred themselves.

Manadhien was the first to movement and that was only to slide down the face of the rock, while calling two orc captains to her side. In their own speech, she gave them sharp orders which they ran to obey.

One joined the northward facing orcs’ ranks and cracked his whip, driving them to march.

That shook loose the cold cloak of fear that shrouded Legolas. He quickly surveyed the path the orcs would take. He and his guards needed to move! He was just turning to search for a safe path for retreat when Tureden grasped his arms and pulled him forcibly back and several steps to the side, finally pushing him down to crouch between a slimy trunk and moss-covered rock. Tureden took up a position in front of him, between him and the advancing orcs. Galuauth and Lanthir flanked him. Radagast chanted words that Legolas did not recognize, though they sounded like Quenya.

They watched, still as death, as the orcs tramped past them, unseeing.

Soon, the only noise in the surrounding forest were the grunts of the few dozen remaining orcs, remnants of the earlier battle—the uninjured amongst them would apparently remain behind to guard Manadhien, the other wounded, and the prisoners.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Legolas peeked around Tureden and the rock. The second orc captain that Manadhien had given orders—the one that earlier stole Dolgailon’s ring—was dragging Dolgailon, Hurion and Galudiron to their feet. A glance at Manadhien showed two orcs, one on either side of her, helping her step away from the rock and limp along the road towards her prisoners.

“Now is our chance,” Legolas declared.

As he spoke, he stood, positioned a half-dozen arrows in his hand, and fit one against his bowstring. He drew, but before he released, from the corner of his eye, he saw the orc nearest Dolgailon convulse and collapse.

“Yes,” Legolas said, loosing his first arrow into the orc nearest Manadhien and watching her list violently to the side as it fell. “You take the ones near Dolgailon. I have these.” Before he finished speaking, the second orc supporting Manadhien fell. Her injured leg folded beneath her and she stumbled to the ground, giving Legolas a clear shot to the orcs behind her. Four dropped without ever raising a weapon. Legolas reached for six more arrows.

The orcs moved to action, scrambling for cover and to find their assailants. Arrows flew, but randomly, not properly aimed at the elves that they could not immediately find.

Legolas ignored the arrows as they sank into trees and cracked against rocks around him. He concentrated on finishing the remaining orcs behind Manadhien, picking them off neatly, one by one. He reached into his quiver a third time, this time to begin finishing off the injured orcs that were scrabbling for weapons. As he did, he saw something speeding towards him. Automatically, he dodged closer to the tree while searching for the source of the movement. An arrow, obviously, but from where? Where were the orcs that finally spotted them?

Tureden grabbed his collar and pulled him further aside.

Not finding any orcs that appeared to be targeting him, Legolas focused on the arrow, intending to follow its trajectory back to its source. It flashed silver as it flew. Legolas knew what that meant. He spun towards Manadhien. She was kneeling on one knee, the better to draw her bow, her injured leg at an awkward angle to the side.  

She reached for a second arrow.

Legolas released, sending an arrow through her upper arm as it bent over her shoulder to grope in her quiver. She screamed and staggered back, dropping her bow to her side and falling hard, backwards onto the stone road. She rolled onto her side and glared at Legolas while clutching her wounded arm. Allowing herself only a moment’s rest, she shoved herself upright and strained with bloody fingers to retrieve her bow.

Legolas released another shaft. This one drove through the hand reaching for the bow and embedded itself into the tree behind Manadhien.

She cried out again—loosing curses in a mixture of Quenya and Black Speech that struck Legolas as particularly obscene.

Never taking his eyes off her, he fit another arrow against his bowstring.

Someone grasped the arm of his bow and turned it sharply.

He shifted his right hand to the hilt of his sword to defend himself from whatever enemy had managed to approach him so closely, but pulled back his attack when he realized who had hold of his bow.

“What in all of Arda are you doing?” Radagast asked. His gaze was as piercing as any arrow. His voice was the sternest, most serious…most commanding Legolas could remember ever hearing—a far cry from the gentle wizard that coaxed birds and small animals to greet young elves during festivals on the Green.

Legolas glanced at Manadhien to make certain she was still incapacitated. Then he frowned at Radagast. “You heard what she said to the Nazgul. You heard her ordering the orcs in the Black Speech. She is a traitor, allied to Dol Guldur and an enemy of this realm. We have to stop her.”

“You cannot kill her…. ”

“I certainly do not intend to kill her! An arrow through her arm or hand is not a mortal wound,” Legolas retorted, impatience creeping into his tone. The middle of a battle was no time for a debate, nor did he intend to have one at anytime regarding how best to manage Manadhien. That decision was his alone.

Maintaining his stern glare, Radagast released his bow.

Legolas returned his attention where it belonged.

Grimacing, Manadhien was still trying to pull the arrow from the tree to free her hand. Just as Legolas turned back to her, she gave up on that, snapped the shaft instead and began to slowly slide her hand down it.

Legolas scowled and let another arrow fly towards her just as her hand slid free. This time, he aimed for her shoulder. The force of his arrow drove her back and, when it also sank into the tree, pinned her bodily in place. She howled in pain and yanked at the arrow with her uninjured hand. It did not pull free.

Behind him, Radagast made an uncomfortable noise, but Legolas did not have time to respond to it. Near Dolgailon’s position, an elf shrieked in pain. Legolas spun towards the sound, fearing to see who was hit. His jaw dropped when he saw Glilavan with Lanthir’s arrow through his shoulder.

Where had Glilavan come from?

Legolas quickly widened his focus to take in the entire battle field. Everywhere, orcs lay dead or disabled. A few were crawling away from the attack, but were in no shape to pose further threat. Even so, Galuauth was finishing them. All the ones near Manadhien were dead, with his and Tureden’s arrows in them. Dolgailon appeared to still be alive and the orcs surrounding him were all dead, pierced by Lanthir and Galuauth’s yellow-fletched shafts.

Legolas frowned. He saw several black fletched arrows in those orcs also. None of the guards used black fletchings and Radagast carried only his staff. That only left…

Legolas’s gaze darted back to Glilavan and he studied him with wide eyes. Lanthir still had an arrow trained on him. Glilavan had tossed aside his bow and quiver—his quiver full of black-fletched arrows. Had he helped them against the orcs? Regardless, he was on his knees now, one hand pressed against his shoulder, the other out to his side, open and empty.

This was over. Cautiously, Legolas lowered his bow.

“Fetch Manadhien,” he said to Tureden. “Alive.” He did not want a repeat of what Tureden had done to her two servants, this time in the Maia’s presence. Then, shouldering his bow and drawing his sword, he stepped fully out from their hiding place and strode over to where his cousin was trying to right himself. Galuauth followed on his heels. Bow still drawn, Lanthir rushed ahead of him, straight for Glilavan.

“I surrender,” Glilavan called. He unfastened his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. Then he held his left hand out to his side again and remained on his knees.

Legolas studied his former captain to assure himself that he was no threat—with Lanthir’s arrow aimed at his chest, he was not—and then he turned to Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion. He swallowed hard. All three were badly beaten—every visible bit of skin bruised and swollen. In addition to the wounds of battle that had clearly been their downfall—all left untreated—they bore other wounds that had obviously been inflicted for sport. Slashes, stab wounds, bites and burns. Some, if not all, were poisoned. The three elves were flushed with fever; their wounds, which should have begun to heal, still bled freely.

Hurion was not conscious enough to look up at Legolas’s approach. Galudiron was. He gasped when he saw Legolas. The noise was enough to bring Dolgailon to as much attention as he could muster. He had just managed to prop himself against a tree and was breathing hard from the effort. He lifted his head and his eyes climbed up Legolas’s body until they reached his face.

“Legolas?” He blinked several times and shook his head. “I must be imagining this,” he mumbled to himself, letting his head loll forward again.

Legolas hastened to close the distance between them. In the process, he stepped over an orc—the armored captain. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the body. Then he half-turned and crouched down, hands hovering over the body.

“My lord?” Galuauth said softly.

Grinding his teeth together in an effort not to be ill, Legolas ran his hands across the orc’s filthy leather coverings and under its armor until he found a pouch. He pulled it out and groped at its contents. Satisfied, he scrabbled the last few paces towards Dolgailon and knelt next to him. His sword fell across his lap as he drew his knife to cut Dolgailon’s bonds.

“I must be imagining this,” Dolgailon muttered again, watching Legolas’s hands.

“You are imagining nothing, Dolgailon. We are going to get you to safety.” Legolas ripped open the pouch he had taken from the orc. Four rings fell out of it, two silver and two gold, along with several other trinkets. Legolas ignored everything but the rings. He picked up the two silver ones first and inspected them. One was Dolgailon’s, as Legolas expected. The other bore the same twining leaf pattern. Legolas brought it closer to his face to see it better in the dark mist. Its engraving read, ‘Aran o Eryn Galen.’ Fist tightening around the ring, Legolas looked back at the orc. The filthy thing had been close enough to his father to steal this ring! Legolas’s clenched fist drifted closer to the sword still in his lap. Perhaps that orc was the one that struck his father. Legolas regretted it was dead. He would have much preferred to finish it himself.

Dolgailon raised his head again and stared at Legolas with bleary eyes. “You cannot be here,” he whispered.

“I am afraid I am,” Legolas replied. He lifted his cousin’s left hand and pushed the mithril ring onto his finger. Then he picked up the smaller of the two gold bands and placed it on Dolgailon’s right ring finger.

Dolgailon stared at the rings and then at Legolas, still plainly confused, as Legolas dropped his father’s rings safely into his tunic pocket and buttoned it shut.

Radagast appeared next to them and produced a water skin. He held it to Dolgailon’s lips.

“Radagast?” Dolgailon asked, his brow puckering even further.

The wizard shushed him, dribbled water into his mouth and ran his hands over Dolgailon’s numerous wounds, stopping with his hands cupped around the elf’s cheek. “Clammy. Hot,” he muttered, fishing about in his robes for something—herbs, possibly. He slapped his empty pockets when he did not find what he was looking for. Scowling, he moved on to quickly inspect Hurion and Galudiron’s wounds, doing what little he could for them.

As Radagast worked, Tureden returned, dragging a sputtering, protesting Manadhien along with him. He dropped her next to where Lanthir had secured Glilavan.

“Up. Move,” he demanded, waving at Legolas to stand.

Legolas bristled at the tone of his guard’s voice, but could not deny the wisdom of the order. It was not smart to remain too close to Manadhien. Grasping his sword, he stood.

She faked a lunge after him.

Refusing to show even the slightest fear in her presence, Legolas made no reaction at all. He only looked down upon her.

Tureden did react. He used his foot to push her roughly against a tree.

“You may have won this battle, but your victory will cost you more than you can possibly imagine,” she spat out.

“Keep your tongue still or I will remove it,” Tureden answered back.

“Let her spout whatever empty threats she wishes,” Legolas said softly. “They accomplish nothing.”

As they spoke, Radagast moved from inspecting the guards’ wounds to the prisoners, unconcerned that they were enemies. He muttered something about Glilavan’s wound not being poisoned, at least. Then he turned to Manadhien. He glanced over the injuries to her leg and side and his mouth twitched as he examined her arm, hand and shoulder.

When he reached for her arm, she looked at him scornfully, but the moment their eyes met, her cold expression immediately disappeared and was replaced by shock. She tensed and quickly looked away.

Radagast, for his part, gasped and froze, his arm still extended. His eyes darted over her. Then he continued reaching for her. Instead of her arm, he grasped her chin and turned her face toward him.

She resisted, keeping her eyes downcast, as if she could not meet the Maia’s gaze.

“You once dwelt in the Blessed Realm,” he whispered. “Now the Light is all but extinguished in you. And there is something more…”

Legolas raised a single brow.

Radagast’s eyes searched her again, this time more slowly. His hands passed over her. Finally, he pulled her arm from where she held it clutched against her body. Everyone stared at a plain gold band on her finger.

“She is a maiden,” Legolas exclaimed before he could silence himself. What would she be doing with a gold ring? His hand pressed against the outline of his father’s wedding band in his tunic pocket. “What elf did you murder and steal that from?” he asked, anger at such a violation swelling within him.

“I stole it from no one,” she snapped. “I made it.”

“I believe that,” Radagast whispered, releasing her and pulling away from her.

She closed her fist and thrust her hand into the folds of her gown.

“That is an art of the Evil One,” Radagast continued, gesturing towards her hand. “Not evil in itself, but it has long been turned to cruel ends.”

For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the rain pelting the ground as everyone stared at Manadhien, taking in what Radagast had said.

“That is how she lies so convincingly,” Dolgailon finally whispered.

Legolas’s eyes widened. “What witchcraft does she weave,” he said softly.

“None you need worry about,” Manadhien responded. “Worry about your realm instead. Your villages.”

Her voice felt heavy. It weighed against his mind, pressing itself upon him. And her words were quite reasonable. He did need to focus on the villages. Even as he thought that, he knew it was a manipulation. Still, he found it difficult to ignore the suggestion.

The Maia stirred. “You need to worry about this ring, my lord,” he said, standing and interposing himself between Legolas and Manadhien.

“What is this about?” Tureden asked, stepping between them as well, eyeing Manadhien with even more suspicion.

Legolas dragged his focus to his guard. “She does have a ring of power. As Engwe thought she might,” he breathed, only barely finding his voice.

Tureden, Lanthir and Galuauth all gasped. From the corner of his eyes, Legolas saw Glilavan flinch away from his mistress, a look of horror on his face.

“Take it,” Legolas ordered. “Even if you have to take her hand to do so.”

Legolas watched as Galuauth bent over Manadhien, wrestled her hand up and tried to pry her fingers open. The parallels between what he had just ordered and what the orc captain had done to Dolgailon only moments before were not lost on him—and they sickened him—but he could not allow Manadhien to keep such a weapon.

Manadhien fought hard. She yelled at Galuauth to release her, cursed and threatened him, pulled away, kicked out, beat her free fist against any part of him she could reach.

He pressed his thumb and forefinger against her wrist so hard her skin immediately turned white. Then blue. Her protests rose to a long, pained squeal. Galuauth’s arm began to tremble from exertion.

Finally, gasping for breath, her fingers sprung open.

Galuauth seized the ring. Handling it gingerly, he held it out between Radagast and Legolas.

Manadhien dove after it, but Tureden shoved her back and held her in place again with a boot against her injured shoulder.

Radagast stepped back. “Such devices are unnatural. I want nothing to do with it. I recommend you destroy it, my lord.”

“No!” Manadhien cried.

Legolas was hardly moved by her pleas, but he had no desire to handle an art of Sauron either. Unfortunately, in this rain, he doubted they could make any fire, much less one hot enough to melt gold. After a moment’s hesitation, he held out his open hand and allowed Galuauth to drop the ring into his palm.

It was cold. Unnaturally cold. And it felt…just as Manadhien did. Dark, desperate, false. But compelling. Seductive. Surely the person wearing this ring could command…anyone. Everyone.

Legolas closed his fist and looked around at the orc corpses. After a moment, he bent over and pulled a leather pouch from one of their bodies. Dumping its contents onto the ground, he dropped the ring into it and thrust it between his body and belt. Then he turned his thoughts resolutely away from it.

Manadhien glared at him with eyes so cold they sent a chill through him. “You will take nothing more from me. Nor will you hold that ring for long. Mark my words,” she said in a very soft voice.

Legolas made no more response to that threat than to turn away from her.
   
“We need to move Lord Dolgailon…move all of them,” Radagast said into his ear. Legolas was grateful for the distraction. “They will need medicine. Quickly. The orcs’ poison has been at work for too long. We cannot delay treating them. Soon their fevers will rise to dangerous levels. Dangerous even for elves.”

Legolas nodded. He knew the effects of the enemy’s poisons. He had seen them. The sooner they returned to Dolgailon’s village and the relatively healthy forest surrounding it, the happier he would be.

The moment the thought of the village entered his mind, he remembered this affair was far from over. One hundred orcs were marching on that village. It was not the safe haven Dolgailon needed, nor would it serve as a stronghold for the prisoners. Despite that, Legolas needed to return there, before the orcs, to warn Galithil, Engwe and the captains that battle approached them once again.

“Those orcs…we need to warn the villages,” Dolgailon choked out, reaching weakly for Legolas’s leg and struggling again to rise.

“I know, commander,” Legolas replied. “We are taking you north to safety and I will speak to the captains once we get there. You worry about yourself for now. Let me worry about the orcs.”

Dolgailon frowned, concerned and clearly unconvinced.

Legolas reached to pat his cousin’s shoulder reassuringly while trying to work out how he would get three wounded elves to safety, keep Manadhien and Glilavan from escaping and warn two villages on opposite borders of the forest of approaching battle with only three guards and the wizard to help him.

“You cannot go north. You must go west. Towards the border. You have to help my adar,” Glilavan said, interrupting his thoughts.

Legolas looked at him sharply. “What about Tulus? Where is he?”

“West of here,” Glilavan answered, pointing. “In the forest. Hidden and waiting for me to return.”

Legolas’s brow furrowed and he drew a breath to ask how Tulus came to be ‘hidden in the forest’ and why, but Tureden spoke first.

“Is Tulus hidden and waiting with another hundred orcs?” he asked with a mocking voice. “Or do you have no true knowledge of where Tulus is, but you do know where more orcs are, to aid you and your mistress in your escape? Either way, we will not be walking into your trap.”

Glilavan shook his head and kept his focus on Legolas, looking at him pleadingly and ignoring the measuring stare Manadhien leveled on him. “There were no orcs near adar when I left him. Please, help him before there are.”

Manadhien’s expression hardened into one of bitter anger.

“And how did he get to where ever you claim him to be? Why would you leave him there? And why would he need our help? Tulus is a capable warrior. A far better one than you,” Tureden said, glaring down at Glilavan.

Glilavan answered, but still addressed Legolas. “Manadhien caught him spying on her and took him prisoner. She left him in worse condition than they are,” he nodded towards Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion.

Legolas felt his back stiffen.

“I was ordered to take him to Dol Guldur…”

Legolas’s jaw fell open. No matter how far Glilavan had fallen, surely he would not do that. Not to his own father.

Glilavan shook his head. “I would never…I swear! I escaped the orcs’ camp with him instead. We made it over half way to the border, but he insisted I go back for Dolgailon….”

Tureden laughed. “And now you are going to claim that you are here because you agreed to that demand? Could you concoct a more absurd lie? Why would you help Dolgailon? You are here because you are in league with this one,” he kicked Manadhien lightly with the toe of his boot, “trying to kill the king’s entire family….”

“Dolgailon is my friend…” Glilavan blurted.

“You are a traitor and a slayer of kin unrepentant,” Tureden answered back. “You have no friends amongst us.”

“True enough,” Manadhien murmured, her voice filled with hate.

Glilavan looked down and closed his eyes. Then he lifted his face again and fixed Legolas with a steady gaze. “I confess to the first of those accusations. I am a traitor and I did nothing to prevent her servants from killing far too many elves…”

“You gave me to men and when that failed to kill me, you threw a knife at me yourself. Twice,” Legolas interjected under his breath.

“True,” Glilavan conceded. “But I am not unrepentant. I deserve and will accept whatever punishment the king will give me…”

“Just as you repaid the mercy he already showed you by murdering the guards escorting you to the Havens?” Tureden asked.

Glilavan ignored him. “My adar is neither a traitor nor a slayer of kin. He remains loyal to the king. Loyal to you. Please help him. I ask nothing for myself. Only for him.”

Tureden stepped between Glilavan and Legolas. “He uses what he knows will pull at your heart strings, my lord. Your friendship with his father—the same father he did not hesitate to put a knife into while trying to kill you. He would not hesitate to use Tulus to finish you now. He is completely ensorcelled by her and now we understand better how she held sway over him.” He pointed at the pouch. “These are all lies. Do not fall into this trap. I beg you.”

“Think of me what you will, but do not doubt that I would do anything for my adar. Anything. This is no trap, I swear it on my life.”

“It is no trap,” Manadhien said. “That Glilavan knows of. What he does not know is that at least one hundred more orcs are marching up the western border from Dol Guldur. They have already found Tulus. I promise you that.”

Glilavan stared at her, eyes wide. “You are lying,” he whispered, capable of no more voice than that. “You want us to abandon my adar because you hate him. You are trying to convince us to go north because your orcs are certainly there, giving you a better chance of rescue.”

“You are both lying and setting traps. I do not doubt that, But even if you are not, we do not have time for this,” Tureden said. “Dolgailon is wounded and needs medicine before he succumbs to fever. Tulus would never allow Dolgailon to be sacrificed for him. We have prisoners to secure. Tulus would not risk Manadhien’s escape. Most importantly, we have battles to plan. If you and I go directly back to Dolgailon’s village, we will be racing the orcs to get there quickly enough to give Engwe time to plan a counter attack. Tulus would never ask us to sacrifice whole villages for him.”

“No, he would not,” Glilavan agreed. “That is why I am here, rather than seeing to his safety. He refused to escape without the king’s nephew. I beg you not to repay that loyalty by abandoning him to the orcs.”

“Be silent or I will silence you,” Tureden snapped.

“Enough,” Legolas said softly.

Tureden and Glilavan looked at him, awaiting his decision. Galuauth and Lanthir did the same.

Legolas’s jaw clenched. He would certainly grow accustomed to people expecting him to give orders, but he doubted he would ever grow accustomed to the grief some orders gave him. Indeed, he prayed he never did. He never wanted orders like the ones he had to make now to come too easily.

If Glilavan was telling the truth…. Tulus was the closest friend Legolas had outside his family.

But he had no choice…

He drew a deep breath and steeled himself for what he had to say.  “Our first duty is the defense of the villages. We must determine the swiftest means to get word back to them. After that, the Troop Commander is my priority. We need to get him to safety,” he said.

“You cannot leave my adar,” Glilavan cried.

Legolas ignored him.

Radagast took a step closer. “We should head with all speed to my home. We are closer to Rhosgobel than we are to Lord Dolgailon’s village. There, I have herbs to counteract these poisons and birds that will carry messages to the villages.”

“If what Manadhien said can be trusted, one hundred orcs stand between us and Rhosgobel on the western border,” Tureden countered. “I recommend we go directly north. Preferably to the stronghold—you have put yourself at risk for long enough, my lord.  On the way, we can stop in a patrol camp or Dolgailon’s village briefly for medicine, to warn them and to send messages with a reliable bird to Maethorness.”

“Manadhien is lying, but you know one hundred orcs march north,” Glilavan argued. “You saw them yourselves. You will never get past them with so few warriors and so many wounded. We should go west, but not so far south as Rhosgobel. If we go northwest, we will reach the safety of the forest border quickly, we will be closer to Dolgailon’s village to warn the people there and to get medicine, and going in that direction will allow us to recover my adar.”

“Herbs are already in short supply in Dolgailon’s village,” Radagast said. “They do not have what we need to help the wounded there. Moreover, it will take us all night a most of tomorrow to reach it. I have herbs in Rhosgobel and we can reach it before daybreak. Any bird sent from there will arrive in Maethorness and Dolgailon’s villages before midday tomorrow.” He looked at Tureden, his chin rising. “And my birds are more reliable than any you think you have trained.”

“Of course we trust your birds,” Legolas said. “Still, I need to travel to Dolgailon’s village myself, as quickly as possible.” He did not want to leave Galithil alone in the battle that approached him or appear to abandon the people of the village. And if going that way offered any chance of helping Tulus, he did not want to pass up that opportunity. Most importantly, he had unfinished business in Dolgailon’s village. “I need to speak to Galithil and Seregon about the village guards. Some of them supported Manadhien. I need to know which ones. I must arrest them too.”

“I will tell you their names if you help my adar,” Glilavan interjected.

That offer elicited a snarl from Manadhien.

Legolas closed his eyes. “I will help Tulus if I can, Glilavan, but the security and survival of this realm has to drive my decisions. Surely you, a captain, can understand that.”

“Deliver the wounded to my care in Rhosgobel,” Radagast said calmly. “Send birds to the villages and then follow them yourself, but on horseback. That is the fastest way to resolve all these problems.”

“You have horses?” Legolas asked, eyebrows climbing.

Radagast shrugged. “Horses from the plain often wander by my abode. They are my friends and they would bear you if I asked them to.”

Legolas considered that answer. Then he turned to Tureden, Galuauth and Lanthir. “We are going to Rhosgobel. Get them up.” He nodded towards Dolgailon, the injured guards and the prisoners.
 
“At the very least, free me and let me go after my adar,” Glilavan pressed.

Tureden shook his head at that suggestion. “You cannot trust him, my lord. Most likely, he is begging for his adar’s life as a ruse to secure Manadhien’s freedom….”

“I do not believe that,” Legolas said, studying Glilavan. “I think he is speaking honestly.”

“Even if he is,” Tureden said, “he is a criminal. A traitor who has actively sought to overthrow the King and has murdered members of his family. You cannot release him.”

“True enough,” Legolas agreed, if reluctantly. He sincerely wished he could help Tulus by allowing Glilavan to go after him.

Glilavan’s face contorted in fury and he dove towards Legolas. Lanthir caught him, but he strained against Lanthir’s hold on him. “You cannot do this. You cannot abandon my adar. He would never have abandoned you.”

Legolas’s heart contracted in grief. He did not doubt the truth of those words. “I am sorry, Glilavan,” he said quietly. Then he turned away from him. “Galuauth, help Dolgailon. Lanthir, take Galudiron. Radagast, may I ask you to help Hurion?”

The wizard nodded without hesitation.

“Thank you,” Legolas said, managing a smile at him. “Tureden, we will take charge of our prisoners.” He glanced back at Glilavan. “You can walk. Your mistress cannot. You can carry her. Get her up. Now.”

Glilavan loosed an explosive snort. “You will not help my adar, yet you still expect my obedience? You are a fool!”

Legolas faced him fully, eyes narrowing.

If Glilavan noticed, he did not care. “I will do nothing to help you,” he raged on. “I will not betray my adar. The ease with which you toss aside the love he showed you utterly disgusts me, but it does not surprise me. I always said you would be the death of him. Just as Thranduil will be the ruin of this forest. May the orcs claim you both before these battles are finished!”

“Glilavan!” Dolgailon exclaimed.

His cousin’s voice sounded distant against the blood that pounded in Legolas’s ears. His hand convulsed around the hilt of his sword as the pent up anger and fears of the last few days finally claimed him. He took a single, long step forward, bringing himself nose-to-nose with Glilavan, who Lanthir still restrained, and he laid his sword against his throat.

“May the orcs claim us?” he repeated in a low voice. “You may yet have your wish. The king who you wish dead—the king who granted you mercy when you killed his uncle and tried to kill me—that king is dying,” Legolas’s voice broke over the word, “struck down by the orcs that you led against him.”

“What?” Dolgailon’s voice whispered in the background. Legolas did not acknowledge him.

“Dozens of villagers and warriors were killed by your orcs. And now, because I must move to prevent your orcs from causing still more villagers’ deaths, I may be forced to sacrifice my dearest friend. You blame me for Tulus’s fate? Blame yourself. Neither Tulus nor these orcs would be anywhere near here or each other, save for your actions. I did not betray Tulus. You did. My adar did not betray this realm. You did. I intend to see that both you and your mistress face justice for those betrayals. But, I will grant you this much: at the moment, you are indeed wise to pray you will not face justice at my hands.”

Defiance and contempt flared in Glilavan’s eyes in response to that threat.

The sword in his hand shook, Legolas gripped it so tightly. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to use it to…well at least to force Glilavan be silent, stop wasting time, and carry Manadhien.

The ring in the pouch tucked under his belt thrummed to life, singing out at the prospect of driving Glilavan to obey Legolas’s will.

Legolas froze, stunned to stillness.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Radagast staring at him in shock. Lanthir, Galuauth and even Dolgailon were watching him with open concern. Only Tureden seemed unaffected by his threat.

Legolas focused on Glilavan. Blood trickled down his throat. A few droplets pooled on the steel of the blade. Legolas’s mind flashed back to the last time he had been provoked to hold a knife to Glilavan’s throat. That image was instantly followed by a vision of Demil’s blood on his hands.

He released Glilavan with a backwards shove.

“We are taking Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion to safety,” he said with as level tone as he could muster, allowing the tip of his sword to rest on the forest floor to hide how his hands trembled. The rain washed Glilavan’s blood into the muck on the ground. “Then we will ensure that the southern villages are properly defended. If we can help Tulus in the process, we certainly will. We can do nothing for him here. For the last time, Glilavan: pick up your mistress and carry her.”

Glilavan glared at him a moment longer. Then he pulled Manadhien roughly to her feet and slung her over his uninjured shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain.

No one else made a sound as they readied to leave. When all the wounded were on their feet, Legolas nodded to Radagast. “Lead and we will follow.” He glanced at Tureden. “Keep your eyes open. We have not yet accounted for Fuilin.”

Tureden’s already grim expression soured even further at that reminder.

Gaze fixed on the dark trees, Legolas fell into step behind the wizard as he headed west.

*~*~*

AN: This chapter’s title comes from the following quote: “Self-sacrifice? But it is precisely the self that cannot and must not be sacrificed.” ― Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Ion nin—my son
Adar—father
Ernil/Aran o Eryn Galan — Prince/King of Greenwood

Chapter 8: The first test of great elves

Lindomiel did not even know Hallion had sent for her when she came into the Hall. Now his voice rumbled in her ears as he related the details of a complaint from a village in the north. He mentioned whose village early in his explanation. Surely he had. But she had no idea who it was or what they wanted. She knew she should make more effort to focus on his words. She should at least be ashamed that she would not be able to make any intelligent response when he finally stopped speaking.

With effort, she held back a sigh. She was not ashamed in the least.

The battle that Thranduil, Dolgailon and possibly even Galithil were fighting was far more important in her mind than a single village’s requests. Legolas’s whereabouts were more important. Indeed, she did not honestly care what this northern village wanted. Let them have it, whatever it might be. She wanted to know what news had come from the south!

“…Thranduil, but I expect a messenger soon,” she finally registered Hallion saying. Then he fell silent.

Lindomiel’s gaze flicked from the door of the Hall to his face. He was studying her with open concern. And sympathy.

Now she was ashamed of herself. “I beg your pardon, Hallion. I did not follow…well, to be honest, I heard very little of what you were saying. What did the village want? And which village was it?”

“Lalwen’s village,” he said. “She wants more of the dried meat, out of fear that this winter will be as bad as last, and thus the game as scarce. But I was wrong to approach you about this now. It will wait. I only hoped to distract you, if only for a few moments.”

“I am afraid I will need to check with Maidhien before I can judge if we can afford to send them more meat. Given all that has happened with Legolas this season, I have not been managing the distribution of the fall supplies as closely as I normally do. Maidhien made the distribution lists and inventories. It is late, but I think she is still in the kitchen…or laundry. I could send someone for her.” Lindomiel started to rise to summon a servant.

Hallion grasped her hand where it rested on the meeting table and held her in place. “It will wait,” he repeated softly.

Lindomiel made an effort to smile. “Then what did you say about Thranduil and a messenger?”

“I expect news soon, both from the south west and south east,” he replied. “I was informed earlier that messengers from both borders are en route.”

Lindomiel nodded and turned back to the doors, willing them to open right now.

“If I may, my lady,” Hallion said into the silence, “you seem more than simply….preoccupied.” He hesitated. “Do you…. Is there…anything I should know?”

Lindomiel frowned as she considered how to answer that question. “I do not want to cause alarm,” she said. “It might be nothing. Perhaps simply the rigors of the battle demanding Thranduil’s full attention…”

Hallion’s posture stiffened.

So much for not causing alarm.

She faced him fully. “I have very little sense of him,” she admitted, speaking bluntly. After three ages serving the House of Oropher, Hallion should be able to handle direct speech and she was in no mood for equivocation. “Less than when he was unconscious after being injured in the past.” She let her gaze drop back her her hands. “I confess that I am very worried about him.”

“And Legolas?” Hallion asked after a moment’s pause.

A scoffing noise escaped Lindomiel before she could stifle it. “Naturally I am worried about Legolas! And Galithil. They are much too close to a battle that is far beyond their skill—one that is apparently challenging for Thranduil, who has ages more experience in war than I hope my son and nephew will ever have. And on top of that, they are certainly within Manadhien’s grasp. I am worried about all of them.”

She clenched her jaw to keep from saying more. To prevent herself from telling Hallion exactly how upset she was that he had allowed Legolas to chase after that courier. Legolas insisted, Hallion explained when he first told her where Legolas had gone. Insisted in a way Hallion felt compelled to obey. That was—or at least soon would be—Legolas’s right. Lindomiel had to recognize it just as Hallion did. But now? When Manandhien was scheming to spill every drop of her family’s blood? That was when Legolas decided it would be best to assert his authority as the king’s representative in his absence?

She silently loosed a long breath, unclenched the fist she must have made at some point and flattened her fingers on the cool, wooden surface of the meeting table. She was seated in Thranduil’s chair. His hands had rested on this spot many times. She could see them in her mind. Her thumb caressed a bit of wood, worn smooth over the ages, seeking some hint of his presence.

“Of course you have every right to be worried,” Hallion’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I regret sending Legolas after the courier. I would take back that decision if I could. But what I meant was: you do not…there is no reason to believe, as yet, that Legolas is also injured?”

“No! I am certain he is perfectly fine,” she responded immediately, shaking her head for emphasis. Perish the very thought! Then her heart raced as her mind caught up to the full meaning behind that question. If the king was in danger, Hallion wanted to be sure his heir was not. Lindomiel closed her eyes tightly against the implication. She refused to allow her thoughts to go in that direction. Thranduil would return and be fine. He always did.

They were spared the need to pursue that topic further when the door to the Hall opened.

Two warriors entered.

Linomiel eyed them carefully. Though they looked familiar, she could not immediately recall either of their names. Neither was a normal courier, as far as she knew. Both bore wounds—ones that even she could tell left them unable to fight. They limped too much to have reached the stronghold on their own. They must have come on horseback. The second to enter the Hall carried a large bundle, wrapped up in a cloak or blanket.

Lindomiel drew a shuddering breath and rose to her feet when she realized what must be concealed in that cloth. A body.

“What is this?” Hallion demanded as the warriors stopped a few paces from the table. The one laid his burden on the floor, none too carefully, allowing its head to thud against the stone. They both bowed to Lindomiel.

She could not take her eyes off the body. Surely it could not be…. No one would dare…. No elf in this realm would bring her husband back to her in such a cruel, blunt manner. Besides, while Thranduil’s presence felt distant, it was not absent. His fea still touched hers. It could not be….  

But who was it? Who would these warriors bring into the stronghold?

Not Galithil! Please not Amoneth’s baby! She studied the form wrapped in the cloth. It did not appear to be Galithil. It was too tall. Too broad of shoulder. But it could be Dolgailon…. She found herself struggling for breath.

“Delethil sent me,” the warrior replied to Hallion’s question. His tone was defiant. Falsely brave. He held his chin high in the air as he spoke, but his back was rigid. “I am responsible. For this.” He gestured to the body without looking at it. “Delethil told us that if we saw an elf amongst the orcs attacking Maethorness’s village, Lord Dolgailon’s orders were to prevent him from escaping. At any cost. He said any elf amongst the orcs was a traitor. I was following those orders.”

Lindomiel frowned. The warrior was making very little sense. And he was not addressing the most important matter at all. “Tell us who that is, ere the world ends!” she exclaimed, pointing at the body.

The warrior stared at her a moment. Then he leaned over and flipped the cloth back from the body’s face. “I think Delethil said his name is Fuilin, my lady.”

“Oh!” was all she could manage as all the air rushed from her lungs. It was Fuilin. Only Fuilin. She experienced a quick pang of guilt that she could not muster any regret that he was dead, but she could not. She only felt relief. Relief to see him instead of a member of her family.

The warrior regarded her worriedly for a moment and then turned back to Hallion. “I was following orders,” he repeated. “I shot him in the leg when I first saw him, to disable him. But an orc tried to carry him to safety. We were told not to let him escape. He was allied with the orcs. With orcs! I saw it myself. He gave them orders and they tried to save him.” The warrior stopped and drew himself up. “I shot both this elf and the orc helping him. I killed them. I killed him. And since he was helping the orcs attack the village, I do not regret it.” His voice quavered as he made that claim. “I am here to accept responsibility for my actions,” he concluded.

Lindomiel felt a great swell of pity in her heart for this warrior. What a horrible deed! What a terrible burden!

“I think only the King can judge you, Boril,” Hallion said quietly. “And he is not here. You will have to wait for his return. But I do not think you need fear his judgment, nor should you judge yourself too harshly. You did indeed carry out not only Lord Dolgailon’s orders, but the king’s own. Fuilin was a greater threat to this realm than any orc. His death means the forest is much safer.”

Boril’s shoulders slumped slightly. “This Fuilin,” he said, using his foot to nudge the cloth to cover the body’s staring eyes once again. “Is he one of the elves that attacked Lord Legolas during that training exercise before the Fall Festival? The ones that murdered the young warriors and wrote the note pinned to Tulus’s shoulder threatening the king? Is that why he is accused of treason?”

That was why this warrior—Boril, apparently—seemed so familiar, Lindomiel thought. He was the warrior Denoth sent to carry news of Legolas’s abduction to the stronghold. He was one of the warriors that had freed Tulus and found the murdered Sixth Years.

Hallion nodded. “Those are some of his many crimes. Fuilin also is responsible for murdering Lord Celonhael and plotting many other times against the queen and even the king himself.”

“Well, good riddance then,” Boril said.

“Indeed,” Hallion replied. “And enough of him. There are more important topics. Foremost in my mind: what news do you bring of the battle in Maethorness’s village?” He turned to the second warrior. “And Rossoth, I assume you have come from Lord Dolgailon’s village?”

“We held Maethorness’s village. Barely, but we held it,” Bornil replied.

“The same in the west,” Rossoth added.

Lindomiel managed a faint smile. Despite her initial fears, these warriors brought very good news. Fuilin was eliminated as a threat and the villages both survived. Once Hallion was finished with military topics, she would have to ask about supplies. Surely both Maethorness and Dolgailon’s villages lost at least some of their winter stores and would need for her to restock them.

The warriors pulled sealed envelopes from their tunic pockets.

“Delethil’s report from the first battle,” Boril said, handing his paper to Hallion.

Lindomiel’s smile faded slightly. First battle?

“And Lord Galithil’s,” Rossoth said.

Her gaze darted to Rossoth. Galithil’s report? Why would Galithil write reports for Dolgailon’s village?

To Lindomiel’s great frustration Hallion opened Delethil’s message first. “You barely held the village,” he repeated while unfolding the paper.

Boril nodded gravely. “Without the support of my patrol and Delethil’s, I think the outcome of the battle in the east would have been very different.”

Lindomiel’s brow knit as she began to catch on. Boril was a warrior of the Eastern Path Guard. Delethil captained the Eastern Patrol. They both helped defend Maethorness? The Eastern Patrol did not normally defend the border that far south, did they? The Path Guard certainly did not!

“We were all very lucky Lord Legolas was in the patrol’s camp,” Rossoth agreed. “Without his orders to bring Boril and his fellow warriors south, mine would not have been available to aid Lord Dolgailon’s village. That would have certainly led to disaster.”

“Hmmm,” was Hallion’s only response as he skimmed Delethil’s report.

Lindomiel, in contrast, openly gaped at Rossoth. Legolas’s orders? While chasing after that courier, had Legolas taken it upon himself to divert warriors from their normal patrols and send them into battle in Maethorness’s village? That was a bold decision! Perhaps overbold. Even if it did prove fortuitous, Thranduil might not approve, given Legolas’s age and inexperience. Lindomiel bit her lip. Well, she would help Legolas handle Thranduil if it became necessary.

Hallion shuffled the second report—Galithil’s—forward and tore it open. Rossoth’s gaze flashed to Lindomiel and then to his boots.

Lindomiel leaned over Hallion’s shoulder. She saw nothing more than Galithil’s handwriting before Hallion drew a sharp breath and folded the paper in half. He took a step back from the table. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion in the Troop Commander’s office,” he suggested, spreading his arms wide to herd the warriors out of the Hall.

A cold chill coursed through Lindomiel’s body and her fears for Thranduil, Dolgailon and Galithil came rushing back. Hallion would not attempt to hide good news from her.

“Rossoth, tell me what news you bring from Lord Dolgailon’s village before you leave,” she said while grasping Hallion’s arm. “Did the king manage to arrest Manadhien? You might know her as Moralfien. And what did you mean by ‘the first battle?’ Did it seem as if the orcs were regrouping for a second attack? Will the king and Lord Dolgailon be able to send Galithil back to the stronghold before it begins?” She looked from Rossoth to Boril. “And can either of you tell me precisely where Legolas is and when he will return?”

Rossoth’s brow furrowed and he turned to Hallion for guidance.

Hallion adopted a completely neutral expression. “According to this report,” he waved the still folded paper in the air, “the village is preparing for a second attack,” he confirmed. “I need to discuss the details of that attack with these messengers—promptly—if you will excuse us, my lady.” He again made to drive the warriors from the Hall.

Lindomiel blocked their retreat. “I am surprised you would not bring Galithil—and Legolas, if you know where he is—back to the stronghold with you, in anticipation of this second attack. Why did you not?” she demanded. Then her heart skipped several beats as a possible reason occurred to her. “Was Galithil injured in the first battle? Is he unable to travel?” she asked and she braced herself for the answer. The warriors were extremely hesitant to speak.

“Lord Galithil was wearing mail,” Rossoth replied. “He received only a very minor injury in the battle—a broken arm. And now he is doing a fine job finding housing and necessities for those who lost their telain. The traitors sabotaged the village’s battle preparations and the orcs used flaming arrows, so the eastern edge of the village was destroyed by fire,” he explained.

Lindomiel stared at him, unable to respond. Galithil was not injured while sheltering with the villagers. He had actually fought! And now he was responsible for finding the villagers housing? Where was Dolgailon? Too busy managing the patrols, most likely. That must be it, especially if Thranduil was injured, as she suspected he must be. But what about Engwe? He was with Thranduil. Could he not help Dolgailon so that Galithil could be sent straight home? She frowned. As annoying as Engwe was, she certainly hoped he was not seriously wounded as well.

“As for the traitors,” Rossoth continued, kicking a boot in Fuilin’s direction without touching him, “I heard that one of the King’s Guard killed two more of Moralfien’s servants during the battle. The king went after Moralfien herself, but she… escaped him.”

Lindomiel stifled a frustrated sigh. Would they never arrest that elleth?

“Her luck did not last long,” he said, his tone now harsh. “After the village was secure, Lord Legolas and the King’s Guard scouted south. They captured her and Glilavan. They even rescued Lord Dolgailon from her orcs.”

Lindomiel stopped breathing. Surely she did not hear that correctly.

“What did you say?” Hallion asked. “How did Lord Legolas come to be in that village, much less further south of it?”

If Lindomiel had not been so utterly stunned by the claim that Legolas was as far south as Dolgailon’s village, in the middle of a battle, capturing elves that only a month past had tried to kill him, she would have laughed at how completely like Thranduil Hallion had just sounded.

Rossoth looked between Lindomiel and Hallion nervously. “I escorted him there,” he explained in a much more subdued voice. “At his orders. And after the battle, when Lord Legolas learned Moralfien escaped and Lord Dolgailon had been captured by orcs, he took the remaining King’s Guard and that strange wizard, Radagast, to arrest Moralfien and rescue the Troop Commander, if he could. I understand that he did succeed in both endeavors. And it was during that scouting trip that he confirmed the fears we all had that Moralfien was planning a second attack. Without that foreknowledge—if he had not sent for more warriors—neither Lord Dolgailon nor Maethorness’s villages could hope to survive a second attack.”

Lindomiel and Hallion both stared, gaped at Rossoth.

In response, Rossoth’s posture stiffened. “You did receive Lord Legolas’s orders that the Path Guard and Northern patrol should send more warriors south?” he asked in a rush. “The warriors were sent? If not….”

“I did receive those orders and I sent the warriors,” Hallion hastened to assure him. “I simply had no idea the orders arose from information Lord Legolas scouted himself. Or even that they were his orders. They came to me from the village, written in Lord Engwe’s hand.”

“May I ask why Legolas is commanding the patrols?” Lindomiel interjected. “Dolgailon was rescued, correct? Why is the Troop Commander not ordering the defense of the villages? And where is the King?”

Rossoth’s expression was immediately very guarded. “From what I heard, Lord Dolgailon is badly wounded, my lady,” he replied. “Lord Legolas took him to the nearest safe haven to recover—that wizard’s home. Rhosgobel.”

“What?” Lindomiel blurted out.

“Impossible!” Hallion exclaimed. “Rhosgobel is south of the Forest Road!”

“The King was also gravely wounded while defending the village,” Rossoth hurried on without acknowledging either outburst. “Before Lord Legolas left to search for Lord Dolgailon, he ordered Belloth to bring the King back to the stronghold. I was going to the Hall to receive treatment for my own injuries when they spoke. I heard Belloth protest that the king prefers to convalesce where ever he is wounded until he can ride back to the stronghold himself…”

Lindomiel firmly stifled a gasp. It was every bit as bad as she had feared. Thranduil was so seriously wounded that he could not ride.

“…but Lord Legolas insisted he should be taken to safety, since the village might fall under attack again and the king was….unable to defend himself.”

“How, specifically, is the king wounded?” Lindomiel asked, managing to keep her voice perfectly even.

Rossoth shifted from foot to foot and remained silent.

“Answer me,” Lindomiel commanded.

“The king was struck in the head, my lady,” Rossoth replied. He did not continue. He seemed unable to.

“How badly?” ‘So badly that he cannot ride,’ she answered herself silently. She had heard of injuries to the head that rendered the victim senseless or sometimes unconscious for hours or even days.

Rossoth closed his eyes and loosed a deep breath before speaking again. “Badly enough that his skull is caved. Here.” He touched a place on the back of his head.

Lindomiel felt her heart stop. She would have swayed on her feet if Hallion’s hand did not close firmly around her arm. Such wounds were fatal. She had never seen any elf awaken after suffering a blow that crushed his skull. Her breath came in gasps. This could not be right. She shook her head and tried to tell Rossoth he had to be mistaken, but she could not form the words. She glanced at Hallion, willing him to speak up in protest. His eyes were closed and his lips moving in a silent prayer. She looked back to Rossoth and Boril. Their eyes were full of pity. And concern.

This is no way to publicly behave, Lindomiel reminded herself sternly. She held her breath, in an effort to control it, and clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking.

“When should we expect the king to arrive?” Hallion asked quietly after a long moment.

The question caused an image of Thranduil, all but lifeless, being carried into the stronghold to spring into her mind. She swallowed a sob.

“Tomorrow night, I would guess,” Rossoth replied. “I left the village with him and Belloth, but they are traveling more slowly.”

In her peripheral vision, Lindomiel saw Hallion nod and dismiss the warriors, asking them to wait for him in Dolgailon’s office. They bowed to her and turned to leave. She scarcely noticed their departure as her mind swirled. She felt Hallion’s hand on the small of her back, leading her towards the door behind the throne—the most direct and private route to the family quarters. She moved to comply, making it as far as the dais before a thought brought her to a sudden stop. “Did Helindilme not say that she was a surgeon?” she asked. “Is she still here or has she departed for Imladris?”

Hallion half turned to face her. “She is a surgeon.”

Lindomiel drew a hopeful breath. Hallion was clearly encouraged to be reminded of the healer visiting from Imladris.

“I saw her work in Mordor,” he continued, spinning on his heel and taking long strides towards the doors of the Hall. “She saved many of our warriors’ lives. I do think she left this morning for Imladris, but I will send someone to retrieve her.”

Lindomiel silently watched Hallion rush from the Hall. Helindilme would come back and save Thranduil. Of course she would. Even as she tried to convince herself, Lindomiel’s chin trembled and her eyes filled with tears. Thranduil so direly wounded. Legolas and Dolgailon south of the Road. Galithil in the middle of a terrible battle. She could not hold back the tears. There was no way this could be worse!

*~*~*

In the deep, pre-dawn gloom, Glilavan’s eyes darted back and forth, from rock to tree to stump, the furrow between his brows steadily deepening. The finger he held pressed against his lips flicked in the direction of a distant rock and he began to mouth the word ‘there.’ Before any sound emerged, his finger froze in place, hanging awkwardly in the air, and his lips pressed together again.

“Pity’s sake!” Tureden muttered, his expression growing even more sour. But he said no more. He had challenged the decision to search for Tulus rather than return directly to the relative safety of Dolgailon’s village one too many times already and he knew it. He kept his attention fixed on his own charge—Manadhien, seated on the horse in front of him.

“Please, just one moment more,” Glilavan begged. Again.

Galuauth shifted a bit on his horse, enough to face Legolas, and turned a dramatically patient look on him while maintaining a firm grip on the back of Glilavan’s collar.

Legolas nodded and silently prayed they would find Tulus soon. Two full days and nights had passed since Glilavan hid him and turned back to help Dolgailon. So much could happen in two days…. Legolas firmly shut down that line of thought. He refused to abandon all hope until he saw evidence that he should.

“Is that a rock over there?” Glilavan asked, squinting northwest. He gestured with his chin for them to move closer to a dark form pressed against a tree several dozen paces away.

Galuauth waited for another nod from Legolas before moving forward a few paces.

Legolas’s horse followed, prancing, its hooves clattering against the hard ground. Legolas studied the forest carefully before removing his hand from his bowstring to stroke the animal’s neck.

The horses Radagast had persuaded to carry them north were wild—unaccustomed to carrying riders and not entirely willing to leave the sunny plain to explore the shadows of the forest. If anyone was more anxious than Tureden to complete the journey to Dolgailon’s village, it was them.

Glilavan thrust his arm out, pointing.

The sudden movement made both Legolas and his horse jump.

“That is the outcropping of rocks where I left him,” Glilavan declared loudly enough to cause a bird to startle out of its nest and flutter hurriedly away. “I am certain of it.” He nudged his heels against the flanks of the horse he shared with Galuauth.

Galuauth, in turn, tightened his legs against the horse’s side. “I see movement there,” he whispered.

“Yes. My adar, no doubt,” Glilavan replied, kicking the horse more forcefully.

When the horse’s nostrils flared, Legolas thought it had finally lost its temper with the conflicting messages its two riders were giving.

Then he saw eyes, glinting in the moonlight. More and more eyes, emerging from the darkness and advancing on them swiftly. A moment later he heard it—clanking armor, labored breathing and the occasional frightened or pained squeak.

Orcs!

He drew his bow and took aim at the nearest figure, his heart sinking as he did. If Glilavan was correct that his father was over there, the approaching enemy would not fail to discover him. He let his arrow fly just as both Manadhien and Glilavan drew sharp breaths. The cry for help that Manadhien would have loosed was stifled by Tureden’s hand clamping over her mouth. She emitted a muffled, incoherent noise instead.

“Oh no!” Glilavan whispered. His hand instinctively reached for his bow, but encountered nothing.

Galuauth grasped his wrist. “Do not get any ideas,” he ordered in a low voice while trying to persuade his horse to move closer to Legolas. The horse had other plans. It danced and huffed so furiously that Galuauth barely managed to keep it from fleeing altogether.

“Get control of them and fight!” Tureden ordered, directing himself to Galuauth. A glance showed he had no hope of doing the same. Between Manadhien’s desperate attempts to free herself and his horse’s wide-eyed terror, Tureden was fully occupied.

Legolas’s first arrow dropped the nearest orc. He yanked a handful more from his quiver.

“After them! Keep on their trail! Do not let them escape!” an elven voice shouted from the trees, north of them. Several orcs in the back of the advancing pack collapsed to the ground, arrows protruding from their backs.

Legolas loosed three more arrows of his own before the approaching orcs realized they were running straight into more danger. When three of them reeled backwards, clutching arrows in their chests, the rest slid to a halt so suddenly that their comrades behind them plowed into their backs, shoving them a few more steps forward. Then they all dove behind any available shelter and returned attack.

Legolas’s horse reared as arrows whistled past, pawing the air and forcing Legolas to twine his fingers in its mane to keep from being thrown. It bucked in a circle, panicked and unable to decide which direction to run. Its neighing nearly drowned out the orcs’ alarmed squeals.

“You are only making matters more difficult,” Legolas protested, but there was no hope he could bring the undisciplined animal under control. He leapt to the ground.

The horse wasted no time fleeing west, immediately followed by its two companions.

Legolas dropped to one knee to make himself a smaller target and focused on eliminating orcs. In his peripheral vision, Tureden was struggling to right himself while shoving Manadhien towards Galuauth with one hand and reaching for his bow with the other.

Given his guard’s awkward posture, Legolas fleetingly wondered if he had willingly dismounted or if he and his prisoner had been thrown. Despite the seriousness of the current situation, Legolas could not help but smirk. If Radagast could speak to horses as he spoke to birds, those three horses would certainly give him an earful the next time they ran across him.

Galuauth dragged Glilavan and Manadhien behind the largest tree he could find, pressed them between it and himself and held them in place as best he could with one arm around each of them.

Legolas’s brows rose as he reached for another handful of arrows and began releasing them. Was Glilavan helping Galuauth to keep Manadhien from escaping? He spared a moment to fully glance at them as the orcs’ attack—and numbers—dwindled. Glilavan had a handful of Manadhien’s hair twisted around his fingers.

“Over there!” Tureden called, turning his bow towards a place south of the original group of orcs where the undergrowth shuddered and rustled.

Legolas jerked his attention back to the battle. Tureden flinched when one of Legolas’s arrows flew past him. An orc pitched forward, out of the brush, and fell face down on the ground, writhing and clutching its gut.

Tureden cast an annoyed glare over his shoulder before releasing his own arrow.

Legolas barely noticed. Orcs swarmed out of the bushes like bees from a hive. These did not carry bows. When they spotted the new enemy, they charged forward, brandishing swords and axes. Draw, release, shift another arrow to his string. That was all Legolas had time to think about now.

“There are too many!” Tureden yelled.

A pile of orcs had already formed in front of the bushes, but the elves on the far side of the battlefield still drove more and more forward in search of an escape.

Tureden shifted his stance backward, as if to retreat.

“We will hold this position,” Legolas said, never pausing in his attack.

The orcs kept coming. Some tried to flee to either side of Legolas and Tureden. A few rushed straight at them, slathering.

Tureden loosed several more arrows and then, with the orcs within sword’s range, he shouldered his bow and drew his blade, throwing his weight forward to meet the coming onslaught more solidly.

Legolas positioned another arrow against his bowstring, drew and released. One of the fleeing orcs fell.

“Your sword!” Tureden called, raising his own to a high guard.

Legolas placed two arrows on his bowstring, drew and released. Two more fleeing orcs dropped.

“Your sword! Now!” Tureden ordered. His began a downswing to fend off the blade of the nearest orc.

Legolas took a step back, loosed one more arrow to prevent one more orc from escaping and finally did as Tureden demanded—he shouldered his bow and pulled his sword free of its scabbard just in time to parry an attack. The orc drove Legolas’s one handed grip on his blade down with relative ease, using its full weight against him. Legolas sidestepped. The orc’s momentum carried it past. Tureden drove his offhand weapon—a knife as long as Legolas’s forearm—into the orc’s spine without so much as a backward glance.

Legolas drew his own belt knife and was on balance before the next orc was in position to attack him.

He plunged his sword under its breastplate. Ducking beneath the swing of another enemy, he placed his foot on the fallen orc’s chest to yank his sword free. The force of that effort cut the legs from under another charging orc. Legolas straightened and parried a blow aimed at his head.

Someone, and it was not his guard—Tureden still stood in front of him—finished that orc.

Legolas glanced to his right and saw Dollion. To his left, Seregon slit the throat of the orc he fought. Galithil’s friend, Galasserch, and several elves Legolas did not recognize stood on the opposite side of the group of orcs.

They had the remaining enemy surrounded.

Legolas allowed himself a grim smile as he swung at an arm holding a sword that was striking out towards him. Sword and arm flew through the air. Tureden relieved that orc of its head.

Finding themselves outnumbered and with no hope of escape, the orcs began to panic. They broke ranks entirely in an effort to charge through any gap between the elves. Grateful his training masters were correct about orc discipline, or the lack thereof, Legolas aimed a hacking blow at the neck of the nearest enemy.

Before he knew it, the forest was once again silent, save for the groans of dying orcs.

Sword raised, Legolas searched for any further attack. He saw only his guard, two captains, and three warriors. They were all inspecting him with open concern.

Legolas drew a deep breath and lowered his sword. “I am uninjured,” he said, looking for something clean it with. There were plenty of orc corpses to wipe it on.

Dollion, Seregon and the warriors broke into smiles. Tureden did not cease his scrutiny.

“Adar!” Glilavan shouted into the silence from the tree where he still sheltered with Galuauth and Manadhien. Legolas reflexively spun towards the noise in time to see Galuauth’s hand cover his prisoner’s mouth. Glilavan turned his head to the side. “We have to help my adar,” he managed to get out.

“Be silent,” Tureden demanded, pointing his sword at Glilavan. He turned a glare on Legolas. “Are you satisfied that he is doing nothing more than leading us into a trap?”

Legolas scowled.

“He led us straight into an orc lair!” Tureden exclaimed.

“I did not!” Glilavan retorted. He pointed towards the rock he had originally intended to approach. “My adar is there. Please, we have to get him out of here. Before more orcs come.”

Legolas looked at the rock jutting up into the air. A dead orc, with a yellow-fletched arrow in its eye, was sprawled against it. Several other orcs lay all around it. If Tulus was there…. He turned a pitying gaze on Glilavan. He understood all too well how it felt for a son to fear for his father…to hold out hope in the face of hopelessness for his father’s survival….

“We saw no evidence the orcs had a prisoner,” Dollion said with an alarmed tone, looking between Legolas and Glilavan.

Glilavan ignored him. “Please,” he pleaded. “We came this far. We cannot abandon him now.”

“Glilavan,” Legolas began, his voice sympathetic. “With those orcs there, Tulus could not be…”

“He is not dead!” Glilavan cut him off. “I would know it if he were!”

Legolas clenched his jaw. That was the very same hope he clung to.

He readied his sword and, disregarding Tureden’s frustrated growl, strode towards the stone, praying Glilavan was correct that they would find Tulus. More realistically, the least they could do, having failed to reach him in time, was see to it that his body—whatever the orcs had left of it—was properly cared for.

Tureden pursued him.

Legolas rounded the rock and tree and peered into the shelter they formed, bracing himself to see his friend’s broken body.

“Is he unconscious?” Glilavan called.

Staring at the ground, Legolas shook his head. He saw…nothing. Nothing at all. “He is not here.”

“Of course no one is there,” Dollion and Seregon said together, sounding confused.

“How could anyone be where three dozen orcs were only moments ago?” Seregon asked.

“And why would Tulus be there at all?” Dollion asked.

“This is where I left him. I am absolutely certain,” Glilavan exclaimed, speaking over them. He pointed to a place where the tree trunk was split and grew on either side of the rock. “I remember that. Where is he?”

“He was never here,” Tureden answered. He had knelt down to inspect the ground. “There is no sign of him. The only tracks are from those orcs.” He looked at Legolas. “He is leading you to your death. We must get out of here while we still can.”

“I am not doing anything but trying to help my adar. We have to search for him.” Glilavan drew a sharp breath, but the call he intended to make was cut off by Galuauth’s hand covering his mouth again. Glilavan struggled against him.

“What is going on here, my lord?” Dollion asked, coming up along side Legolas. “Why do you expect to find Tulus here? And what is he,” he pointed at Glilavan, “doing here. The King exiled him before the festival.” He paused and then continued in a strained voice. “And where is Lord Dolgailon? I thought the message we received said that you found him. Alive.”

Seregon, Galasserch and the other warriors all stared at Legolas, awaiting his answer.

“Dolgailon is safe,” he answered quickly. “We left him with Radagast. In Rhosgobel. To heal from his wounds. But Radagast promised us that he would recover.”

“Thank the Valar,” Dollion and Seregon whispered together. Then Dollion gestured towards Glilavan with a raised brow.

“Glilavan is trying to kill us all,” Tureden answered before Legolas could speak.

“I am not!” Glilavan exclaimed.

“Tulus was in the village, spying on Manadhien for the king, but he was captured,” Legolas intervened. “Glilavan says he rescued him from orcs and hid him here to go back for Dolgailon…”

Dollion’s brow climbed higher and he studied Glilavan.

“Tulus is not here and never was,” Tureden interrupted. “Glilavan is trying to find an escape for himself and…”

“Enough!” Legolas cut him off. “I believe Glilavan expected to find Tulus here. Perhaps Tulus was aware of the orcs approaching and he sought a better hiding place….”

“Glilavan said his leg was broken,” Tureden interrupted again. “If someone with a broken leg dragged himself away from here, we would see evidence of it.”

“Not if he moved before the rain stopped,” Galuauth suggested. “That deluge would have washed away the tracks of a passing army.”

“And it likely did,” Legolas muttered, looking back at Seregon, Galasserch, Dollion and the warriors. Surely their presence, chasing orcs, was a good sign. Surely it meant they had held the village.

“Why would he move hours ago, before the rain stopped, when the orcs were just here now?” Tureden exclaimed, exasperated.

“Perhaps he moved when the orcs first marched through here on their way to attack the village,” Seregon suggested.

Tureden drew a breath to debate that assertion.

Legolas had no desire to hear his words. He needed to find out how the village had fared and he wanted to know what had stopped Galithil from accompanying Dollion, Seregon and Galasserch to hunt orcs. That meant he needed to conclude this search for Tulus now. Without waiting for Tureden’s argument, Legolas loosed a sharp whistle—a long note with rising pitch—the signal he and Tulus had trained to use when separated in battle.

There was no return call.

Legolas allowed his eyes to close briefly.

“Have you lost your mind!” Tureden exclaimed into the silence. “Must we keep you quiet as well?”

“Try it. And learn how I will respond,” Legolas retorted with a forbidding tone while shooting his guard a sidelong glare. Then he turned to Glilavan. “I am sorry,” he said softly.

Glilavan shook his head. “We have to search for him. He must be nearby. He could not walk by himself. West,” he declared, pointing in that direction. “He would have gone west. If we go in that direction, we will find him.”

Legolas remained silent as Glilavan spoke, allowing him to make his argument. “We will go west,” he agreed, keeping his voice gentle. “And we will look for him as we go towards Dolgailon’s village. But I think you must consider the possibility that we will not find him. At least not alive. He would have answered my call if he was nearby and able….”

Glilavan made a slicing motion through the air with his hand, in an effort to cut Legolas off. “We will find him!” he insisted.

Legolas said nothing more. He only signaled for Galuauth to get ready to move. Then he turned towards Dollion and Seregon, intending to ask about Galithil.

“You!” Galasserch snarled, before Legolas could speak. He leveled his still drawn sword in Galuauth’s direction.

Eyes wide, Legolas looked to where Galasserch pointed.  

Galuauth and Glilavan’s movements in preparation to leave had revealed Manadhien kneeling next to the tree where Galuauth had pinned her during the battle. Galasserch stormed towards her as she struggled to her feet.

“Stop!” Legolas ordered, taking a long step forward to intercept him.

Tureden intervened at that order, bodily checking Galasserch’s charge.

“She set orcs on my village!” Galasserch yelled, trying to step around him, while still pointing his sword at Manadhien. “They killed my naneth.”

Legolas’s heart lurched at that statement.

Galasserch finally managed to shove Tureden aside. He backed Manadhien, who had only just found her feet, against the tree and stood nose-to-nose with her. “How could you lead orcs against us? We trusted you to defend us and you betrayed us!” he spat into her face, ignoring Tureden’s hand grasping his arm and pulling him back.

Manadhien lifted her chin and laughed. “You and your family trusted the king, never me. Now you understand, as I have long understood, the value of promises made by the House of Oropher. Thranduil is not capable of keeping you safe.”

Anger surged through Legolas at that accusation, a fury so overpowering that he found himself driving the tip of his sword into the ground in front of him to hold himself back from advancing on her himself. How dare she make such claims! His father had given his life to keep that village safe!

“Traitor! Liar!” Dollion growled, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. “The king and the warriors he led have twice prevented your orcs from murdering everyone in that village.”
 
“They would not have murdered everyone,” Manadhien replied. She fixed her gaze on Galasserch. “They were only ordered to eliminate fools—anyone loyal to Thranduil.”

Galasserch made another lunge towards her. “That would be everyone in the village!” he shouted, as Tureden held him back.

“Leave her,” Legolas ordered, as Galasserch’s closed fist narrowly missed boxing Manadhien’s ear. “I will not see her abused.”

Galasserch whirled around. “You will not see her abused?” he repeated, voice rising in pitch. “She destroyed my village. She is responsible for the deaths of dozens of elves….”

“Including your naneth,” Legolas interrupted, keeping his tone level. “And also my grandparents and uncle.” He paused for emphasis. “And possibly our king. I am well aware of her crimes and I will see her face justice for them. She will stand before her victims—all of them that wish to confront her—in court. This,” he stabbed his finger downward towards the muddy ground, “is not that court.”

Galasserch ground his teeth together, but took a step back. “Of course not, my lord,” he managed. “I beg your pardon.”

Legolas nodded once and continued in a softer voice. “I deeply regret your naneth’s fate. I would have prevented it if I could.”

Galasserch lifted his gaze and glared at Manadhien. “My family has never doubted the king’s dedication to this forest. I know you did everything possible. The village still stands due to your efforts.”

Legolas laid a hand on the young guard’s shoulder. “And yours,” he said quietly. Then he turned to Seregon and Dollion. “The village did resist the second attack, then?” he asked.

“We did,” Seregon replied. “The only task left is to hunt down the enemy that escaped the battle.” He waved a hand at the orcs lying scattered around them.

“No more remain between here and Rhosgobel.” Legolas said. “We finished two other groups on our way north.” He looked with disgust at an orc at his feet. “What of Galithil?” he asked, holding his breath.

“He remains in the village, ordering its recovery,” Dollion answered.

Legolas loosed the breath he was holding as quietly as he could and nodded. “I think it would be best for us all to return to the village to help him and secure these prisoners.”

“Agreed,” Tureden replied, signaling Galuauth to take charged of Glilavan and seizing Manadhien’s arm himself.

Legolas chose to ignore the rough way he handled her. Instead, he started north.

Seregon jogged up along side him while fixing Manadhien with a deadly look. “Some of her,” he spat the word, “allies remain in the village, my lord. Some of the guard that was loyal to her and not the king.”

Legolas nodded. “I have not forgotten them,” he replied. “You are certain they are still in the village? They did not try to escape with their mistress?”

Seregon shook his head. “None of them stood by her once they realized she was allied with orcs. I will give them that much. And they were all too seriously wounded to flee after the battle. I told Salabeth and her apprentices to keep an eye on them. They await your judgement, my lord.”

Legolas’s only reply was to continue striding towards the village. He wanted to see this business finished, with all Manadhien’s allies imprisoned alongside her, as quickly as possible.

*~*~*

Standing at the top of the stairs to the Hall—a makeshift dais—Legolas looked beyond the prisoners before him and at the village behind them. Despite years of experience in court, he struggled to keep the dismay he felt from showing on his face. The rising sun illuminated the damage the village had suffered. Its eastern side, right up to the court yard, was burnt beyond recognition. Legolas could not distinguish which blackened trees had once held telain and which had not. Where would the elves gathered around him, watching him judge Manadhien’s allies, sleep? And how would they rebuild? With what materials? Burned trees? With what work force? In the court yard laid the bodies of the elves killed in the battle, warriors and villagers whose family members were too badly injured themselves to claim them. They were covered with blankets.

“I swear, my lord, I had no idea she was allied with…Him,” Lumil concluded and then he fell silent.

He was on his knees, alongside Baranil, Solchion and Manadhien’s advisors, at the foot of the stairs. They had been dragged from their beds in the Hall and put there by Seregon and other villagers loyal to the king. Lumil’s hands were clasped in front of him and Legolas had the distinct impression he would have looked upon an attacker brandishing a weapon in much the same way he was looking at him at the moment.

“But you confess you knew Manadhien intended to usurp the king’s rule?” Galithil demanded from his place to Legolas’s right.

“I knew she intended to replace Lord Dolgailon in this village, at least,” Lumil admitted.

Galithil took a step towards him, fists clenched at his sides.

A seething murmur erupted from the crowd.

Lumil thrust his hand out in front of himself, defensively or pleadingly, Legolas would not have ventured to guess which at the moment. “I knew her ultimate goal was to overthrow Lord Thranduil,” he hurriedly conceded. He allowed his hands to fall to his side and his shoulders slumped. “She claimed she could offer us a better defense against the orcs. And she seemed to do so.” His brows drew together sharply. “How she managed that is clear now, of course, but we had no idea she was allied with the enemy before this attack. I swear it,” he repeated.

Baranil, Solchion and the advisors nodded their agreement.

“Send them from the forest!” one of the villagers yelled. He pointed at Lumil, waving his finger like a sword.

That demand was immediately taken up by at least a dozen more elves, becoming a steady chant.

Legolas silenced it with a raised hand. “You might be spared the fate your fellow villagers demand if you tell me who else was involved in this conspiracy,” he said.

Lumil lifted his gaze to face Legolas, shaking his head and spreading his hands wide. “But I do not know of anyone else, save Gwathron and Mornil. They were her most trusted allies, but we heard they were killed in the battle.”

Legolas studied Lumil and then each of the elves beside him in turn. He saw no lie in their eyes. Perhaps they did not know the identity of Manadhien’s remaining servant, if she had one.

“They do not deserve the protection and comforts of the forest they betrayed,” a villager called. “Send them away!” Again, a large number of elves took up that cry.

Legolas regarded them silently. Manadhien’s allies would likely be safer outside the forest, if the mood of this crowd was any measure of the future they faced, but it was simply not his place to make such decisions. That right still laid with his father.

“Hold them in a talan,” he ordered, directing himself to Seregon. “I will take them back to the stronghold when I return there. In the meantime, no one speaks to them unless I am present.” He looked at Tureden. “Make sure a member of the King’s Guard watches them at all times.”

He started down the stairs as the guards began pulling the prisoners to their feet.

The surrounding crowd continued shouting.

“Lock them in a cell in the bowels of the mountain and we will see if they turn into dwarves,” one person shouted as the guards began to lead the prisoners away.

“Or the orcs that they are,” yelled another.

“Better that than releasing them into exile,” a village guard said. “Remember what Moralfien’s friend, Bronil…or Demil…whatever his true name was…remember what he did when the king exiled him.”

Everyone looked at Legolas. He forced his expression to remain impassive.

“Exile. Imprisonment. Either is better than they deserve,” an elleth shouted, her voice shaking. “Just as my son deserved better than death by an orc’s blade.” She turned to Legolas. “How can they be allowed to live when they took the lives of so many elves in this village?”

Lumil’s head spun around and he gaped at that elleth, shock and fear written plainly on his face. A good many other elves did the same and a hush fell over the crowd.

Legolas again refused to visibly react, but his heart began to pound. The elleth had not directly called for anyone’s death, but her words would loose a storm Legolas would have much preferred to avoid. He felt more than saw Galithil step shoulder-to-shoulder with him on his right. Engwe also took a long step forward, almost enough to interpose himself between Legolas and the villagers.

“Are you suggesting Lord Legolas should kill them?” Galasserch exclaimed.

The elleth said nothing. She only continued staring at the prisoners, her expression pinched with pain.

Galasserch drew his sword from its scabbard and shifted his grasp on it, as if to offer it to her. “If I hand you my sword and bring this elf to you right now,” he gave Baranil a slight shove, “is that a deed you would be willing to undertake? Truly?”

Tears welled in the elleth’s eyes and she looked away.

“Enough, Galasserch,” Legolas said in a quiet, reproachful voice. It served nothing to further upset someone who was already grieving.

“Melwen is not Lord Legolas,” another villager called, stepping between the elleth and Galasserch. “Lord Legolas has already been called upon to defend this realm against Moralfien’s allies, including Demil. And Mauril. We all have heard that.”

Legolas’s heart beat harder.

A murmur spread across the crowd. People nodded, most with pity, a few with satisfaction in their eyes.

Seeing that satisfaction made Legolas’s stomach clench.

“He should defend us again,” the elf concluded.

The murmur erupted into a roar--people reacting to and arguing that demand.

“He already did defend us!” Galasserch yelled over them all. “He fought the orcs with everyone else. He scouted south to warn us more were marching against us. But asking him to kill elves?” He shook his head. “I lost my naneth in this attack. I do not believe she would want to be the cause of further bloodshed.”  

“Nor would my brother,” someone else agreed.

“They deserve it!” and “Look at this village!” others shouted.

Galithil and Engwe both drew a breath to enter the argument.

“Enough,” Legolas repeated in a voice just loud enough to rise over the others. The shouting quieted and Legolas took a moment to meet the gaze of everyone that had spoken. “I am not debating this decision,” he said. “These elves,” he pointed at the prisoners, “are returning with me to the stronghold to be judged by the king…”

“You are our king now, my lord,” someone interrupted.

“My adar is our king,” Legolas retorted, a little more sharply than he intended, “until his fea passes to Mandos’ Halls, which, I assure you, has not yet happened.” He paused to govern his tone and make sure it carried all the authority these villagers seemed willing to give him. “But I will tell you this much: if it does finally fall to me to judge these elves,” he pointed at Manadhien’s allies, “I will not consider executing them. I deem that they are not responsible for the orcs’ attack on this village. I believe them when they say they did not know Moralfien was allied with the enemy….”

The crowd buzzed again.

Legolas continued, speaking over them. “Moreover, until I took it from her, Moralfien was in possession of a craft of the Evil One. One that I believe enabled her to bend people to her will…”

The whispers around him grew louder and everyone, including the prisoners—including Galithil and Engwe—appeared stunned.

“I will not speculate to what degree these elves were masters of their own actions. And I will not take measures against them that cannot be undone until I determine to what extent they can be made to see the folly of their deeds. That is my final word on this matter.” He paused for emphasis. “Unredeemable evil I shall never offer quarter. You may count on that. All else I have been taught to judge with mercy and so I will do. If you cannot accept that, then I recommend, if it should come to such an end, that you not accept me as your king.”

By the time Legolas finished speaking, the only sound to be heard was the song of birds, awakened by the rising sun. A few of the surrounding elves met his gaze, nodding. Those that had called for a harsher sentence stared fixedly at the ground, but nodded also.

“I will follow you, my lord,” Seregon said. “Without hesitation. As I followed your adar and daeradar.”

A chorus of ‘So will I’ sprung up around him.

Legolas had to stop himself from biting his lip. It was not his intent to spur anyone to such declarations.

“So will I,” Dollion, Galithil and Engwe said at once.

Involuntarily, Legolas pressed his hand against his tunic pocket—the pocket that still carried his father’s mithril ring. ‘Aran o Eryn Galen.’ He stood silently a moment, fingering its outline.

“Regardless of what becomes of my adar,” he finally said, “I will always strive to prove equal to the faith you place in me. Still, I refuse to lose hope that the king that has protected this forest for the last two Ages of this world will continue to do so.”

Saying that, and with a glance at Galithil, he strode off in the direction of his cousin’s talan. He had had enough. He needed some rest before he could face anything else.

The same elf that had challenged him before, stepped into his path. “What of Moralfien’s fate?” he demanded, loudly. “Surely we all recognize that she does, in fact, represent an ‘unredeemable evil’ and should be dealt with accordingly?”

Legolas’s hand convulsed around the hard form in his pocket, but he returned the elf’s glare steadily. “Moralfien is, indeed, another matter,” was all he said.

The elf waited for him to continue.

“Make way,” Legolas ordered and he was relieved when the elf stepped back and bowed, allowing Legolas to resume his march toward the talan.

*~*~*

Eyes closed, Legolas leaned his head against the wall. The chair he had collapsed into in Dolgailon’s bedroom was wooden, with no cushions or upholstery, straight-backed and hard as a log. Legolas did not care, so long as he was finally behind a closed door.

Seated at the desk next to him, Galithil made scratching noises with his quill. He had been muttering to himself and writing since they retreated to the bedroom.

The talan was not the refuge Legolas had hoped for. Many villagers needed somewhere to sleep, so Galithil, like everyone else whose home was spared the fire, had houseguests. Galasserch, his father and aunt were staying in Dolgailon’s talan. Their voices rumbled softly in the sitting room, on the other side of the bedroom door.

A feminine sob rose above them.

Legolas squeezed his eyes closed a bit tighter, as if doing so would block out sound. Galithil’s quill scritched along more quickly.

They had already done and said all they could to comfort Galasserch’s family, after all. They spoke to them and everyone else in the village that had lost someone in the battles after Engwe’s whispered reminder that they should. Galithil was even able to supply some personal memory of each elf that had died and his words made their condolences seem so much more genuine. Legolas was very grateful for his cousin’s efforts. Speaking to all those families had clearly weighed on him.

Legolas understood that. Those visits were more difficult, by far, than anything he had ever done. More difficult than any battle he had fought, more difficult than seeing his own friends or family injured, possibly more difficult even than facing his own family’s deaths. He was not responsible for the loss of his uncles or grandparents. He was not, in truth, responsible for commanding the battle in this village, but the people in it looked upon him, in his father’s place, as if he had been.

Legolas opened his eyes slightly and peeked at his cousin. Galithil had helped to command the battle. Had he seen Galasserch’s naneth die? Or any of the other elves that he knew? It was hard to believe he had not. No wonder he had filled an entire page of parchment with…well, the Valar only knew what he was writing.

“The village will need cloth. Wool, especially, but linen too,” Galithil mumbled as he dipped his quill into the ink.

Legolas shook his head and closed his eyes again. A few moments without thinking about the villages or battles. That is what he needed. Then he would help Galithil. He sifted through his recent memories for a more pleasant thought to distract himself and finally conjured up an image of dancing with Aewen at the Fall Festival.

That momentarily raised his spirits, until it reminded him of the feast Seregon told him the village was planning to celebrate their victory over the orcs. Legolas knew such things happened. He had read about them, but he never lived through a victory deemed worthy of a feast. Contemplating it now, he wondered two things: first, what was his role supposed to be? He would have to speak to Engwe about that. And second, where did the village plan on holding this feast, given that there were still bodies in the courtyard and wounded in the Hall. He loosed a long breath. He simply did not understand the concept of a feast after such a horrible battle. Perhaps he would after experiencing it.

He doubted it.

“The winter is a good time to stay inside and sew,” Galithil’s voice droned on. His pen stilled briefly. “With luck it will be a light, short winter. At least here in the south.” He tickled Legolas’s cheek with the feathery end of the quill to get his attention. “You know more about these sorts of things than I do. How much wool would you say we will need?”

Legolas left his eyes closed a moment longer before opening them and sitting straighter in the chair. He stared at Galithil’s paper. It was covered, top to bottom, with a long list of requests to take back to the stronghold.

“How many elves lost their homes?” Legolas asked, trying to focus. Despite his efforts, his gaze drifted from the desk to the window in Dolgailon’s room. The sun was bright outside. Perhaps a walk into the forest would be better.

If only the forest floor was not strewn with orc corpses, he reminded himself.

“Eighteen families. Sixty-three people,” Galithil replied.

Legolas drew a deep breath. “No less than two and a half bolts, then.”

Galithil recorded that amount on his list.

Legolas’s eyebrows climbed. “Galithil,” he whispered, conscious of the voices of Galasserch’s family just on the other side of the bedroom door. “You know we do not have that much wool to spare.”

Galithil did not even pause in his writing. “I know precisely how much wool is in the store rooms. Five bolts. We brought it from Dale ourselves.”

“For nana and her ladies to make winter cloaks and tunics for the warriors…”

“And, under the current circumstances,” Galithil interrupted, “I am certain these villagers would be overjoyed to have the queen’s help making winter cloaks for those that lost their telain. The people here have enough to do. If they can be spared the need to sew cloaks, all the better. Now.” The quill moved down to the next line on the list. “Clay is next. We need to haul clay from the river before the winter freeze, else we will have nothing to cook in. How much of that do you suppose?”

“Five pounds per large bowl. A little less for a dinner plate. Half that for a cup,” Legolas answered. “You do remember Maethorness’s village was attacked as well? She will have also suffered losses and will need supplies.”

“Maethorness’s villagers are not my concern. Mine are,” Galithil said while calculating the number of plates and bowls and cups needed per person on a scrap of paper and multiplying that sum by the weights of clay Legolas had provided. When he finished, he added another line to his list.

Legolas leaned over and took the quill from him.

They glared at each other in silence a moment before Galithil reached to retrieve the quill. Legolas sat back and withdrew it further. “How do you suppose we will fetch that much clay from the Celduin to this village, on the opposite side of the forest?” he asked.

Galithil shrugged. “The warriors can carry it,” he replied, also leaning back in his chair. His expression dared Legolas to contradict that suggestion.

“Galithil!” Legolas exclaimed. “There are no warriors! You know how many were wounded…!” He silenced himself and glanced at the door again. The voices on its other side had fallen silent.

“If there are no warriors, they will not need cloaks, so that solves the wool problem,” Galithil responded.

Legolas loosed an exasperated groan and gave his cousin a kick with the toe of his boot. “Be serious!”

“I am serious.”

Legolas ignored him and touched the measurement of clay with the tip of the quill, yanking it back when Galithil snatched at it. “You might as well ask for that amount in mithril. These are impossible requests.”

“And I suppose you think that Maethorness’s will be more reasonable?” Galithil asked.

Legolas open his mouth to argue, but found he had no response. He did not even want to imagine facing that elleth’s demands.

“It is my duty, in Dolgailon’s absence, to represent the needs of this village,” Galithil continued. “To prevent more deaths, if I can,” he said under his breath. “It is your duty,” he went on in a stronger voice, “to weigh the needs of the entire forest. I recognize that. But do not think that the fact that we are cousins will stay me, even slightly, from advocating for these people.” He thrust a finger behind himself to point out the window of the talan.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and started to retort that Galithil should not expect the fact that they were cousins would influence his decisions regarding how to fill the requests. Before he could speak the words, he closed his mouth again, not certain if it would be appropriate to engage in any sort of banter about what would or would not influence his decisions if…if he had to make decisions in the future. Instead of speaking, he prayed silently that he would not be responsible for managing the aftermath of these battles—and not only because that job would be nearly impossible.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” Galithil said quietly. “I did not intend to make you think about your adar. I just need to get these requests ready… and I hoped that a bit of work would help distract you. Distract us both.” He looked down. “That might work for me, but perhaps you have worked your way through too many difficulties this season already after Demil and Mauril. I am sorry. Sincerely.”

His adar. Demil. Mauril. Thinking of them brought to mind Celonhael’s death. His grandparents’ deaths. And Tulus’s assignment in this village and subsequent disappearance. Too much. Too much loss. Too much of it by his own hand. Eyes stinging and fists clenched, Legolas stood abruptly and walked towards the window.

Never. Not once in his life had he seen his father cry. Not after Celonhael’s death. Not after Amglaur and Limmiel’s. Not even after Aradunnon’s. Strength, even if only a facade of strength, was critical to…ensuring that people felt confident in their own safety…the king’s leadership…. Both, Legolas supposed. And much more. Whatever the reason, he no longer felt free to allow his true emotions to show. Even in Galithil’s presence. And that was a very…stifling…lonely…unexpected feeling. A feeling more burdensome than any he had experienced since his father’s injury.

Behind him, Legolas heard the cap of the ink jar clatter into place. Then a chair scraped against the wooden floor. A moment later, a hand grasped Legolas’s shoulder and Galithil pulled him around to face him.

“So, the way I see it, you probably either want to punch me or you want me to find you a handkerchief. Which is it?” he asked in a mostly teasing voice.

Legolas glared at his cousin. “At the moment, I think I would prefer punching you,” he replied.

Galithil shrugged. “Fair enough. Have at it.” He planted his feet a shoulder’s width apart, as if readying for an attack. “Just have bit of pity for my bad arm. That is all I ask.”

Legolas rolled his eyes skyward and half turned away.

Galithil stepped around to remain in his field of vision and fixed him with the same sort of look he normally wore when preparing to argue that they should do something utterly insane. “Legolas,” he began, his voice perfectly serious.

Legolas tensed and braced himself, unable to imagine what his cousin was about to propose.

“We have known each other our entire lives. I have seen you at your absolute worst. Many times. All the times you were injured and brought to tears from pain. All the times you were brought to grief from the loss of an uncle or grandparent or friend. All of your pathetic attempts to court Aewen.”

Legolas’s jaw clenched involuntarily and tightened even further when Galithil’s eyes lit with amusement.

“And even that time you lost your temper and finally let Anastor have what was coming to him.” He paused and smiled. “You really walloped him that day. As funny as it seemed to me at the time, I realize now that the people in this realm should be very glad you had a strong example of mercy in justice throughout your upbringing, else your temper could really make a tyrant out of you.” Galithil was careful to say that last with an unmistakably joking tone.

Despite himself, a snort of laughter escaped Legolas and he shook his head.

Galithil’s smile broadened in satisfaction before disappearing altogether. “What I am trying to tell you is this: you may be my king now, but we are still cousins. We have been raised as brothers. I will support you without question, always, no matter what doubts or fears you have privately divulged to me. Just as my adar did for yours. Remember the arguments they had? Some were so grand that we both feared they would come to blows. Still, my adar never failed to follow yours, because he knew—he knew—your adar was a great king.” Galithil paused and his gaze intensified. “I know you Legolas. I know you every bit as well as you know yourself. And I will follow where ever you lead until the end of Arda.”

Legolas stared silently at Galithil for a long moment. He had no idea how to respond.

Galithil grinned and leaned back against the window sill, cradling his splinted arm with his uninjured one. “After all, if I did not follow you, the Valar only know what would happen to you. I am constantly getting you out of trouble, you know.”

The absurdity of that assertion made Legolas laugh out loud. “I think you must be confused, gwador nin,” he said. “Between the two of us, I am not the one who could find a different sort of mischief under every leaf.”

Galithil continued as if he had heard nothing. “Look what happens when I go to my village for a few weeks: you end up in the range of the Southern Patrol. You go south of the Forest Road! To Rhosgobel! What would happen if I left the realm for a month? Would you end up in Mordor?”

“I would not be surprised if one day I must go to Mordor to extract you from its pits,” Legolas interjected, trying to sound serious, but failing.

Galithil still refused to acknowledge Legolas’s barbs. “Indeed, after all you have done the last few days, you should be thankful that it is impossible to confine a king to his room, else your naneth might have confined you to yours. You might have even seen the inside of one of the cellars that Uncle Thranduil used to threaten us with. The Forest Road, Legolas? Even to retrieve my brother and arrest Manadhien, that was far more insane than the worst idea I ever had. Try to deny it,” he concluded with a smirk.

A jumble of responses boiled to Legolas’s lips. The first was to remind Galithil that he was not king yet. The second was to remind him how much worse the outcome of the battle in this village would have been if he had not gone south. The third was to repeat some of the ‘worst ideas’ Galithil had in the past that easily rivaled traveling to the Forest Road. But none of those arguments were the point. The point was that Galithil had managed to tease him to distraction. He had managed, if only for a moment, to make him laugh in earnest and forget all that lay ahead.

“Thank you, gwador nin,” he said, casting his cousin a sincere, if weak, smile.

Galithil smiled back, but his eyes gleamed. Unchallenged, he was not through with his teasing.

Long experience told Legolas there was only one way to respond to that—go on the offensive. “I saw a Nazgul, you know,” he said in a very offhand manner, knowing the shock that would deliver. It was possible to joke about it now, since they were safely ensconced in a talan guarded by three of the King’s Guard. “It stood not a dozen paces from your brother and reprimanded Manadhien for the loss of so many orcs, if I understood it properly. She should probably be glad to be going to adar’s cells rather than the pits in Dol Guldur. The enemy has little tolerance for failure, it would seem.”

“That is one thing they have right then,” Galithil said softly. Then he loosed a somewhat forced laugh. “You saw a Nazgul! Of course you did! And Sauron himself, I suppose. I hope you remembered your manners—and your language lessons—and invited them both for tea? Can you speak the Black Speech or only understand it?”

“Neither. And I fear I forgot my manners entirely,” Legolas answered, “and aimed an arrow at the Nazgul. Luckily, Tureden was there to remind me that one cannot fight the Nazgul with arrows, so I left off that attempt. It marched off with the army attacking Maethorness’s village before it noticed us and Tureden never got around to telling me how one does fight the Nazgul. Do you know? Have you learned that in the training program or while helping the Troop Commander?”

Galithil stared at him, half amused, half trying to determine if he was serious.

Legolas suppressed a smile—he had him—and raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how to fight them?” he repeated.

Galithil’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” he whispered. “Did you honestly see a Nazgul?”

Legolas nodded, feeling slightly guilty for taking the topic of the Nazgul so lightly, but he desperately needed some amusement and watching Galithil’s expression cycle through doubt, fascination and utter horror was definitely amusing. It was a rare accomplishment to truly surprise him.

“Fire,” Galithil managed to choke out. “I asked adar once and he told me almost nothing hurts them, but they are weakest in the daylight, typically do not cross water and if they are wearing any sort of raiment, it can be burned and they hate fire. I cannot believe you are serious! What was it like? Adar and Dolgailon both told me that being near one is like facing fear itself.”

“It was terrifying,” Legolas responded, his voice now serious. “It never saw me, fortunately. Still, I could barely keep from throwing myself to the ground in complete panic. I am very glad only the King’s Guard was there to see that and they can be trusted not to gossip.”

Galithil shook his head. “I do not think anyone would dare criticize you for reacting badly to a Nazgul! Pray your adar and naneth never hear about this. You might never leave the stronghold again.” Then he stepped closer and punched Legolas on the arm. “I cannot believe you saw a Nazgul and I did not. I am jealous and I cannot deny it!”

“This from the elf that claimed he did not want to be a warrior only a fortnight ago.” Legolas retorted, pretending to rub his arm. Then he frowned and looked more closely at his cousin when he grimaced.

Galithil made a scoffing noise. “I learned, in no uncertain terms, over the last few days how foolish that wish was,” he muttered.

Legolas raised his eyebrows and studied him, but did not pursue that topic when his cousin refused to meet his gaze. Instead he returned to teasing him about the Nazgul. “I am certain you could probably find the Nazgul if you only went a day or two south. You could take Manadhien as bait. After leading a second army of orcs to their utter destruction, surely she is being hunted. If the Nazgul take her, you will have the opportunity to see one and, at the same time, you will solve one of this realm’s largest problems.”

Galithil looked at Legolas sidelong. “Will you…?” he began, before cutting himself off and waving his hand in the air to erase his words. “Never mind,” he said.

For a long moment, Legolas said nothing. Galithil told him ‘never mind.’ He offered him an escape. But, this was a problem Legolas dare not deny he needed advice to solve. And not a moment ago, Galithil had promised to listen without judgment.

“I am not yet certain,” he finally replied quietly. “I admit, I have given it thought. In case I do have to make this decision. I have thought about all that adar and Celonhael and everyone else argued. I tried to imagine myself ordering her brought to me so that I could….” He worked his jaw, but the words would not come out. “I cannot even bring myself to say it, Galithil,” he whispered. “What if I do not have the courage to do it?”

If any admission tested Galithil’s claim that he would follow Legolas regardless of anything he confessed to him privately, that did. Legolas trusted his cousin’s word. Implicitly. Even so, he held his breath.

“I do not think it is a matter of courage,” Galithil answered after a moment’s thought. “If you weigh all sides of the decision and conclude that to execute her is to do evil, then you cannot do it. You will not do evil to fight evil. I have heard you argue that many times, both in theory for lessons and in practice at council meetings. It is not in your nature to behave in such a way, so you must find another way to prevent her from harming the realm and family you are now responsible for. That will not be easy. It may, in fact, be the option that requires more courage, since it incurs more risk. But you will manage it.”

Legolas looked back up at his cousin. “Thank you, Galithil,” he said solemnly. “Again.”

Galithil shrugged and gave Legolas a half smile.

Legolas returned it before walking back to drop into the hard chair next to the desk.

Galithil followed and leaned on the desk. “This village needs leadership,” he said after a long silence. “Strong leadership. Either Dolgailon or I or some member of our family is going to have to stay here, at least throughout the winter, to undo the damage that Manadhien did.”

Legolas looked up at Galithil with wide eyes and prepared to dispute that. The king’s council was needed in the stronghold! But he held his tongue. Galithil was right—they owed it to the people of this village to right Manadhien’s wrongs.

“If adar does…. If I….” Legolas paused and ground his molars together. “If adar dies,” he forced himself to say, “I will need Dolgailon in the stronghold.”

“In that case, with Dolgailon’s permission, I will stay in the village,” Galithil replied. “Else, I suppose you could relieve yourself of Engwe by sending him here.”

“Shush!” Legolas said, looking over his shoulder at the door as if Engwe might be standing in its threshold. He could not suppress a snorting laugh.

Galithil grinned at him.

“I think nana will still have the final word over where either of us serve this realm,” Legolas continued. “At least for a few more years. And there is no possibility she will let you stay this far south. And if you are thinking about going without her permission, I urge to to remember: there are still those cells you mentioned a few moments ago.”

“I will address that if it becomes necessary,” Galithil replied with a smirk. “And hopefully Dolgailon will support me. I think I can persuade him.” His smirk faded. “But for now, we need to return home, at least temporarily. Your naneth needs us most at the moment.”

Legolas grimaced. He had avoided thinking about how everything that had happened would affect nana. “We will go home as soon as Radagast sends Dolgailon north. So we can travel together. It will be safer and it will make escorting Manadhien and Glilavan easier.”

“I hope he gets here soon,” Galithil said, not bothering to conceal his worry.

“So do I,” Legolas agreed. His worries were much bigger than his cousin’s.

*~*~*

AN: The title of this chapter is adapted from this quote from John Ruskin: The first test of a truly great man is his humility. By humility I don't mean doubt of his powers or hesitation in speaking his opinion, but merely an understanding of the relationship of what he can say and what he can do.

Adar — Father

Naneth/nana — Mother/mum

Gwador nin— sworn brothers

Aran o Eryn Galen — King of Greenwood

A deceitful peace is more hurtful than open war

Legolas tapped his horse’s side, guiding it eastward on the last fork in the path, the final approach to the stronghold. He could see the mountain’s shadow rising above the tree tops. Soon he would begin to see cottages and telain. The horse trotted along faster, sensing the end of their journey. Legolas let the animal set its own pace. He was too focused on the forest to notice much else. He reveled in the…energy…life… almost magic that was at its strongest closest to the King’s stronghold and the elves that thrived around it. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the sensation as he never had before. He returned now with a much clearer understanding of how fragile and hard fought the peace surrounding his home truly was. A peace the southern villages simply did not know….

He made an effort to push morose thoughts aside. They were, after all, almost home. Dolgailon, Galithil, Engwe and the guards, including Dollion—all of them safely home.

Well, one person was missing.

‘I did everything I reasonably could,’ Legolas repeated to himself for the hundredth time, even as his heart contracted. Dolgailon and Engwe even agreed he had. Tulus would prefer for him to focus on the good that came of it all. He would be pleased that Manadhien had finally been captured—something Tulus had long worked to see done. He would even be pleased Glilavan was once again the king’s prisoner. That was a far better fate than Mandos’ Halls. Or Dol Guldur.

‘Please let Tulus be with Namo and not Sauron,’ Legolas silently prayed. Then he forced his attention back to his surrounds.

Was it the events of the last week coloring his perceptions or did the forest not seem as vibrant as it normally did? He looked surreptitiously at the beeches that lined the path and then at Dolgailon, riding next to him. His older cousin was studying the trees as well. They were definitely subdued—whispering instead of humming merrily. The birds within them were singing their evening songs, but softly. Insects were coming alive as the light retreated for the evening, but rather than their typical bright chirps, their notes seemed long and solemn.

It might be the cold. The air was crisp enough that snow could cover the Green tomorrow morning. Or at least frost.

But it was not just the weather.

Legolas watched a lark perched on a cottage they were passing. The bird was fluffed out and huddled down between the roof and chimney against the cold wind, but that did not seem to be the reason it remained silent. Its head pivoted slowly around when it felt Legolas’s gaze and it stared back at him with distinctly doleful eyes.

Even the cottage itself looked sad. No light shone through the curtains. The door was shut. No smoke arose from the chimney. It was Tawaron’s cottage. Legolas frowned at it.

“Tawaron is one of the warriors I ordered to the border to support Delethil’s patrol, my lord,” Dollion said in response to his expression.

Legolas nodded. That explained the empty cottage. Cottages, he corrected himself while surveying the forest. Obviously a good many warriors were temporarily spread out to the far reaches of the realm.

Perhaps that was why no merry-making could be heard from the Green.

A minstrel was singing, to be sure. He had just finished a song—one Legolas barely knew, about the beauty of the forest. The same minstrel immediately took up another song, this one apparently about the charms of the winter season. Legolas could not remember ever hearing it before. It was cheerful enough, but hardly good for dancing. And no one joined the minstrel for the chorus.

“What an odd song to sing,” Galithil commented in a quiet voice. “No one even knows it. Why is he singing it? It does not sound very popular.”

“The popular songs all feature Thranduil,” Engwe whispered. “Or at least mention him.”

“Oh. True,” Galithil replied. He grimaced guiltily as Dolgailon fixed him with a disapproving glare.

“Are we not to mention adar’s name for some reason?” Legolas asked in a normal tone of voice. It practically echoed in the silence that cloaked the forest.

“The people will naturally be worried about him,” Dolgailon said.

A disgusted snort came from the back of the procession of elves. Manadhien’s reaction. Or possibly Glilavan’s. Legolas preferred to ignore both their presences. At least for as long as he was able to do so.

“And it is likely that the Queen is awaiting our arrival on the Green,” Engwe added. “The minstrels are, no doubt, attempting to be considerate of her feelings.”

A growl—definitely Manadhien—followed the mention of Lindomiel.

“Keep her silent lest I am forced to silence her,” Legolas ordered without so much as a glance over his shoulder. A muffled and immediately stifled cry of protest floated forward. Legolas disregarded it and turned to his uncle instead. “Neither nana nor I are going to mourn adar while he is still alive. And he is alive.”

“As you say, my lord,” Engwe replied, with a nod that was nearly a bow.

Legolas ground his teeth together to prevent himself from snapping at his uncle. Somehow, Engwe’s current extreme courtesy was even more annoying than his typical incivility.

No one else ventured further comment. Instead, a moment later, as the barnyard on the edge of the Green came into view, everyone in their party slowed and dropped back.

“Lord Legolas! It is Lord Legolas! They have returned,” a voice called from the Green.

Legolas searched for the source of the voice and his brows shot up. It was Torthil, his constant rival at the Oak, standing on a part of the Green that had just come into view. And he sounded pleased—excited even—to see him. He was pointing at Legolas with one hand, while waving the other, signaling his as yet unseen companions to join him. The minstrel immediately stopped playing and shouts arose, repeating Torthil’s announcement.

Fixing a neutral expression on his face, Legolas allowed his horse to canter forward and he led the way to the Green, inspecting the approaching crowd for any familiar, comforting faces as he broke through the trees. Almost immediately, he spotted Eirienil and Berior dashing in and out between the people surging towards him. They planted themselves at the head of the path, grinning at him amongst the now cheering elves. Before Legolas could smile back, Aewen and Brethil appeared next to them.

“Oh, thank Elbereth!” Aewen cried, looking from Legolas to her father, Dollion. She openly sagged with relief against her mother when she finally arrived at her side.

Maidhien, Anastor and Noruil popped into view. Upon seeing Legolas at the head of the returning party of elves, Noruil’s eyes widened and then immediately rolled skyward.

Legolas’s back stiffened. This was far too public a place and much too inappropriate a moment for any of Noruil’s cheeky comments.

The moment the horses set foot upon the Green, Noruil looked up at Legolas, one brow raised, one side of his mouth quirked down, chest puffed out, and drawing a breath to speak.

As Legolas cast about in his mind for something to say that might seem innocuous, but still be plain enough to discourage Noruil, Maidhien’s hand shot out of the folds of her skirt and grasped her cousin’s thumb. She gave it a sharp wrench, bending it in the wrong direction. Noruil yelped and jerked away, throwing her a dirty look.

A smile finally reached Legolas’s lips. “Thank you, Maidhien, and well met,” he said, slipping off his horse. One of the grooms from the barn rushed forward to take hold of its headstall. Blocked from view by the groom, Legolas leaned closer to Noruil. “You can say whatever you like…make any jokes you care to make…later. Inside the stronghold. Hold your tongue now,” he whispered into his ear. No one but his cousins and friends could have heard him over the shouted greetings of the crowd.

Noruil made a face at him, but hid it, at least partially, with an overly dramatic bow.

Berior, Brethil and Anastor immediately followed suit, with much more sincerity, accompanied moments later by the elves surrounding them. Maidhien and Eirienil bobbed a curtsy. Aewen might have as well if she had not been otherwise occupied embracing her father as he dismounted.

“And I thought the Silvan were fools to follow Thranduil,” Manadhien said loudly. “Now they are willing to follow children.”

At the sound of her voice, Dannenion and Dolwon’s heads snapped around and they both took a step back. Noruil straightened up from his feigned bow and stared at her with wide eyes.

“Is that her?” Maidhien whispered, reaching for Galithil’s hand and pressing herself against his side, half hidden, to look at Manadhien from over his shoulder.

“It is. It has to be,” Anastor said in a low voice. He moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Galithil, blocking his sister from view and never taking his eyes off Manadhien.

Legolas gave them a single nod. “It is her,” he said softly.

“Are those the traitors?” someone shouted, pointing at Manadhien and Glilavan, still sitting high above the crowd on their horses. “The ones who led orcs against their own people?”

All eyes looked first at the prisoners and then shifted to Legolas.

“That is Manadhien,” he confirmed. “Some of you might know her from the Old Capital as Marti or from Lord Dolgailon’s village as Moralfien. She stands accused of treason for many reasons—most recently for leading orcs against the southern villages.”

“Shame!” “Despicable!” “Disgraceful!” the surrounding elves began to yell, along with more personal comments directed at Glilavan from those who had served with him and under his command. He physically crumpled under the weight of them. His shoulders slumped and his head hung so low that his chin touched his chest.

Legolas could not help but feel a stab of pity for his former captain. His closest friend’s son. “Help them down from their horses,” he called to Galuauth.

Amongst it all—oblivious to it all—Aewen stepped away from her father and threw her arms around Legolas. “I am so glad you are back safely,” she exclaimed, hugging him tightly and burying her face against his neck.

Legolas automatically returned her embrace, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Manadhien, chin held high against the accusations aimed at her, looking down her nose at Aewen. Looking at her with far too much interest and disdain.

“Take them to the Hall,” he ordered as Galuauth pulled Manadhien from her horse.

“Yes, my lord,” the guard replied. He grasped both prisoners by the arm and began hauling them through the crowd.

“She ought to be tried for murder too!” one of the Sixth Years called as she passed him.

Dolgailon stepped forward. Since Aradunnon’s death, he had assumed his father’s duty to manage the populace’s questions for the king whenever they returned together from battle. “She will be,” he answered. “The king will hear all her crimes.”

Legolas loosened his hold around Aewen’s waist. He should face the people’s questions himself. And Dolgailon could barely stand. He was leaning heavily on Lanthir, still unable to bear weight on his injured leg. He needed to go into the stronghold to rest.

“What of the battles?” another warrior from the Training Program, this one a Third Year, called. “Were the orcs completely destroyed?”

“They were,” Dolgailon responded and he began to elaborate, relying on details Legolas and Galithil had related to him, not ones that he had seen or managed himself.

Legolas took a step towards him.

“May I carry anything else for you, my lord?” an assistant groom asked, stepping in front of him and blocking his path.

Legolas stopped short, but annoyance turned swiftly to amusement at the sight of the groom. He was already holding the small pack of clothes, borrowed from Galithil, that Legolas had carried from the village, along with two larger packs, a strongbox and a locked chest. He did not look as if he could carry more—he had no free hand or arm to tuck anything else under. Just the same, he was dutifully looking between Legolas’s bow, sword and—his brows rose involuntarily—the filthy, blackened leather pouch at his waist. The pouch that Legolas had taken from the orc and that still concealed Manadhien’s ring.

“I can manage my weapons. And this,” Legolas replied, brushing the pouch with his hand. “Thank you.”

The groom bowed awkwardly, packs shifting and slapping his legs as he did, and moved off towards the stronghold after Galuauth.

Following his movement with his gaze, Legolas caught Manadhien looking over her shoulder as Galuauth tugged her along, eyeing the pouch. He released Aewen altogether and turned enough to hide it from Manadhien’s view. She leveled a cool glare on him for a long moment. Then she lifted her gaze and fixed it on something behind him.

Someone, perhaps? Her face took on an arrogantly satisfied light and she made a slight nod.

Legolas whirled around and scanned the crowd. His cousins, friends…and Dannenion and Dolwon…stood immediately behind him, where she had been looking. But both Dannenion and Dolwon were engaged in shouting questions to Dolgailon, asking how their kin in the southern villages had fared. Legolas turned back to Manadhien. She had reached the middle of the bridge and was now craning her neck to inspect the Gates. He could not suppress a snort. ’Take a good look. You will never pass through them again,’ he said to her back.

Just before Galuauth pulled her through them, she cast one, last look over her shoulder at the Green, somewhere behind him.

Before Legolas could study the crowd further, the elves around him suddenly grew quiet and parted, moving swiftly to stand on either side of the path. Lindomiel, Hallion, Golwon and Arthiel came into view at the far side of their ranks. All of them, minus Arthiel, who was openly searching for Dolgailon, appeared exactly as they would on any other evening of merry-making on the Green. Perfectly serene. Legolas knew better. Even in the certain knowledge that neither Nana nor Uncle Hallion would say anything to him in this setting, Legolas could not stop his shoulders from tensing as he bowed at her approach.

Arthiel managed a quick curtsey and waited long enough for Legolas to nod to her, before rushing past him to reach her husband.

Lindomiel, Hallion and Golwon stopped in front of him, still studying him.

“My lady,” Legolas murmured in greeting, when his mother said nothing.

Emotions darted across her face—relief, joy, and, strangely, grief as well. “Oh, Legolas,” she said, voice shaking, “I know who you are and I know I should contain myself until we are inside the stronghold.” She reach towards him with hands that trembled. “But I find that I cannot.” With that, she grasped Legolas’s shoulders and drew him into a tight embrace.

Legolas returned it and his brows drew together sharply as guilt jolted through him. “I am sorry, Nana. I would never, for all of Arda, cause you grief. I would not have done this, save that, in the moment, I truly felt I had no choice if I was to comply with my duty to this realm.”

Lindomiel nodded and loosened her grip on him, but only so that she might put an arm around Galithil as well. “I do not doubt that,” she answered. “I know you both,” she squeezed Galithil’s shoulder, “acted to preserve the southern villages. And you succeeded against terrible odds.” She stepped back to look at them. Legolas could not stifle a gasp when he saw tears in her eyes. “As the Queen of this forest and its people, I am grateful.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I am also your mother. And while I have always known my son and foster sons would eventually become captains, I was not prepared for that to happen quite so soon.” She tried to smile, to lighten her words, but it was a watery smile, at best.

“I am hardly a captain, my lady,” Legolas replied. “I was fortuitously in the proper place to aid Dolgailon and the Southern and Western Patrols. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps we should go into the stronghold,” Hallion interjected quietly.

His underlying suggestion—to the privacy of the stronghold—was perfectly clear.

“An outstanding suggestion,” Engwe responded and, without waiting for anyone else to speak, he slipped between Lindomiel, Legolas, Galithil and the surrounding elves to make for the bridge.

Several of the elves he shouldered aside stifled laughter and shook their heads.

“For once, he is right,” Legolas said under his breath before adding in a stronger voice, “Dolgailon needs to rest. He is still healing and we have been traveling since dawn. Let us go inside.”

Brethil stepped forward. “Can we come?” he asked, gesturing at Anastor and Noruil.

Aewen immediately turned to Eirienil and Maidhien, her expression pleading for an invitation as well.

Anastor’s eyes brightened and he grinned at Brethil’s suggestion.

“Do not be stupid,” Noruil said, giving his cousin a shove. “We live in that mountain now. We have to go with him. Just like Berior and Eirienil.”

“But I do not live there,” Brethil said, “and you do not live with Legolas and Galithil, where we can all talk. Please, Legolas! Can we come?”  

Legolas loosed a quiet sigh and laid a hand on Brethil’s shoulder. “I still have work ahead of me tonight—managing Manadhien, at the very least—and, to speak perfectly frankly, I am very anxious to see my adar.”

Brethil bit his lip. “Of course you are.”

“Still, you are very welcome to join us in the stronghold. I would appreciate your company if you do not mind that I might be a bit late returning to my room.”

Brethil nodded with an eager smile that he tried to temper out of respect for the king’s condition.

“But, if you come,” Legolas continued, “please do not ask Galithil and I for details about the battles. Not tonight. Alright?”

Brethil’s brows furrowed and he drew a breath to protest that request, but the argument never passed his lips. He cut himself off and nodded instead. “I understand.”

Legolas offered Brethil a smile that he hoped was cheerful and turned to Dollion. “I am certain you are anxious to spend time with your family, but if you could spare a few moments more?”

“Of course, my lord,” Dollion replied, joining the large group poised to follow Legolas into the stronghold.

Legolas held out his arm to his mother, to escort her inside, and headed towards the bridge when she took it. The crowds made way for them.

*~*~*

Manadhien was studying the forest scene that decorated the brightly lit entry hall, when Legolas, surrounded by his family and friends, crossed into the stronghold. Her gaze ran up the pillars, carved as tree trunks, to the arched ceiling, carved to represent tree boughs. Some of the leaves of the trees were not painted, but rather set with green gems that sparkled in the torchlight. Manadhien openly lusted after them.

Legolas stopped just inside the Gates, staring at her. Even now, with a guard at her shoulder and her hands bound behind her back, her eyes swept over the hall as if it would soon be hers. His hand involuntarily convulsed into a fist.

“Close the Gates,” he ordered when everyone had passed through them.

Aewen and Brethil shot a wide-eyed stare at him. Anastor, Noruil and even their parents raised their brows when the Gate Guards hurried to comply.

Manadhien drew an audible breath as the stone doors closed and the seam between them disappeared.

Legolas did not acknowledge any of them. Instead, he turned to Dollion. “The Gates will stay closed until the king orders differently. No one enters unless they have legitimate business inside the stronghold. All those going out of the stronghold, even members of the family, must identify themselves and be recognized before they are allowed to leave.”

Now even Hallion was watching him intently.

Legolas did not care who thought he was overstepping his bounds. He had sacrificed too much to deliver Manadhien to the king’s judgement. He would not allow a mistake to lead to her escape now.

Dollion bowed. “Understood, my lord.”

“And, Dollion, I know the Guard is stretched to its limits at the moment, but,” he paused for emphasis, “only members of the Guard are to stand at the Gates. If you are working with Sidhion to allow the Sixth Years to share the Guard’s duties, they may not perform that one. Likewise, we will be placing a constant guard on Manadhien and Glilavan. Only officers of your Guard and members of the King’s Guard,” he glanced at Tureden, “may take part in that duty.”

“Understood, my lord,” Dollion repeated.

Tureden echoed him.

Hallion seemed to relax and he inclined his head to Legolas.

Legolas found his approval ridiculously reassuring. He faced Dollion again. “Your service throughout these battles was absolutely invaluable and I appreciate it greatly,” he said, making certain his gratitude showed plainly in his tone and expression.

“Agreed,” Dolgailon chimed in.

Dollion bowed again, more deeply. “Thank you, my lords. It was, as always, my pleasure to serve this realm and you.”

Legolas smiled at him. “I do not want to keep you from your family any longer. We will decide what is to be done with Manadhien and Glilavan. Tureden will brief you tomorrow on what we decide.”

“By your leave then, my lord, I will join my wife,” Dollion replied. But, instead of departing, he looked past Legolas to Lindomiel.

Legolas tensed. Through everything else that had happened, he had forgotten that the queen sent the captain of the Palace Guard to retrieve him. He did not want Dollion to be in trouble for his failure to do so. He stepped closer to his mother. “I refused to return with him, nana,” he whispered quickly. “Like Hallion, I put him in a position he could scarcely argue with. If you are angry, I am responsible for that, not Dollion.”

Lindomiel only reached again to squeeze Legolas’s shoulder—he could not escape the impression she was trying to convince herself that he was really there. Then she directed herself to Dollion. “Like Lords Legolas and Dolgailon, I also appreciate all you did over the last week. Sincerely,” she said. “But now it is definitely time for you to spend time with Menelwen. Say good evening to her for me, please? She and I have spent a fair amount of time together over the last few days.” Worrying, was the unsaid word that completed that sentence.

Dollion appeared relieved. He bowed once more before kissing Aewen’s forehead and departing through the Gates.

“Let us go into the Hall, shall we?” Hallion said.

Legolas nodded, glancing at the members of the King’s Ruling Council, while gesturing for Galuauth to precede them with the prisoners. The guard pulled Manadhien away from her inspection of the Gates and towards the Hall. Legolas’s uncles, mother and Dolgailon followed. Only Galithil lingered, holding Maidhien’s hand and waiting for his cousin.
 
Legolas turned to Maidhien. “Could you please take everyone else through to the sitting room?”

She nodded, bobbed a little curtsey and placed a kiss on Galithil’s cheek before doing as she had been bid.

Dannenion made a face in response to that gesture and stalked off in the direction of his own rooms.

As he always did, Galithil laughed out loud.

Legolas could not stifle a wry laugh either. “After losing an arm defending me!”  he whispered, watching until Dannenion and Dolwon disappeared through the guest chamber doors. “Apparently any goodwill he feels towards me does not extend to the idea of you marrying his daughter.”

“And never will,” Galithil replied. “I accepted that long ago.”

Grinning, they turned and strode down the center aisle of the Hall, past Manadhien, who was gazing at the tapestries that lined the walls, until they reached the meeting table at the foot of the dais.

Lindomiel was watching Manadhien, though from a distance. A distance that Galuauth appeared to be enforcing. He had gone so far as to release Manadhien and Glilavan’s arms to do so. Glilavan stopped where Galuauth left him, but Manadhien wandered forward, studying the scenes on each tapestry, until she reached the very base of the dais. There she looked up at the map of the forest behind it.

“This did come out well and no denying it,” she said out loud as she stepped onto the dais.

Hallion took two furious steps forward before Legolas caught his arm. “Do not let her bait you,” he said quietly. “Leave me to manage her.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Hallion replied, but he still glared at Manadhien.

“I am so pleased you approve,” Lindomiel replied through a locked jaw.

Manadhien turned and looked down at her from in front of the Queen’s throne. “You had a fair amount of practice, after all. Remaking it how many times?”

Lindomiel returned her glare levelly.

“Sit. All of you sit,” Legolas said softly.

Engwe, Dolgailon, Golwon, Berior and Galithil moved to their normal places around the table, or pulled out their chairs if they were already near them.

Legolas stepped over to his accustomed seat, to the left of the head of the table, and waited for his mother to take her seat next to him. Then he sat. Hallion sat across from him and everyone else settled into their places.  

“Manadhien, come here,” Legolas ordered, still without turning to look at her. He lifted a single finger from the surface of the table to arrest Tureden’s movement towards the dais when Manadhien did not immediately comply. “Glilavan,” Legolas added, nodding towards an empty spot on the floor behind the chair at head of the table.

Glilavan went where he was ordered without argument.

“We need to discuss what we are going to do with you, Manadhien,” Legolas said, ignoring the fact that she still stood on the dais. “I am very tired of the bloodshed that you insist upon causing and I want to make sure that you understand it is going to stop.”

Manadhien loosed a loud scoffing noise.

“You have nothing left to purchase alliances,” Legolas continued, speaking over her. He leaned forward and pulled one of the packs the groom had carried into the Hall towards him by its straps. Once it was within reach, he flipped it open. “This is all you now possess. Two sturdy dresses, which we took from your wardrobe, and some underclothes.”

She made an indignant sound as he rifled through the scant contents of the pack.

“A comb and some hair ribbons,” he continued, “because Galasserch’s aunt insisted that such things are a necessity for ellyth.” He closed the straps, buckled them and tossed the pack onto the floor next to Glilavan, where he intended for her to stand. “Take them or refuse them. I do not care. The rest of the clothing and furniture in your talan, along with the talan itself, we gave to the villagers to replace some of the possessions your orcs destroyed.”

That was met with absolute silence.

“Your valuables, I claimed for the realm.” He reached for the second pack, strongbox and chest. “Or for the king’s family.” He dumped the contents of the pack. A silver chain, some tools—gem working tools—and a tapestry fell from it. “This is for you, my lady,” Legolas said, standing and holding the tapestry up for his mother to see. It was a silver tree and a gold tree. “It is not entirely a fair trade—this tapestry is so much smaller and less expertly done than the one Marti destroyed—but it is pretty, so it might be worth hanging somwhere.” He folded it back and gave it to his mother.

Lindomiel’s expression was exactly what every member of the King’s Ruling Council was expected to wear in court. Nothing more.

“It would at least make good kindling,” Engwe muttered.

That caused Lindomiel’s eyes to laugh.

Legolas smiled at his uncle. “These,” he continued, picking up the tools, “I will have Criston and Crithad study. They can have them if they want them.”

Manadhien snorted at that.

“And then there is this.” Legolas picked up the silver chain. Small keys dangled from it. He used one to open the strongbox. Stacks of letters sprung up from inside it. “Manadhien is a meticulous correspondent. We have here ample evidence, in her own hand, of her handiwork conspiring against the King. He will be interested in these.”

“As if they were necessary now,” Engwe added. “After her deeds over the last week.”

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed, while selecting another key from the chain. “And what do we have in this chest?” He unlocked and opened it. “A bag of gems. Those will go into the treasury. And around two hundred gold coins.” He picked up a handful of them. “All marked with the signs of Easterlings. Whence might these have come?” he asked, allowing anger to sound in his tone.

Galithil loosed a long whistle. “That is what you are worth, Legolas? That is a fair sum. At least I know what of value I have to sell should the need ever arise!”

Legolas smirked at his cousin as Hallion and Dolgailon aimed a squelching glare at him.

“With the king’s leave, I will give a share of this to Anastor and Dannenion. I think they earned some recompense. The rest will go into the treasury.” He reached again into the chest. “Lastly, amongst your possessions, Galuauth gave me this. He found it when he searched you.” He held up a blue gem between two fingers, so she could see it.

That finally had the desired effect.

Manadhien rushed down the dais and at Legolas. Galuauth and Tureden stopped her before she reached the table and dragged her next to Glilavan. “Give me that,” she demanded. Her tone was commanding, but Legolas was familiar enough with authority to recognize an undertone of desperation when he heard one.

He studied the stone with an air of indifference. “When I first saw it, I could not imagine why you kept it. It is badly marred. It looks like a jewel smith’s first, failed attempt to cut a stone. But Galithil explained to me you have had it since the First Age. Your naneth made it for you and your adar gave it to you. Before you left Aman.” He held the jewel in the palm of his hand. “And it was damaged in the many battles you have fought. I can understand its value to you.” He stood and handed it to Galuauth. “You may have it back,” he concluded, gesturing for Galuauth to turn it over to her.

The guard tucked it into the pack with the rest of her remaining possessions.

Not a hint of gratitude showed in her eyes. Quite the opposite.

“Radagast assures me that it is a plain gem. Nothing more,” Legolas added, while seating himself. “My point is, Manadhien, you have nothing. Nothing. No wealth. No position. No ability to hide. Your names—all of them—and your deeds are known through out this forest. And in Lothlorien and Imladris. We have spoken to the Lords Elrond and Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel, all of whom remember Manarinde Alcaremartiel very well. Your face is known to every person in the southern part of this realm and to all the villagers on the path to the stronghold. You could not hope to hide inside this forest or outside it, unless you remained in the wilds.”

She fixed him with a cold look.

“Moreover, I was there when the Nazgul spoke to you.”

Golwon, Lindomiel and Hallion all cut short a gasp. Berior did not manage to stifle his own.

Manadhien’s eyes widened.

Legolas nodded slowly. “Oh yes. I witnessed the entire conversation. Of course, I do not understand the Black Speech, but the meaning of his words was plain enough. He took you to task for the number of orcs that died in the first battle, correct? And debated with you the value of spending more on a second effort?”

Manadhien said nothing.

“I understood your answers perfectly well, since you made them in Westron,” Legolas continued. “You promised him the second battle would be an easy one. That the king was dead and the southern villages were ready to fall. That was why he marched with one hundred orcs to Maethorness’s village and allowed you to send your orc captains north to Dolgailon’s village with one hundred more. All told, you destroyed around four hundred orcs in those battles, did you not?”

Manadhien remained silent.

“Not to mention the fact that you lost the very valuable prisoners that you promised to deliver to Dol Guldur,” Legolas added with a glance at the Troop Commander.

Still no reaction.

Legolas leaned back in his chair. “You did not even deliver on the claim that you and your orcs had killed the king.”

“If he is not dead by now from that blow to the head, he will be soon enough,” she was finally goaded into saying.

Lindomiel’s eyes narrowed and she made to stand.

Legolas grasped her arm and held her in place. “Careful, Manadhien,” he warned in a low voice. Then he continued speaking as he had been before. “The king will live, but since I did, briefly, fear I might face the task of sentencing you myself, I spent some time contemplating what I would do with you. My choices, and the king’s, are either to execute you or hold you prisoner.”

She made another scoffing noise.

“We can hold you here. In a cell. Underground. Never to see the light of day again. Make no mistake, it could happen. No one can leave this stronghold when the Gates are closed, save by the king’s will. And you have no allies left to help you escape.”

“Liar,” she spat.

“Fuinil is dead?” he asked Hallion. “You saw his body? You recognized him, beyond any doubt?”

“I did, my lord,” Hallion answered.

“As did I,” Lindomiel added.

Manandhien’s eyes widened the slightest bit.

“I personally saw Demil, Mauril, Lagril, and Pelin die last month,” Legolas continued. “Of course you knew their fates. Perhaps, like Fuilin’s, you do not know Gwathron and Mornil’s. They died in the battle in Lord Dolgailon’s village after they were forced to abandon their efforts to carry you to safety. I also saw that with my own eyes.”

Tureden shot him a surprised look, which Legolas ignored, for the moment.

Manadhien now was blinking. Hard.

Remembering his Uncle Celonhael, grandfather and grandmother, Legolas found it hard to pity her. “Glilavan, do you intend to help her escape?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” Glilavan answered in the most meek voice Legolas had ever heard from him.

“That leaves you with no allies, Manadhien. Still, imprisoning you is such a risk.” Legolas paused until the silence provoked her to look back at him. “We could execute you. I killed Demil to protect Dannenion and Anastor. I killed Mauril in an attempt to protect the secrets of this stronghold. I could kill you, if forced to that.” He was pleased with how completely even his tone was as he made that claim.

Manadhien glared at him with utter hatred.

“But, a simpler solution occurred to me as we were traveling home. We do not have to execute you. We only have to bring you within reach of Dol Guldur. The forces there would be overjoyed to repay you for the damage you have done. Indeed, I imagine the Dark Power there will be searching for you until he is certain you are beyond his grasp.”

Manadhien said not a word. She managed to keep her expression blank. But the shift from hatred to a complete void told Legolas all he wanted to know. That threat had frightened her, as well it should.

He leaned forward. “Hear my words and hear them well, Manadhien: you will go with Galuauth to a cell and you will stay in it. If you do, you will be treated well. If you do not…. There is no one to help you. No where you can go in this forest or outside it where you will not be recognized for what you are—a servant of Sauron. And now there is nowhere you can go where Sauron himself will not hunt you for your failures. You are much better off accepting the mercy I am offering you. Reject it and I will make sure you regret that choice until the end of your days in Middle Earth—an end which will come very swiftly. Do you understand me?”

“I understand perfectly,” she replied.

“Good.” He turned to Galuauth. “Take her to the rooms where we keep the stores for Dale. They should be empty by this point in the winter. Lock her up. Allow her to keep the contents of that satchel, if she wants them, but nothing else. I will have Galion send her a mattress, a blanket and a chamber pot. You may allow in whoever delivers those items and no one else. Guard the cell until Tureden can take stock of the Guard and relieve you. When you are relieved, bring the key to her cell to me. Put it in my hand and no where else.”

“Yes, my lord,” Galuauth said with a bow. Then he thrust the pack into Manadhien’s hands for her to carry, before he escorted her from the room.

Legolas turned to Glilavan. “What should I do with you?” he asked in a quiet voice as the clicking of Manadhien’s heels on the stone floor receded.

“The same, I imagine, my lord,” Glilavan answered without looking up. “Everything you said about Manadhien applies to me as well. I have nothing and no one and I have done terrible evil.”

“True. But you have not participated in all the evils Manadhien did. You did not, for example, join the attack on the villages. In fact, you helped me capture Manadhien. You helped me recover Dolgailon.”

Golwon and Hallion exchanged a surprised glance at that. Lindomiel’s expression softened.

Glilavan still did not look up.

“You are not thinking of letting him go?” Berior exclaimed. “He murdered my adar!”

“Ssshh,” hissed Hallion.

Berior pressed his lips together, but his angry expression did not change.

“I do not have the authority to do anything but manage how to hold our prisoners until the king is able to judge them,” Legolas replied. “And I do not think it would be wise to hold Manadhien and Glilavan in close proximity. Too much could go wrong with that. Lanthir.”

The guard stepped forward, from where he had been standing behind Dolgailon’s chair.

“Take Glilavan to his cottage. No one else has claimed it yet and I believe the essential furniture is still in it. Guard him there until Tureden can relieve you.” He paused. “Glilavan, look at me.”

His former captain met his gaze.

“Your fate is not mine to order. If you stay in place, in your cottage, without causing trouble, I will recommend to the king that he take you again to the Havens. I will tell him you risked yourself to free Dolgailon and you helped to capture Manadhien. If you try to flee, I will come after you myself. And I will not hesitate to do whatever I must to prevent your escape. Understood?”

“I do not want to escape,” Glilavan answered. “I want to find my adar.”

Legolas sighed and only with effort managed to hide the pain that statement caused.

“What about Tulus?” Lindomiel whispered. Then she frowned. “Where is he?”

“Dead,” Legolas answered, also in a whisper. “Or worse. We could not find him when we went after Dolgailon, Galudiron and Hurion.”

Lindomiel, Hallion and Berior all whispered a prayer in response to that. “I am so sorry, Legolas,” Lindomiel added.

Legolas only nodded and gestured for Lanthir to remove Glilavan. Then he turned to Hallion, holding his hands up, palms out, to forestall the rush of words poised on the steward’s lips. “I have no doubt you have a good many questions for me, but there is still one more topic we must address that I would like to dispense with first.”

Hallion settled back in his chair. “Of course, my lord,” he replied.

Legolas smiled at his uncle in appreciation. Then he pulled the black leather pouch from his belt and spilled its contents. A simple, thin, gold ring clattered onto the table surface. “Manadhien had this in her possession. I took it from her. It is a magic ring.”

Everyone but Engwe and Dolgailon’s eyes widened at that.

“Surely not!” Lindomiel exclaimed, reaching for it.

Legolas caught her wrist and stayed her hand.

“Impossible!” Golwon cried.

“How is it magic?” Berior whispered. “I mean, what does it do?”

“I believe it has the power to make its bearer…more persuasive. More difficult to refuse,” Legolas replied.

“Absurd!” Golwon said.

“Enough,” Hallion ordered quietly, leaning back away from the table, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the ring as if it were an unknown sort of snake and he was trying to determine if it was venomous or not. “How can we know it is a magic ring, my lord?”

Legolas could not remember ever hearing him sound more skeptical.

“If it is a magic ring, that explains how she could twist decent people to such wicked deeds,” Dolgailon muttered. His injured leg was stretched out on a chair, so he was already turned at an odd angle to the table, but he also glared at the ring with disgust.

“We know it is a magic ring because, as I reminded you when we last spoke on this topic, she was one of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain,” Engwe added with an annoyed tone.

Hallion shook his head. “That is not proof,” he began.

“We know it is a magic ring because Radagast said it was,” Legolas interrupted him.

Hallion, Lindomiel, Golwon and Berior all spun as one to stare at Legolas.

“Radagast saw this ring, my lord?” Hallion asked.

Legolas nodded. “He noticed it when he was treating Manadhien’s injuries immediately after her arrest and brought it to my attention. He refused to touch it.”

Hallion pressed his lips together and glared the ring for a long moment. “Radagast knows a great deal about animals and herbs,” he finally said, “but I do not think he made a study of magic rings. He certainly did not do so in this forest and, to the best of my knowledge, he has not left this realm since coming to it at the beginning of this Age.”

“I know it is a magic ring,” Legolas insisted. “When we first saw it, when she was still wearing it and we were discussing it, she tried to distract my attention from it with some feeble threat. Her words…I could feel their weight in my mind…”

“I experienced the same when speaking to her about the horses when I went to the village last month,” Dolgailon interjected.

Legolas nodded, but Hallion still regarded them with obvious doubt.

“When I first took it from her,” Legolas continued in a quieter voice, no longer able to look at anyone at the table, “I had ordered Glilavan to carry Manadhien, since she was too badly injured to walk on her own. He refused, ranted a complaint about my insistence that we should go straight back to Dolgailon’s village rather than searching for Tulus and said, if we intended to abandon Tulus, then may the orcs take us all…”

“I am sure you did not abandon Tulus,” Lindomiel said softly. “You kept Dolgailon and the guards you recovered safe.”

“Not to mention preventing the escape of two terribly dangerous prisoners,” Engwe added under his breath.

Legolas looked at his mother and uncle, trying to appear appreciative, though he still felt in his heart he should have found a way to do more for Tulus. “I lost my temper with Glilavan when he said that about orcs, after all he and Manadhien had done,” he continued. “It entered my mind to force him to carry Manadhien, or at least to be silent, and when I thought that…” he frowned and shook his head, gaze fixed on the ring. “I…felt it…the ring…it hummed to life like…well, rather like the Gates or the secret doors, only…colder. I nearly….” He cut himself off and shook his head again. Then he looked back at Hallion. “I am not completely unfamiliar with magic. I can recognize it. This ring is magic.”

Hallion drew further away from the table. “Very well, my lord. Then, the question is, what do we do with it?”

“We destroy it. Now. Tonight,” Lindomiel replied instantly.

Dolgailon nodded. So did Golwon.

“A worthy suggestion, to be certain, with only one draw back: do any of us know how to destroy a magic ring?” Engwe asked.

“How does one destroy anything made of gold?” Lindomiel answered. “We will ask Criston to make a fire in his forge hot enough to melt gold and we will reduce it to a tiny ingot.”

Hallion frowned. “Will that work with a magic ring? Or will the magic in it protect it somehow?”

That suggestion made Lindomiel’s brows go up. Legolas could not deny that it surprised—and concerned—him, as well. He agreed it must be destroyed as quickly as possible, but it had not occurred to him that there might be any obstacles to that now that Manadhien was locked in a storeroom in the lower levels.

“And if it breaks, what happens to the spell on it?” Engwe added. “I, for one, know nothing about how these things are made or if they are dangerous to unmake.”

No one said anything else. They only looked from the ring to Legolas.

“I agree, it might be too dangerous to try to destroy this ring without understanding it better,” Legolas said. “Even if that were not so, it is not truly our place to make this decision. It is the king’s. I cannot believe he would not want the opportunity to at least see this ring and judge its nature for himself.”

Berior and Golwon looked down at their hands in response to that. Hallion remained perfectly still.

“You are absolutely correct,” Lindomiel agreed, just a little too forcefully.

Legolas looked between Golwon, Berior and Hallion, who all refused to meet his gaze. “I recommend we lock it in the treasury until adar can look at it,” he said.

Hallion nodded. “As you wish, my lord. Berior, will you see it is secured?”

Berior’s eyes widened. “Of course,” he replied, voice small. His relief when Legolas scooped the ring back into its leather pouch before handing it to him was unmistakable.

That business settled, Legolas put his hands on the surface of the table and pushed himself to his feet.

Everyone jumped up after him. Even Dolgailon struggled to rise from his chair.

Legolas held out a hand, signaling him to stay in place. Then he faced Hallion. “I know there is more related to the events of the last week that you would like to discuss. I am perfectly aware that I…have a good deal to answer for. But we,” he pointed to Engwe, Dolgailon and Galithil, “traveled a long distance today. Dolgailon and Galithil are both injured and need rest. And I would truly like to see adar.”

“So do we,” Galithil and Dolgailon declared.

Engwe nodded also, too somberly to suit Legolas.

“May we postpone any remaining business until we can see adar?” Legolas concluded. He felt slightly guilty using such a plea as an excuse to avoid confrontation, but he sincerely could not wait much longer to learn how his father fared.

In response, Lindomiel took Legolas’s arm. “Go ahead,” she said, speaking to the rest of the family. “Legolas, Galithil, Hallion and I will follow directly.”

Galithil looked at Legolas sidelong with a grimace. Apparently, they were no more likely to escape their fate than Manadhien.

Berior cast his cousins a sympathetic look and, gathering up the pouch and chest of gold, turned towards the door. Golwon followed.

“It is not my place to interfere between you and Legolas,” Dolgailon said, pulling himself up by clutching the back of his chair, “But I do share in Galithil’s guardianship. As such, and speaking as this realm’s Troop Commander, I want to make it clear that without Lord Legolas’s intervention and participation in the battles…without Lord Galithil’s leadership in my village, especially in its defense, which I specifically left in his charge…Sauron would now be in control of the entire forest, south of the river. At least.”

“The reports we received made that very clear, my lord,” Hallion replied.

“And I read them along with Lord Hallion,” Lindomiel added.

Dolgailon pressed his lips into a thin line and laid a hand on Galithil’s shoulder before looking to Engwe to help him from the room.

Legolas watched them go. Then he pulled his arm from his mother’s grasp and faced her fully. “I do not apologize for anything that I have done,” he said. “I stand by my decisions and actions—every one of them—and accept whatever consequences there may be for them.”

“I do the same,” Galithil added, chin held high.

Lindomiel smiled at them, tears again in her eyes. This time she did not bother to try to conceal them. “How could the king’s heirs do anything less?” she asked. “I only wanted a private moment to tell you how very proud I am of you both. Thranduil would…will…say the same when he hears of all that has happened.”

Legolas remained silent chiefly because he was not at all certain that he had truly heard what he thought he heard.

“And if I may add,” Hallion said, “well done with Manadhien, my lord. Your adar could not have done better. You managed her such that we can at least hope to hold her until…until a decision can be made.”

Legolas blinked at them. “Nothing more? You are not angry? Neither of you?”

Hallion shook his head. “It is my duty to support your decisions, not question them, my lord,” he replied with a bow.

Lindomiel’s smile deepened. “Nor is it my place to question the decisions you make to protect this realm. I was not angry, not after I realized why you went south. I was terrified, but, truth be told, as miserable as it was wondering where you were, that was probably better than knowing. This way, by the time I found out you had fought in the largest battle of your young lives.” She fixed Legolas with a stern look. “And ventured closer to the Enemy than even your adar and cousin Dolgailon dare to willingly go, you were already safe.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “Please tell me that you were lying when you told Manadhien that you were present for her conversation with a Nazgul. Tell me that Dolgailon reported what was said to you and you simply used the knowledge to good effect.”

Legolas frowned and glanced at Hallion. The steward remained perfectly still and silent. “Very well, nana. If you wish for me to tell you that, then I will,” Legolas finally replied.

Lindomiel loosed a frightened little noise and grasped his arm again. “You are home now. And the realm is intact. That is all that matters.”

Legolas patted her hand.

She opened her eyes. “Come, let us go see your adar,” she said.

Hallion stepped away from the table, waiting for Legolas and Lindomiel to precede him from the room. “About your adar,” he said as Legolas pushed his chair back into place. “His condition is very grave. Ready yourself. The effects of such a serious injury can be…a bit shocking to see.”

That warning made Legolas’s heart race. He ignored the fear beginning to churn in his gut by focusing instead on how to best retreat to the family quarters—through the main doors of the Hall or the hidden one behind the tapestry Manadhien had been so fascinated with moments ago. The hidden door was faster, but it closed by magic—magic that prevented him from opening it himself due to his recent his misuse of the secret passage from the stronghold—and he had enough of magic for one night, just as his mother did not need reminders of Manadhien’s evil past. He turned his back on the tapestry and strode down the center aisle of the Hall.

“Your adar has not awakened,” Hallion whispered in Legolas’s ear as they walked.

Legolas frowned. He could not deny that nearly a week of unconsciousness was a very worrisome sign. As inexperienced as he was with battle injuries, even he knew that.

“He required a surgery, to remove pieces of bone from…” Hallion touched his head in the same place where Thranduil’s skull had been crushed.

Legolas drew a long breath. Surgeries of any sort were serious. The surgery his uncle was describing…the implication of what he had said…well, Legolas had never heard of such a thing. He could not imagine…. He shook his head to dismiss that gruesome thought.

“The surgery itself is frightening, of course,” Hallion continued.

“Indeed?” Legolas interjected, dryly.

Hallion made an apologetic face. “But it also required some…changes that will be surprising and even a little disturbing if you are not prepared for them.”

Now Legolas looked at his uncle without any understanding.

Hallion grasped a length of his own hair and tugged on it. “Nothing can be in the way of an incision,” he said.

Galithil, walking on Hallion’s other side, loosed a shocked exclamation and grasped him by the arm. “Are you saying Nestoreth cut his hair?” he exclaimed. “Not all of it!”

“Not all,” Hallion reassured him quickly. “A good bit of it though.” His hand passed from the part of his own hair and down the length of one side of his head. “A good bit,” he repeated.

“No!” his cousin cried.

“I do not care if he remains as bald as a vulture until the world ends, as long as he lives to see that end,” Legolas murmured.

“Well, of course,” Galithil replied.

They passed out of the Hall and into view of the doors to the family quarters. Only one guard stood at them. Legolas blinked at the sight of him. “Pendurion! You are well enough healed to return to duty?” he asked, looking at the guard’s leg. He had been injured, badly enough to be disabled, while defending the king in Dolgailon’s village and he had returned along with Thranduil to the stronghold.

“I have recovered well enough for this duty, my lord,” Pendurion answered with a bow. “Since our ranks are a bit thin at the moment.”

“Perhaps Galuauth and Lanthir’s return will help,” Legolas replied.

“At least their presence will mean there are guards available to escort the queen,” Pendurion said, with a bow to her. Then he returned his focus to Legolas. “Eirienil and Maidhien took Aewen, Brethil and Anastor through, my lord,” he said, while holding open the door. “They will be waiting for you.”

Nodding to Pendurion, Legolas passed through the door, into the passage that held Golwon and Hallion’s rooms.

Hallion hurried past the door to his own chambers, to the end of the short corridor, and stopped at the entrance of the suit that Thranduil’s closest family shared. No guard stood there. The King’s Guard must be diminished indeed. Legolas reached for the door handle to pull it open, but Hallion grasped it first and stood aside to allow Legolas to pass through it.

“A few more details about the king, my lord,” he whispered.

Legolas stifled a sigh. Hallion’s ‘warnings’ were doing nothing positive for his nerves. Worse, his voice might draw his cousins and friends. They were speaking softly in the family sitting room and Legolas wanted to avoid them until he had a chance to visit his father. He picked up his pace.

“Nestoreth will not be with him,” Hallion said.

Legolas did not care which healer or apprentice was sitting with his father. He focused his attention on the end of the corridor and his parent’s room. At least there was a guard there. Upon seeing Legolas, Belloth came to attention. “My lord, welcome home,” he called.

“Thank you, Belloth,” Legolas replied. “It is definitely a pleasure to be back. And thank you for seeing my adar home safely.”

Belloth nodded gravely and opened the door he guarded.

Without waiting for more worrisome observations from Hallion, or even an invitation from his mother, Legolas rushed through the door.

The sitting room in the front of the suite was dark. Lindomiel silently led the way through it to their bedroom. A light shone through its door. The light of the fireplace in the room, from the way it flickered. Legolas followed his mother towards it. Dolgailon, he could see, was already sitting in a chair next to the bed. He turned at their approach. Another figure stood. Legolas expected to see Engwe, but his uncle was standing behind Dolgailon’s chair. An apprentice then, he thought, making to greet whoever it was as quickly as possible, without being rude, so that he could finally see his father. Then his eyes widened when he finally truly looked at the elleth approaching him.

“Helindilme? What in all of Arda?” he exclaimed, but even as he spoke, he realized why he was seeing the healer from Imladris. She was a surgeon. One with experience dating to the First Age. One who had seen all five Wars of Beleriand, the War of Wrath and the War in Mordor. Seeing her was reassuring and alarming all at once. Adar’s wound was so serious they called her back to treat it? Perhaps he should have listened to Hallion’s warnings.

“Lord Legolas,” she said, with a curtsey.

He inclined his head to her.

“Who is this?” Galithil asked, sounding utterly confused.

“Helindilme is a healer from Imladris,” Legolas explained. “The Lady Galadriel sent her. She arrived when you and Dolgailon were in your village and delivered some information about Manadhien to the king.” He turned back to the healer despite his cousin’s even more incredulous look. “I assume we owe the king’s survival to you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see you.”

As he spoke, Lindomiel settled on the edge of the bed next to Thranduil’s still form. She pulled his hand from under the blankets and pressed it between both of her own. “Legolas and Galithil are finally home, meleth,” she said in an overly cheerful tone. Then she placed his hand on the bed and beckoned to them. “Come greet your adar, Legolas.”

Helindilme took a step forward, as if she might intervene against that request, but she stopped herself.

Legolas, followed by his cousin, stepped over to the bed and looked properly, for the first time, at Thranduil. He felt a sudden, overwhelming gratitude for Hallion’s warnings and vowed on the spot never to dismiss the king’s steward again. His father was an alarming sight. He had visibly lost weight. He was still, pale, and sunken into his bed, with black circles around his eyes from the blow he had suffered. One side of his head, covered with bandages, did look quite vulture-like. And his breathing was labored.

Legolas steadied himself and knelt next to the bed. “This is why everyone is so somber,” he could not stop himself from whispering, still staring at his father.

Standing behind him, Galithil grasped his shoulder.

“Hush,” Lindomiel admonished.

“Aunt Lindomiel, Legolas—Legolas above anyone else—has to recognize the seriousness of this,” Dolgailon said gently.

“As Lindomiel must, apparently” Engwe added. His tone, if not his words, was kind, at least for him.

Even so, anger flared in Lindomiel’s eyes.

As it did in Legolas’s heart, but he made his best effort to control it. “I recognize the seriousness of this injury,” he said. “But I refuse to abandon hope.” He looked over his shoulder at the healer. “There is still hope, while he is alive.”

Helindilme nodded. “There is,” she agreed, but her voice was still grave. “For example, he responds to pain.”

Legolas’s expression hardened.

“As difficult as that might be to hear, it is a good sign,” she continued. “He opens his eyes and moves away from anything painful. His muscles are not rigid and he has not suffered any fits.”

“Fits?” Legolas repeated.
 
“That would be a definite sign that he will not recover,” she said. Then she fixed Legolas with the sort of look healers adopt when they are about to say something dire. “I have treated Men—Dunedain—who have been similarly injured either in battles or accidents. When a Man is in a similar state, I tell his family to prepare for his death. The fully unconscious can neither eat nor drink and the body cannot survive long without water.”

Legolas’s eyes flew open wide.

“I will not tolerate that type of talk in this room,” Lindomiel interrupted sternly.

“Lord Thranduil is not a Man,” Helindilme continued without pause. “An Elf can survive longer than a Man without water, but even an Elf will succumb eventually. Every Elf that I have ever treated with similar injuries either experienced fleeting moments of consciousness within, at most, a day after his injury, else he passed to Mandos’ Halls. Lord Thranduil has done neither. His fea is strong. Unwilling to leave, even a hroa that any other Elf would have fled.”

Legolas could not stop himself. He loosed a short laugh. “You are saying that my adar is too stubborn to die.” Somehow, that did not surprise him. Not in the least.

Helindilme smiled at him, apparently relieved by even a brief display of good humor. “He is. But he needs to awaken. Soon. Familiar voices may help that. Your arrival is the best medicine we can give him at the moment. Talk to him. Sing to him. Whatever you normally do as a family in the evenings. If there is a food or drink you normally enjoy together, ask someone to bring it, especially if it has a strong smell. Something spiced, perhaps? Meat? Some sort of cake? Mulled wine?”

“I would not refuse a goblet of wine,” Galithil said in a tone that was one step away from a completely lost temper. He walked around the bed to kneel next to his brother and grasp his uncle’s hand. “We are home, uncle. Legolas, Dolgailon and I. We held the village. And Legolas captured Manadhien. She is locked in the storerooms awaiting your judgement.”

Legolas felt certain his father would stir, at least a little, either at the knowledge that Manadhien was finally his prisoner or at the revelation that Legolas, himself, captured her. When he did not, Legolas could not stop his heart from sinking.

“Will you not wake up and greet us, uncle?” Dolgailon pleaded.

“Indeed, adar,” Legolas said softly. “There is a good deal to manage after such a large battle. We need you to help with it.” ‘I do not fear to manage it myself, or shrink from doing so,’ Legolas added to himself. ‘But I desperately do not want to. Not when it means this.’

No else spoke.

After a long silence, Lindomiel began to sing softly.

Sweet as the flowers in springtime,
Sweet as the honey dew,
Sweet as the bluebells in the bowers,
I am thinking tonight of you.

Legolas stifled a sigh. Another song he did not know. He thought he had heard most of the minstrels’ songs. Apparently he was wrong.

The song went on, telling of a young elf’s adventures in courting. When the end of the first verse mentioned flowers smelling as sweet as an ellyth, he and Galithil exchanged an amused grin.

The second verse, about the nectar of a flower, was as clear an allusion to kissing as could be made. It was enough to make Engwe clear his throat. “That is enough, Lindomiel. You do not understand that song very well,” he said.

“I have been married for an Age and have a child, Engwe. I understand it very well,” she interrupted her singing long enough to say.

Hallion was struggling not to laugh. “He means that you do not understand whose…dalliances it refers to.”

That caused Legolas, Galithil and Dolgailon all to look from Lindomiel to Engwe and Hallion.

“I have been a member of this family for an Age and I know all its stories. I know to whom this verse refers, at least,” Lindomiel said. Then she resumed singing.

Legolas bowed his head to hide his face, and his giggling, from his elders in the room. If Engwe had not enjoyed the second verse, he certainly would not like this one.

“It cannot be Thranduil,” Galithil whispered. “She would not sing it if it were about herself.”

Now Legolas could not hold back. He openly laughed. “It is about your adar, obviously,” he said, “Who else ‘gathered bouquets’ of flowers?” He laughed harder when Galithil adopted a mildly disgusted look and Dolgailon a positively scandalized one. So scandalized that Legolas wondered if he understood all the implications of the song. Lindomiel winked at him, but she did not stop singing.

“Honestly, under the circumstances, is this entirely appropriate?” Engwe asked with the haughty tone that never failed to irritate…well, everyone, but especially Lindomiel.

She stopped singing and glared at him. “Helindilme said to sing, and I am singing. I am singing the second song Thranduil ever sang to me. When we were courting. I would sing the first, but it was a bit melancholy, and that is what would be inappropriate at this moment. If Thranduil can hear us, and I believe he can, what do you think he would wish to hear? His family crying or his family laughing?”

“Laughing and neither crying nor arguing, I am certain, my lady,” Hallion said, managing to stare Engwe’s retort into silence. Then he laughed himself. “But perhaps we should sing of something that will not horrify Aradunnon’s children.”

Lindomiel made a half bow. “It is your turn, then,” she said.

Hallion shook his head. “I love words, but I do not sing them, my lady.”

Now Galithil grinned. “Well, if our goal is to get a rise out of Uncle Thranduil,” he said. Then he broke into another song:

It's the howl of the pack,
the joy of the chase,
the suspense of the prowl,
the thrill  of the hunt.
the delight of the conquest.
That is why it is grand
to be a wolf.

And he sang it the way Amglaur had taught it to them, not as Thranduil had. Legolas, Lindomiel and Dolgailon immediately joined in.

“Mercy!” Engwe cried.

Lindomiel and Dolgailon continued that song into its second verse as Legolas and Galithil answered their uncle’s protest.

“We know you are a Wolf, Uncle,” they said in unison and laughed in earnest as his overly offended expression melted to guilt and then resignation when they refused to back down.

Trying to stifle his laughter enough to rejoin his mother in the song, Legolas felt a finger, fumbling against his hand. His mother’s, surely, but it was unusually cold. He looked down to find her hand and hold it. To warm her up.

But Lindomiel’s hands were now clapping in rhythm to the tune.

“Adar?” he whispered, holding his breath.

His father’s hand was lying next to his, closer than it was before, he was sure of it.

He nudged his mother with his other hand and pointed down at Thranduil’s. She stumbled over a verse of the song before falling silent.

“Adar, can you hear us? Can you move your hand? Can you show us that you hear us?” Legolas asked, now completely serious.

Now everyone stopped singing. Engwe, Dolgailon, Galithil and Hallion leaned over the bed, watching.

“Uncle, can you hear us?” Galithil repeated.

“Please show us that you do, meleth. Please,” Lindomiel pleaded.

Thranduil’s little finger twitched. Legolas was sure of it. Then, suddenly, it lifted, quite deliberately, and moved slightly to the side, enough to lay across Legolas’s hand.

Lindomiel loosed an incoherent, but plainly joyful exclamation.

Legolas grasped his father’s hand between both his and was relieved beyond measure to feel him grasp his back, if only very weakly. “Thank Elbereth!” he whispered.

Everyone in the room echoed that, laughing and crying at once.

*~*~*

Crouched in the shadows behind a stack of empty sacks, crates and split barrels, he was contemplating his next move—as if he had one—and listening to not one, but now two guards talking. Knowing one was out there when he crept into this room was bad enough. When the outer door opened and someone else arrived—Legolas’s guard, no less—he was nearly sick with worry over how he would ever get this done.

At first, it seemed possible. He waited for Galuauth to bring Manadhien out of the Hall and followed him to find out where they would imprison her. That was obviously the first step. He had no trouble figuring that out. And when Galuauth took her to the rooms where the trade goods were kept, that was too lucky to be true! He immediately knew the next step and the last step: use the lift between the kitchen and this storage area to sneak in without the guard seeing him and then use the lift again to get Manadhien out.

The problem was the middle step: getting past Galuauth, who he never thought would actually hang around after locking Manadhien up, and then unlocking that door. When Manadhien spotted him on the Green and he saw she expected him to help her, he knew that last part—unlocking whatever door they put her behind—would be the hardest. He had hoped maybe whoever locked her up would just put her in a store room and hang the keys back in the kitchen. That was where keys were kept, as far as he knew. He had always seen rings and rings of keys hanging there and getting into the kitchen, especially at night, was never terribly difficult. But stupid Galuauth had stayed! And kept the keys on his belt! There was no hope for that. None at all. Fear caused tears to blind him. He had to think of something or Manadhien would…. Oh, think of anything but that!

The outer door squeaked open again. He held his breath. Not another guard! The dim light in the room receded and then faded entirely, leaving the storage area black as a starless night. The door closed and the lock clicked. He dared to peek out from his hiding place. The guards were gone! They had taken the torch and left! He listened until their footsteps and voices faded to nothing in the outside corridor. Then he dashed across the open room to the door of Manadhien’s cell.

“Are you there?” he called, speaking into the keyhole. “I have come.”

As he spoke, he patted about the walls next to the door, trying to find the hook where they would hang keys while packing trade goods. If he was really lucky, Galuauth hung the keys there before he left.

“It is about time,” Manadhien snapped. “You are going to get me out of here. Preferably, tonight.”

“Ow!” his hand hit upon the hook. He felt around it. Nothing. He shook his head and then immediately stopped himself, grateful she could not see that through the keyhole. “How?” he asked, fear tinging his voice. “Galuauth took the keys to this door with him. And he had them on his belt, last I saw them. I think he is going to keep them.”

“No, he is not,” Manadhien replied, speaking as if to a stupid child.

He made a face. She could not see him after all.

“Legolas ordered Galuauth to bring the keys to him, which is lucky. You certainly know Legolas well enough to easily get close enough to him to steal them. I know you do.”

He loosed a puff of air and slumped against the door. “I know him. But how can I steal keys from him? Where will he put them? What if he keeps them with him, in his pocket? I cannot get them.” He strained to think of some other way he could placate her, but he was too frightened. Not a single idea came to him.

“Steal them. Copy them. Put a blade to his throat and force him to turn them over to you. Find someone who can pick this lock. I do not care what you do. Just find a way to open this door. Or you will not be the only one to regret it.”

He drew a shuddering breath. “I will find a way. But I had better leave now, while I still can, before the guards come back and I am caught. I promise I will return as soon as I can get the keys.”

“Do not take too long,” Manadhien threatened.

He ran for the lift, stuffed himself into its small compartment and pulled the rope to hoist himself up. The faster he got away from her the better. How was he supposed to get those keys!

*~*~*

talan/telain —flet/flets, the tree houses woodelves live in
Adar—father
Naneth/nana—mother/mum
elleth/ellyth—female elf/elves

Chapter 10: Those who are heartless

Hiding, crouched behind the cracked-open door to the guest quarters, he watched Belloth guarding the passage that led to the store rooms. He had spent many a night like this for the last month.

The maid that Belloth admitted to that passage, carrying a basket of linen and a bucket slung over one arm and balancing a tray of food on the other, had been gone for so long that his calves were cramping as he waited for her to return.

He was getting a little desperate—running out of excuses.

But what was he supposed to do? Legolas kept that cursed key in his pocket! And he had not agreed to allow anyone to sleep in his room since this whole mess began.

How was he supposed to get the key?

*~*~*

Finally alone after a long day of endless meetings, Legolas lounged, to the extent that one could, in a tall-backed wooden chair in the King’s office, staring at nothing. In front of him, the day’s work was arrayed in neat rows on the table—petitions answered, troop orders written, even a bit of foreign correspondence carefully composed. All of it signed, sealed, and sorted, ready for the couriers.

He ought to get up and go to the Green while he still had time—and so he would do, but only after one last matter was concluded for the day.

While he waited, he idly turned a pouch over and over in his hands—the pouch that Berior had fetched up from the treasury before going to the Green himself. The pouch that contained Manadhien’s ring.

Manadhien.

The insoluble dilemma.

When his father was finally conscious enough to be made to understand that she was his prisoner, his relief was palpable. As was his satisfaction. And anticipation. Eager anticipation.

That last, Legolas could not fathom. He did not believe for a moment that his father was anxious to execute her, but neither could he imagine he had magically invented some solution that would make coexistence with her safe.

Legolas shook his head. They could not confine her to a cell until the end of Arda, but no matter how he tried, he could not convince himself that she could be reformed enough to risk freeing her, even under guard. She exuded hatred itself the last time he saw her, in the Hall, brazenly climbing onto the dais to inspect the tapestry behind the throne. If she had a weapon that night, she would have killed every person present.

Even knowing that, he still pitied her. Helindilme’s description of her pleas for help after…after witnessing his father kill her father—it still haunted him. He closed his eyes. That pain—the loss of a father at the hands of an elf—was something he understood, in far too many ways.

And he could not forget the desperation she strove to conceal when he held that blue gem, her last connection to her lost family. Or the way she clutched it when he returned it to her.

Over and over during the previous month he found himself wondering: what was the elleth that received that gem like? How did she feel, three ages of this world ago, as she embarked on an unprecedented (and as yet unequaled) journey to abandon the only home she had ever known? Was she young, full of hope, and eager for new experiences? Was she mature enough to know the weight of the responsibilities she would soon face and strong enough to manage them? Both? Neither? Did the Doom of Mandos give her any pause before she stepped onto the ice?

Galithil said she was visibly, and apparently genuinely, grief-stricken while relating to him how she had not set foot in Middle Earth before she watched her mother meet a horrible fate on that journey.

Of course, Galadriel said Manadhien’s father had not even left the Blessed Realm without first willingly spilling elven blood.

Had Manadhien, her mother, sister and brother also taken part in the kinslaying at Alqualonde? Did her willingness to do evil go back that far? Was she and her family simply unbalanced somehow? Or had something twisted her father’s thinking and he, in turn, corrupted his children. Or had hardships—wicked deeds, maybe even ones she felt compelled by circumstances to commit—undone her mind?

That was a disturbing thought.

Behind him, the office door opened. Before Tureden could announce who it was, Galithil’s voice crashed through the silence in the office and reverberated off the walls. “Are you coming to the Green tonight or not?”

Even as he involuntarily jumped, Legolas was reminded of when they were children and his cousin, giggling madly, would burst into his room in the morning and roust him out of a deep slumber by leaping onto his bed. Like those long-ago days, Galithil laughed now at the response he had just provoked.

No. There were two distinct laughs, though one was quickly stifled.

Legolas turned in his chair to level his best glare on his cousin—cousins. The second laugh had been Dolgailon’s. Legolas’s glare froze, half-formed when he also saw Hallion. And Helindilme.

“We beg your pardon if we startled you, my lord,” she said as she approached the table.

“Oh, yes, we beg your pardon,” Galithil repeated, grinning as he flung himself into the chair next to Legolas and kicked another out for Helindilme. Then he raised an eyebrow. “You do a terribly good Thranduil impression Legolas, but you are not your adar, so stop frightening our guest and answer my question. Are you coming to the Green or have you gone daft? Reduced by overwork to staring at the walls?”

Dolgailon nearly strangled trying to stifle his reaction to that question. Hallion frowned, but remained silent. Both stood next to their usual chairs and waited for permission to sit.

Legolas gave it with a wave of his hand while narrowing his eyes at Galithil. “I am daft?” he began, intending to say quite a bit more until he saw the healer clasp her hands in front of herself. And wring them. She had made no move to sit. He glowered at Galithil a moment longer and then forced himself to focus, apologetically, on Helindilme. “Never mind my cousin, mistress. He can be counted upon to be rude, even in the presence of ladies. Please sit down. One can never predict how long Galithil will pursue trouble once he has given it chase and you might as well be comfortable while watching the spectacle he provides.”

Galithil’s grin evolved into a full-fledged smirk and he drew a breath to say something that would undoubtedly prove Legolas’s point.

“I met Lords Hallion, Dolgailon and Galithil on my way to help your lady mother prepare the king to go out to the Green,” Helindilme said quickly before Galithil could speak, in an obvious attempt to forestall any unseemly display. As she spoke, she cast her gaze about the room, trying to find something else to talk about, without realizing that her words had already earned Legolas’s full attention. She spotted the painting behind the king’s desk—the one of his first sight of Eryn Galen from the heights of the Misty Mountains. Her eyes widened and she took a step towards it. “Is that the painting you described to me? Of the mingling? It is stunning. I cannot believe how well he captured it.”

Legolas glanced reflexively at the painting, even though he had seen it a thousand times. He greatly admired it as well, but it simply did not matter at the moment. He nodded in answer to her question before asking his own. “The king is going to the Green? Tonight?”

“He is indeed,” she answered, still studying the painting.

“The king did all the murals in the family quarters,” Galithil chimed in. “Our uncle Celonhael and Dolgailon’s father-in-law did the decorations in the public parts of the stronghold.” He paused and threw a teasing look at Legolas. “And Legolas has done some family portraits. Would you like to see those?”

Legolas fought not to make a face. Helindilme would never understand that reaction and he did not care to take the time to explain it. So, he ignored his cousin’s question and cut off Helindilme’s response in favor of pursuing the topic that interested him more: “I did not think the king was well enough recovered to walk the distance from his own room to the dining room, much less to the Green.”

Helindilme looked a moment longer at the painting before focusing on Legolas’s implied question. “I do think he will find it…tiring. But he is determined. It is becoming increasingly difficult to prevent him from over-exerting himself.”

Galithil and Dolgailon could not help but laugh at that. Even Hallion smiled.

“And is Nestoreth as surprised by this as you appear to be?” Legolas asked with a resigned sigh. He could not stop his father from lengthening his recovery any more than the healers could.

Helindilme shook her head. “No, my lord. Quite the opposite, to be honest. She seems surprised he has remained confined to his bed as long as he has. She went so far as to ask me how I accomplished it, but I did not do anything.” She frowned. “She even asked if I was drugging him. I certainly am not.”

“Nor had you better,” Legolas said.

“You would regret that,” Galithil muttered. Then he leaned over and punched Legolas on the shoulder. “So is your adar’s return to the Green sufficient reason to drag you out of here and through the Gates?”

“Do bring your bow out,” Dolgailon agreed. “Dollion has accused me of cravenly avoiding a contest I owe him, despite the fact that I still cannot walk without a crutch. Perhaps you could stand in for me.”

Galithil turned a mock-insulted glare on him. “Legolas could stand in for you! What about me? Your own brother?”

Dolgailon shrugged. “Legolas is a better archer than you,” he replied in a dramatically off-hand tone.

Galithil made a huff. “Legolas is a better archer than you,” he shot back.

Dolgailon sat a little straighter in his chair, his brows drawing together.

“Children, we are not alone,” Hallion reminded them softly, looking between Legolas and Galithil before focusing a stern, disapproving glare on Dolgailon. That caused Legolas’s much older cousin, the realm’s Troop Commander, to appear both abashed and offended in earnest.

It was an odd enough expression to make Legolas laugh. “We will do whatever we must to make sure you hold on to that marvelous knife,” he said nodding at the intricately carved hilt sticking out from his cousin’s belt—the best, in Legolas’s opinion, of the items his cousins and Dollion bet amongst themselves.

Tureden, still standing guard at the office door, turned his head to hide a scowl.

“I was already planning on going out,” Legolas continued. “Briefly. But I doubt I will be able to stay out long and nor will the king.” He dumped the contents of the pouch still in his hand onto the table and laughed when Galithil recoiled from it the moment he realized what it was. “A messenger from the Path Guard came and spoke to Hallion and I as we were finishing this.” He tapped a stack of papers. “Our guest will be here soon. When adar spots him, that will put a swift end to any thought of merrymaking he might have had. Frankly, that suits me fine.” He nodded at the ring. “That is one item I do not have any right to make decisions about alone.”

“No arguing with that,” Galithil replied, reaching to take the pouch from Legolas. Once he seized it, he chased the gold band across the surface of the table with it, finally trapping it against an ink jar and forcing it back into its container.

He had no sooner captured it when, outside the office, in the corridor, the main door to the family quarters groaned open and closed. Soft, hurried footsteps sounded in the passageway, heading towards them.

“The maid you were waiting for, my lord,” Tureden announced, standing aside to allow an elleth to rush into the room.

She blinked at the sight of so many people around the table. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, my lord.” She held out a key. “Manadhien is settled for the evening.”

Legolas stood to take the key and resisted the urge to laugh when Hallion, Dolgailon and even Galithil stood as well. He dropped the key into the pocket of his court robe. “How is she?” he asked. He had not anticipated that his father’s recovery would take so long. He could not deny he worried that keeping Manadhien locked in a cell for an entire month demonstrated a lack of mercy. Even so, he did not dare let her out for any reason, for fear of allowing her to escape.

“Surly, as always,” the maid replied with a half smile.

Legolas returned it ruefully. “Then thank you, again, for seeing to her needs,” he said, nodding when she bobbed a quick curtsy before departing.

“We should go too,” Galithil said, scooping up the pouch from the table and crossing over to the king’s desk. He pulled open a drawer, dropped the pouch into it and signaled for Hallion to lock it.

Shaking his head, Hallion complied.

“No more excuses, Legolas. Let us go out while we still have time,” Galithil continued, holding his arms out wide as he walked back towards the meeting table, as if to herd the others from the room.

“You are impossible,” Legolas replied, but he did move off towards the office door, tugging at the clasp at his throat that fastened his formal robe as he went.

Everyone followed.

Walking into the corridor, Legolas shrugged off the robe and glanced down at the light, silk shirt he had worn under it. It was also not appropriate for archery contests. “I will change into something more suitable for the Green, retrieve my weapons and join you in a few moments,” he said, a hand resting on his doorknob. “Will you join us, uncle Hallion?” he added before going into his room. He spoke out of courtesy more than anything else. Hallion joined the games on the Green as infrequently as the king, so Legolas was surprised when his uncle nodded.

“I believe I would enjoy watching you compete,” Hallion replied. “I only saw that one contest between you and your adar. I would very much like to see another.” He governed his expression. “If you would not mind, of course,” he added more formally.

“I invited you! Of course I would be delighted for you to come,” Legolas exclaimed. Then he allowed a hint of a mischief to light his face. “If you think the populace will survive the sight of the King’s steward at the Oak. Better still, bring your own weapons. I confess, I know very little about your skill with either bow or blade.”

Hallion smirked at that. He smirked! “Should I be persuaded to compete, I believe you would be satisfied with my skill, my lord.”

Legolas broke into a wide smile. “Oh, that sounds far too much like a challenge! You cannot have been a member of this household for as long as you have without understanding the dangers of challenging a descendant of Oropher.”

Now a snort escaped Hallion before he mastered himself. “I believe you issued the initial challenge. You ‘know nothing about my skill with bow or blade?’ That sounded distinctly like a challenge in itself.”

“A contest between Legolas and Hallion! I am getting some coins!” Galithil declared, spinning around and reaching for his own doorknob.

Legolas shook his head and ducked into his room before Hallion could scold his cousin. He did not even want to think about how Galithil was in possession of any coins.

A door latch clicked, but it was not the one across the hall from Legolas’s. It was the door next to his.

“You will not gamble,” a stern voice said. “Though, I confess, that is a contest I would not mind seeing myself.”

Legolas turned back towards the corridor to see his father come into view, walking slowly, still with a distinct limp, openly leaning on Lindomiel.

“Fair evening, my lord. My lady,” Hallion said, his voice slightly higher pitched than normal.

“Fair evening to you, Hallion,” Lindomiel answered, sounding like an elfling allowed to stay up for her first festival.

Legolas tossed his robe onto the back of the nearest chair and stepped fully back into the hallway. For the last month, his father was always in bed, often asleep, by the time Legolas returned to the family quarters for the evening. It was amazingly good to see him dressed and ready to go to the Green. Apparently his mother thought the same. She looked happier than Legolas had seen her since the battles in the south.

Thranduil, unfortunately, was looking over his shoulder at the stacks of papers visible through the open office door. His expression had grown serious. “Perhaps I should at least peruse the reports and petitions before going to the Green,” he said and, as he spoke, he pulled from Lindomiel’s grasp.

Determination replaced Lindomiel’s care-free smile and she held onto Thranduil’s arm.

Helindilme interposed herself between him and the office door. “My lord king,” she whispered, “going to the Green will be challenging enough. Reading might be…too difficult. It might be wiser….”

“I will be the judge of what is wise in my own realm, mistress,” Thranduil interrupted, sidestepping her.

Lindomiel wilted and looked pleadingly at Legolas, Galithil and Dolgailon. Galithil and Dolgailon, in turn, looked at Legolas.

He bit back a groan. How was he supposed to argue with his father? Well, disappointing his mother was even harder. "Adar, Hallion and I have the affairs of this realm well in hand,” he began.

“I will be the judge of that, as well,” Thranduil muttered, not slowing his march towards his office.

“And truthfully, adar,” Legolas forged on, undaunted. “Your return to the Green will mean more to the populace at this moment than anything you might contribute to troop deployments or petitions.”

That caused Thranduil to half-turn and look at Legolas.

“Everyone is anxious to see for themselves that you will… that you have recovered.”

Thranduil slumped slightly and reached again to lean on Lindomiel’s arm. “Your first choice of phrasing was the most correct,” he said. “Will recover. Much more slowly than I like, it seems.” His brows drew together as he studied Legolas. “I regret how long you have been obliged to help Hallion. You should be free to dance with your cousins.”

Legolas shook his head and forced a smile, trying not to allow his gaze to drift to the hair that barely brushed Thranduil’s left shoulder. “Adar, I am more happy to see you up and about than I can express. A few weeks or months of work? I can manage that quite cheerfully, thank you.”

Thranduil nodded somberly. “Much more cheerfully than the alternative. I know that very well.”

Legolas returned his gaze equally somberly.

Behind them, the door to the family quarters opened again.

“My lord,” Lanthir called. “Lords,” he hastily amended with obvious surprise and pleasure when he saw the king.

Legolas turned to find the guard looking between him and his father before finally deciding to address Legolas. That choice made Legolas tense.

“The Gate Guards send word that Mithrandir and his escort have arrived at the stronghold. They ask permission to admit them.”

“Mithrandir?” Thranduil asked, directing himself to his steward, his tone demanding an explanation.

“Tell the guards to let them in, of course,” Legolas said to Lanthir.

Thranduil shifted his gaze to Legolas and raised an eyebrow.

“And bring Mithrandir to the king’s office,” Legolas added. There would be no persuading the king to go to the Green now.

“Why has Mithrandir traveled to my realm?” Thranduil asked, as Lanthir bowed and slipped back out the door. “Did you summon him here? For what purpose?” He looked from Hallion, who shook his head, to Dolgailon, who turned to Legolas. That caused Thranduil’s eyes to widen as he faced his son.

“I did not summon him,” Legolas replied. “The Path Guard reported that he crossed the Forest Gate last week, on horseback, traveling with with two elves. They did not question them because Mithrandir is known here and elves are no threat.”

Thranduil loosed a scoffing laugh. “Elves are no threat?” he repeated.

Legolas began to make a face in response to that comment and only just stopped himself in time. This was his father, not one of his cousins. “The only elf remaining in Middle Earth that is any threat to fellow elves is locked in a cell somewhere below us, adar,” he answered with as even a tone as he could muster.

Thranduil nodded. “Conceded. Still, why has Mithrandir come? Do we have any idea?”

“I have my suspicions, but since the Guard did not question them, I cannot be certain,” Legolas answered.

Thranduil was now facing him squarely. “What suspicions then?

Legolas held out an arm, gesturing for Thranduil to precede him into the office.  “I took a ring from Manadhien,” he began, intending to supply more detail than that, but his father was immediately on guard.

“From Manadhien? And Mithrandir has heard of it? How?” he asked without taking a single step towards the office.

“From Radagast, would be my guess. He was present…well, to be honest, it was he that discovered the ring she wore,” Legolas replied.

“Why would Radagast send Mithrandir a message about a ring our prisoner was wearing?” Thranduil interrupted again.

Legolas ground his molars to stop himself from answering, ‘if you would only let me speak.’ Before he could say anything else, the door to the family quarters opened again to admit Lanthir, leading Mithrandir and two elves.

Despite the tension between he and his father, Legolas smiled automatically at the sight of the disheveled, old wizard leaning on his staff and shuffling towards them with an infectious twinkle in his eyes.

“Mithrandir!” Lindomiel exclaimed, extending her hand.

Mithrandir swept off his hat and bowed over it.

“You are always welcome!” she said.

“Which is fortunate because I am always a surprise,” Mithrandir replied, bowing to Thranduil.

Fortunately, the wizard’s warmth managed to sway Thranduil’s mood. He inclined his head in greeting.

So did Legolas. Then his gaze passed to the elven escort and his eyes widened before he could stop himself. He looked quickly from one elf to the other. They were identical!

“Lords Elrohir and Elladan, unless I am much mistaken!” Lindomiel was saying. “Welcome to Eryn Galen! You are the true surprise. No one told us you were accompanying Mithrandir.”

‘Elrond’s sons?’ Legolas thought. ‘What message, precisely, did Radagast send to Mithrandir that would prompt Elrond to send his sons on such a long journey?’ He glanced worriedly at his father, who was no doubt even more confused by their arrival.

Thranduil’s expression made him blink.

It was one Legolas had not seen in many years. One reserved for elflings that had been particularly naughty. And he was aiming it at Elrond’s sons.

“Young lords Elrohir and Elladan,” Thranduil repeated, taking a step towards them. “The same young lords who, while sitting on my lap, put a spider in my pocket and mice in my lunch basket when last we met, I believe?”

Mithrandir’s eyes brightened and he looked delightedly between the elves flanking him and the Elvenking.

Only years of experience in court prevented Legolas from staring or laughing out loud himself. Spiders and mice! That must be an interesting story! Next to him, he heard a feminine giggle—Lindomiel’s or Helindilme’s, he could not tell—quickly stifled.

Elrohir and Elladan’s eyes lit briefly with amusement before they adopted a much more formal air. Elrohir made a half bow. “Our adar did remind us of that incident before sending us here. He also reminded us that we still owe you an apology for those misdeeds. We apologize, my lord.”

Thranduil maintained his overly dignified glare a moment longer—long enough to elicit the slightest frown from Elladan—before allowing a sincere smile to light his face. “Accepted, of course. I see you have grown quite a bit since that council, so I trust any meals you share with my family during your stay will be much less eventful.” His smile broadened. “It is an honor to host not only Mithrandir, but Lord Elrond’s sons. You are all very welcome. I would invite you to refresh yourselves in the sitting room, but Legolas and Hallion seem to believe that you would prefer to address whatever business brought you here, since they asked for you to be escorted to my office. The choice is yours: business first or rest from your travels?”

“I will rest better after we see to our business,” Mithrandir responded, suddenly very serious. “That is still your office there?” He pointed at the door behind Thranduil with his staff and started towards it without waiting for an answer.

“It is,” Thranduil replied, stepping aside for his guests to precede him through the door that Hallion held open.

*~*~*

Standing next to his normal place at the table, waiting for his father to seat himself, Legolas had no expectation that this meeting would go smoothly. He knew perfectly well how much the king would dislike being thrust into any conversation, much less one with foreigners, without any real idea what the conversation would be about.

Thranduil, in turn, waited for Lindomiel to sit, while watching Mithrandir and Elrond’s sons.

Lindomiel escorted Mithrandir to the table and sat down with him, making idle conversation as she did. She appeared for all the world to be blissfully unaware of any tension in the room.

Legolas doubted that.

Thranduil sat and gestured for everyone else to do the same.

Legolas, Dolgailon and Galithil silently took their seats.

Elrohir and Elladan drew Helindilme back into the office, much against her will, and pulled her to sit in a chair between them at the far end of the table. There, huddled together, they questioned her at length regarding Thranduil’s treatment and prognosis. Their questions, especially those detailing the exact location of his father’s head wound and the surgery Helindilme had performed, made Legolas wonder if they were also healers. He supposed that would make sense. Their father was a renown healer, after all.

Still, Thranduil would not like his own people to know the particulars of his current incapacity. Foreigners, even allied lords, he would never grant the level of detail Helindilme was revealing. Thranduil’s posture grew increasingly rigid as she spoke.

Hallion, in the meantime, went over to Thranduil’s desk, unlocked the drawer he had locked only moments before, and withdrew the pouch. He placed it on the table in front of Legolas.

That earned Thranduil’s intense scrutiny.

“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from not only Mithrandir, but Elrond’s sons?” the king asked, interrupting the chatter once Hallion had been seated. His tone was tinged with impatience.

Everyone faced him.

“For our part,” Elrohir answered, “my brother and I came at our adar’s request. Radagast’s message mentioned, amongst other topics, that you had suffered a very serious blow to the head in battle. Adar assured us that your healer—Nestoreth, I believe he said was her name—is very capable. And we thought it was possible that Helindilme was still here. None-the-less, such a wound is very difficult to treat. Adar wanted to be certain we could be of no further assistance.” He smiled and inclined his head. “We are quite pleased to see that we are not needed.”

“And I was perfectly happy to have their company over the mountains,” Mithrandir added. “One sees more orcs there now than before the dwarves left Hadhodrond.”

“Dwarves serve some purpose then,” Thranduil said. “Or at least they did once.”

Mithrandir laughed. “As to why I have come: I am here because Radagast’s message said that Legolas found a magic ring.”

Thranduil’s gaze snapped to his left, causing Legolas to draw himself up straighter. That was not how he would have chosen to reveal that detail.

“My good cousin knows my interest in magic rings, so he sent me a bird.” He paused and turned his smile on Legolas. “Is it in that pouch? May I see it?”

“Of course,” Legolas answered, still feeling the full weight of his father’s eyes. He inverted the pouch over the table, spilling the gold band onto its surface.

Thranduil gasped at sight of it. Mithrandir’s eyes widened. So did Elrohir and Elladan’s. Their reactions seemed overly dramatic.

“Where did you find that?” Thranduil demanded.

“As I mentioned earlier, I took it from Manadhien,” Legolas responded. “It was Radagast that saw it first and recognized it is magic, but, while holding it, I could sense that myself.”

“You could sense it yourself? While holding it?” Thranduil repeated. As he spoke, he pulled his hands off the table, where they had been resting, and away from the ring.

Legolas frowned at his father’s obvious distress, but he did not understand it. They had long speculated that Manadhien had a magic ring. The evidence that they were correct should not be so shocking.

Mithrandir’s bushy eyebrows were drawn close together now, as he bent over the ring. He passed his hand tentatively over it. “What did you sense? And who is this Manadhien?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the ring.

“I believe it has the power to make its bearer more persuasive,” Legolas answered. “While Manadhien wore it, she was able to make people—myself and my cousin Dolgailon included—believe words that we consciously knew to be false. And she could make outrageous actions seem perfectly acceptable.”

Dolgailon nodded in agreement.

“Mmm,” Mithrandir mumbled. He brushed the ring with the back of his fingers, as if testing a hot kettle. Then he grasped it, holding it perfectly still for a moment, before bringing it closer to his face to study it. “And Manadhien?”

Legolas began to answer that she was the mistress of the elf Mithrandir had seen his father almost execute, but it would certainly not do to say that in front of Elrond’s sons or Helindilme, so he remained silent and glanced at his father.

“Manadhien has committed numerous crimes in this realm, including murder and treason,” Thranduil finally said.

“She is a servant of Sauron,” Dolgailon added.

That assertion drove Mithrandir, Elrohir and Elladan to all stare at him. Impossible as it should have been, they seemed even more tense.

“Surely that…” Elladan began before biting off his words.

“That is a very serious accusation. How can you be certain of it?” Elrohir asked.

“We know that on numerous occasions she allied with orcs,” Lindomiel interjected quickly. As she spoke, she aimed a warning glance at Legolas. ‘Your adar knows nothing of your involvement in the battles,’ she mouthed while Thranduil focused on Elladan’s incredulous reaction.

“You have evidence of that?” Elladan exclaimed.

“All of us have seen it,” Thranduil confirmed, but when Elladan and Elrohir appeared to expect more, he pressed his lips together.

“She used orcs several years ago to ambush our family on the border of the forest,” Lindomiel said into the silence. “When my adar was returning to Lorien. Legolas saw her kill my parents. And try to kill me.”

“And she was the one that led the orcs that recently attacked the villages in the southern part of this realm,” Legolas added.

“I saw her commanding them,” Thranduil said, with a barely restrained tone.

Legolas drew a breath to say that he had also, but Lindomiel shook her head. Legolas looked down, frowning. His role in the recent battles would come out eventually. If he remained silent now, his father might see that as a lie of omission later, and that would not make matters better. “As did I,” he said softly, without meeting his mother’s gaze again. “Most significantly, Radagast and I saw her taking orders from one of the Nazgul,” he concluded quietly.

“You what!” Thranduil demanded.

Legolas returned his father’s shocked gaze with an impassive one of his own. Now was not the time for this argument and his father would realize that. Eventually.

“You saw one of the Nazgul!” Elrohir cried. He sounded more horrified than Thranduil.

Helindilme was staring at him, hands over her mouth.

“That is good news, truth be told,” Mithrandir said, ignoring both outbursts, though his brow was deeply furrowed. “If this had been the ring we feared it was, the Nazgul would have taken it from this elleth long before Legolas and Radagast ever saw it.” He placed the gold band on the table. “I am curious how she got it, but it does not really matter.”

Now it was Legolas’s turn to stare at the wizard. He finally understood what Mithrandir, and his father, apparently, had feared when they saw the ring. “She made it,” he answered. “She was one of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain.” He glanced at his father. He had managed to rein in his temper, or at least any outward display of it. “Adar saw her amongst them once.”

The wizard’s gaze darted to Thranduil, who nodded once.

“Mithrandir,” Legolas continued when no one said anything else, “may I ask precisely what Radagast said to you in his message? From your words and reactions here, you clearly feared this was the One Ring. Radagast had to know that was not the case. I am surprised he led you to believe that.”

Mithrandir and Elrond’s sons all looked at him with widening eyes.

“What does one so young know of the One Ring?” Mithrandir asked.

“What anyone should probably know,” Legolas answered. “That Sauron, in fair guise, subverted the arts of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, tricking them into making Rings of Power, which he gave to Men and Dwarves. That the Nazgul are the bearers of the Nine. That Sauron reclaimed most of the Seven. And that he made the One Ring to control the Nine and Seven. And Three.”

Elladan sat back in his chair. “He is well versed in Ring Lore. That much he has proven,” he said softly.

“The first step towards defeating an enemy is to understand him,” Thranduil replied in the same tone of voice.

Mithrandir studied Legolas silently, with much the same expression he had worn the first time they met, years ago, in the family sitting room. And Thranduil looked even less pleased now than he had then. “Radagast told me only that you found a magic ring,” the wizard said, in answer to Legolas’s original question. “In the southern part of this realm, near Rhosgobel. Do you know where it is believed that the One Ring was lost?”

“In the Gladden River, near Rhosgobel,” Legolas answered promptly. “If the One Ring is a gold band…”

“It is,” Thranduil said.

“Then I understand your concern,” Legolas concluded. “Radagast should have been more clear in his message to you.”

Mithrandir shrugged. “I would have wished to study this ring, even if I had been certain beyond doubt it was nothing more than a lesser ring. Even those are dangerous and not to be trifled with.” He paused, looking from Legolas to Thranduil. “What will you do with it?”

“Destroy it,” they both said at once.

Elrohir raised an eyebrow. “Would you not prefer to keep it?” he asked. “It might prove useful—.”

“Such devices are not welcome in this realm,” Thranduil snapped, not bothering to conceal his anger. “Not by my adar and not by me. I do not need magic to persuade anyone of anything. If I cannot win an argument with words, I will win it with my sword, if it is worth the fight. But I will not, ever, employ the power of the Enemy.” He paused and fixed Elrohir with a look Legolas did not entirely understand. “And yes, I know precisely to whom I speak.”

Elrohir and Elladan’s expressions remained exactly as they had been. Neither elf showed even the slightest reaction to Thranduil’s words. Elrohir only inclined his head. “This is your realm, my lord, to rule as you deem best. No one questions that.”

Thranduil glared at him a moment longer before turning on Legolas with a force that drove him against the back of his chair. “Why did you keep that? Why is it still here?”

Legolas drew a deep breath in order to speak calmly. “We discussed destroying it the night I returned to the stronghold, my lord, but none of us know enough to determine how to safely do so. Moreover, we thought its fate should be your decision and not ours. Better that you should have an opportunity to judge for yourself the manipulations Manadhien used against the people of your realm. So, I ordered it locked in the treasury. We only retrieved it tonight because we thought Mithrandir had come to inspect it.”

That response seemed to satisfy his father. He visibly relaxed.

Mithrandir, in contrast, studied Legolas even more intently.

“Well, I have seen it,” Thranduil said. “Now I want it destroyed.” He turned to Mithrandir. “How can I do that safely?”

Mithrandir forced his attention from Legolas and back to the ring. He slowly spun it around with his finger on the table’s surface. “This is not an especially powerful ring. And I imagine it was made in a typical forge, if not by typical means. You should be able to unmake it in a similar forge.”

“Good,” Thranduil said. He looked at the quill on the table, hesitated for an odd moment before picking it up with his left hand, and then used it to scoop up the ring. Dangling it from the tip of the quill, he dropped it into the pouch and handed it to Hallion. “See it destroyed. Tonight. And bring the ingot to me.”

“Yes, my lord,” Hallion replied promptly.

“I should say that I am sorry you made a pointless journey,” Thranduil continued, directing himself to Mithrandir, “and I suppose in truth, I should be disappointed this was not the ring you seek. Sooner rather than later that ring must be found, and by an ally, not the Enemy. Still, I am not sorry. The idea that such a thing should be in my realm…. That my son might be the one to find it…. I am glad that did not happen. But I do appreciate your help determining what this ring is and how to destroy it.”

Mithrandir bowed, smiling at Thranduil. “I am happy to serve in any small way I can. And now,” he paused, once again adopting the light, cheerful expression he had worn while greeting them. “Were you, by any chance, going outside to partake in a bit of merry-making?”

Thranduil laughed, shaking his head at the sudden change in mood. “And wine? I know you enjoy my wine.”

Mithrandir nodded.

“I am certain there is wine and merry-making on the Green,” Thranduil replied. He turned to Lindomiel, Dolgailon and Galithil. “Could you take our guests outside. I am going to speak to Hallion and Legolas.” He picked up one the papers on the table and waved it idly. “About the details of some of these matters and then, if it is not too late, I will join you.”

Legolas purposefully did not look at his mother during that pronouncement. There was no possibility he could contradict his father in front of Elrond’s sons and the wizard. If the king wanted to stay in his office and review the events since the battle, that argument was lost.

Dolgailon and Galithil pushed their chairs back from the table. “By your leave, my lord,” Dolgailon said, making to stand.

Thranduil nodded.

From the corner of his eyes, Legolas saw his mother shift uncomfortably, but she did not rise.

Neither did Helindilme, Elrohir or Elladan.

“My lord,” Helindilme said softly.

Thranduil visibly tensed and turned a forbidding glare on her.

She looked at Elrohir with apprehension.

Legolas frowned as Elrohir met Thranduil’s glare unflinchingly. “My lord, might I simply ask you to read out loud that paper in your hand before you make any decisions about your activities tonight?”

If that request was not odd enough, Lindomiel finally stood, interposing herself between Elrohir and Thranduil. She faced Helindilme. “There are better times and circumstances to address this potentiality,” she whispered so low that she clearly hoped only the healers would hear her.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Thranduil said. As he always did when speaking to Lindomiel, he kept his tone light, but he was obviously annoyed both by her cryptic words and by Elrohir’s request. While responding to Lindomiel, he had glanced at the paper in his hand—the quantities of goods Legolas had decided could be sent to Dolgailon and Maethorness’s villages. It was a list of figures that still made Legolas very uncomfortable. He would much prefer to explain it—and the reasoning behind it—before the king fell too deep into anger over it.

Legolas winced when Thranduil frowned at the paper.

“Try to remain calm, my lord.”

Legolas looked up sharply. He might have expected Hallion to make that request, since he also knew the contents of that paper, but it was not Hallion that had spoken. It was Helindilme. She was holding both hands in front of her in a placating gesture that Thranduil did not see.

He dropped the paper to the desk as if it were on fire and stood quickly enough that he was forced to grasp Legolas and Hallion’s arms for support when they leapt up after him. He had visibly paled.

“Tell me what you saw, my lord,” Elrohir said, walking the length of the table quickly.

Elladan and Helindilme were rushing down its opposite side.

“Meleth, this is not unexpected,” Lindomiel said with an overly calm voice.

Thranduil looked at her, eyes wide. “Is that so?” he asked, using a tone he normally aimed at those, typically dwarves or men, that had angered him beyond the point of self-control.

Hurt and worry flooded Lindomiel’s eyes.

“Mind to whom you speak,” Legolas said before thinking to whom he, himself, spoke. He bit his lip as Thranduil turned on him, but by then, Helindilme on one side and Elrohir on the other were pulling Thranduil back into his seat.

He mounted a token resistance before collapsing into the chair and staring once again at the paper on the table. “What is the meaning of this, if it is ‘not unexpected?’” he asked, voice rough.

Legolas exchanged an utterly confused look with Hallion, Dolgailon and Galithil.

“Did you have trouble with the words or just the numbers?” Helindilme asked after a glance at the paper.

Hallion automatically reached to turn it face down.

Legolas was too focused on the healer’s question to care if she saw the list of trade goods. What could she mean by ’trouble with the words or numbers?’

Thranduil shook his head and thought for a moment about that question. Then he leaned forward and snatched the paper off the desk again. Brow deeply furrowed, he looked at it. “The numbers only,” he responded after a moment.

“My lord, what is two plus two?” Elladan immediately asked.

Thranduil turned a glare on him that should have turned him to a puff of ash. “Four.”

“Four plus four?” Elladan continued without the slightest hesitation.

“Eight,” Thranduil growled.

Legolas thought his father might snap in half from irritation.

“Eight plus eight?” Elladan asked.

Thranduil opened his mouth to answer. Then he closed it again with the same panicked expression he had worn while looking at the paper.

“Is eight a larger or smaller number than four?”

Thranduil remained silent.

Legolas gaped at him. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, repeating his father’s original question.

The healers ignored him as they had Thranduil.

Elrohir picked up a quill. “What hand do you prefer to write with, my lord? Your right, I expect?”

Thranduil nodded. “You are trying my patience,” he said, looking apprehensively at the quill. “And if your lord father sent you here as healers to treat me, he must have warned you how foolish it is to do that.”

“We cannot give you complete information if we do not have it ourselves, my lord,” Helindilme replied, sounding apologetic.

“Could you take the quill with your right hand?” Elrohir asked, holding it out. “Be sure to take it with your right hand.”

Legolas watched as his father hesitated over that request before finally taking the quill with the proper hand. But the way he looked to Elrohir, as if for confirmation that he had done as asked, left Legolas wondering if he had guessed which hand was his right.

After a quick inspection of the papers on the table, Elladan slid a petition summary in front of Thranduil and turned it over, presenting him with its blank side. “Would you please write your name, my lord?” he asked.

Thranduil dipped the quill into the ink and complied. After managing the first few runes, he looked far too pleased, especially given that his writing looked much like that on the papers he kept in his desk containing Legolas’s first attempts at writing.

“And Legolas’s age?” Helindilme added once he had finished. “Along with the year he was born.”

Thranduil moved the quill to an empty space and then…did nothing. After a moment, he looked from the tip of the pen to Legolas. “You are forty-six years old. You were born in 1941,” he said. But he wrote nothing.

“If Legolas is forty-six now, how old will he be in the spring, my lord?” Elladan asked.

Legolas raised an eyebrow, surprised that Elladan knew he was born in the spring—of course, most children were born in the spring. He was forced to take a calming breath when his father struggled and failed to answer that question.

Dolgailon and Galithil sank back into their seats, staring at the king. Legolas did the same, his heart pounding. This was obviously a result of his father’s head injury. But it was…horrible! He could not imagine….

Helindilme knelt next to Thranduil’s chair. “This is an expected consequence of the injury you suffered, my lord,” she said gently. “A very common result of a blow to that part of the head. The important thing…what you must remember,” she said, patting his arm, “is that this is temporary. Just as there are exercises you must do to regain strength in your injured leg, there are exercises that will help with this. That will fix it.”

Thranduil leveled his sternest glare on her. “That,” he said, “is something Nestoreth would have had the good sense to say straight away.” He looked at Elrohir and Elladan before finally turning to Lindomiel. Legolas expected the fact that his mother had tears in her eyes would be enough to soften his father’s expression. It was not. “Along with warning me that this might happen, since you clearly knew yourselves.”

“Meleth,” Lindomiel whispered. His continued anger checked whatever else she might have said.

Silence hung over the room for several moments.

“Mithrandir,” Legolas finally said. “If you would not mind…”

“Of course,” the wizard said, immediately making for the door. “I was on my way to find some wine.”

“I will send word to Galion to make sure you are properly accommodated,” Legolas continued. “All of you,” he added, looking at Elrond’s sons. “I am sure you are anxious to rest from your journey,” he said when they did not move.

“Perhaps we should…”

“No, you should not,” Legolas intervened. “That is enough for tonight.”

He was aware of his father frowning next to him, but Lindomiel stepped forward and took Elrohir’s arm, whispering something to him as she led him to the office door. His brother and Helindilme silently followed. With a bow, so did Tureden. He closed the door behind himself once all their visitors had exited the office.

“I am sorry we did not tell you, meleth,” Lindomiel said, the moment they were alone. She looked at Legolas, his cousins and uncle. “That we did not tell anyone. It was my decision. I did not see the point in worrying you over something that might not happen and that would be no more permanent than any other scar. I did not realize how alarming…”

“The inability to read,” Thranduil interrupted, nearly growling, “To count, to write numbers, my own son’s age—that is predictably alarming, Lindomiel.”

“With respect, adar, govern your tone,” Legolas whispered.

Thranduil’s glare flashed to him.

Legolas managed not to flinch. “Nana is every bit as upset as you are. This is not permanent. I have managed these figures for the last month and I can continue to do so until you are fully recovered. I had planned to do so. It is a frightening impairment. I cannot deny that. But you will conquer it like every other injury you have ever suffered and no enduring harm will come of it. Therefore, there is no justification for taking your fears out on naneth.”

“Legolas,” Hallion whispered, gesturing for him to be silent.

Thranduil held Legolas’s gaze for a long moment before taking a deep breath and looking down. “He is right,” he said through clenched teeth. Then he forced himself to relax. “I apologize, Lindomiel. Sincerely.” He held out a hand to her and she rushed to take it.

“I am so sorry, meleth,” she whispered, kneeling next to his chair and throwing her arms around him.

He gathered her in his arms. “I was in the wrong. Do not think on it.” He pressed his face against her hair. “Since you seem to know something about this, do you happen to know how long it will take to…put an end to it?” he asked, voice muffled against her neck.

She shook her head. “I imagine it depends on how hard you work, just like your leg injury.”

“Well, you will be cured within a few days then,” Hallion said, and he smiled nervously when Thranduil looked up at him.

With a short, bitter laugh, Thranduil released Lindomiel and collapsed against the back of the chair. “Let us hope you are right,” he agreed. Then he closed his eyes. “I am not going to the Green. I am sorry to disappoint you, Lindomiel, but I am exhausted. I am listening to a brief summary of these reports,” he gestured to the table without opening his eyes, “because if I do not feel that I have some grasp of what is happening in the realm I rule, I will lose what is left of my mind. After hearing that summary, I am going to bed. I will go to the Green with you tomorrow night. I promise. For tonight, go entertain our guests and make sure Mithrandir does not set fire to my forest.”

“He will not set fire to it without me, adar,” Legolas said softly. “It is me that he sends the fireworks to.”

Thranduil looked at him and made an effort to smile. “Then stay here and help Hallion tell me what all this is,” he said, reaching for Legolas’s arm, as if to pull him down into his seat

“I will, my lord. But first let me send someone to tell Galion that we have guests.”

“Fair enough,” Thranduil replied. Then he placed a kiss on Lindomiel’s cheek before she stood.

“I will not stay out late, meleth,” she murmured into his ear. “And I will drag you to bed when I return, finished or not, if you are still in this office.”

Thranduil only nodded as Lindomiel took Legolas’s arm, allowing him to escort her from the office. Dolgailon and Galithil followed.

Not only Tureden, but also Mithrandir, Elrohir, Elladan and Helindilme awaited them in the corridor.

“How is he?” Helindilme asked as Legolas pulled the office door closed.

“Better,” Lindomiel replied. “Calmer. I would have preferred to manage that differently, but, at least it is done.”

“One thing is certain,” Elrohir said.

Everyone turned to him.

“The Elvenking is every bit as intimidating as adar said he would be,” Elrohir finished.

Legolas maintained a neutral expression, not sure what to make of that comment, while Lindomiel and Mithrandir smiled.

“That was nothing,” Lindomiel replied. Then she let go of Legolas’s arm and took Mithrandir’s. “Let us make sure Lord Elrond’s sons see some of the more pleasant sights in Eryn Galen, shall we?”

Mithrandir bowed and began to lead her down the corridor. Elrohir and Elladan followed, along with Dolgailon and Galithil.

“Will you join us?” Elladan asked, looking back at Legolas.

“I fear I cannot,” Legolas replied. “The king requires my assistance at the moment. Still,” he paused to make sure he had Elladan and Elrohir’s full attention, “I would like to hear that story about spiders, mice and my adar’s pocket before you leave,” he said, now unable to suppress a grin.

“And was there also the mention of a picnic basket?” Galithil added.

Try as he might to hide it, Dolgailon was also watching this exchange with undeniable interest.

The twins broke into identical broad smiles. Elrohir took several long steps until he stood between Legolas and Galithil. “We will be happy to share it with you,” he whispered. “Perhaps in return, you can persuade either your adar or naneth to tell you how it all ended. We were unfortunately caught and imprisoned in a library before enjoying the fruits of our labors.”

Legolas’s grin widened. “I will try, but I can promise nothing.”

Lindomiel openly rolled her eyes as she gestured for Mithrandir to open the door to exit the family quarters. “Oh, I will tell you,” she said, passing through the door. “At least about the spider. I might be more reticent discussing my own discovery of the mice.” She paused. “Shall I also tell you the names Lord Thranduil and I applied to you?”

“We deserved them, what ever they might have been, my lady,” Elladan replied, following her.

Elrohir nodded to Legolas and pursued his brother.

After they all disappeared, Legolas laughed and shook his head. “Dolgailon, could you please find Galion and tell him to prepare accommodations for Mithrandir and Lords Elrohir and Elladan?” he asked.

Still smiling, Dolgailon nodded. “Of course.”

“And I will go make sure we get all the details of the mice and spiders,” Galithil said, hurrying towards the door.

“Which you will share with me before you retire for the evening,” Legolas said.

“Naturally,” Galithil replied, bowing and sweeping through the door.

Alone, save for Tureden, Legolas allowed himself the luxury of laughing out loud. “Go with them,” he said to his guard as he turned back to the office door.

Tureden scowled and did not move. “That would leave no one with you or the king,” he protested.

“Neither adar nor I will be leaving the family quarters again tonight and we are perfectly safe here,” Legolas replied. “Better to have more guards outside with the family and our guests.”

Tureden hesitated long enough that Legolas’s back stiffened. The guard must have noticed. “Of course, my lord,” he responded, with a bow. Then he turned and marched through the door at the end of the corridor.

With a sigh, Legolas walked back to the office. Passing the door to his own room, he saw that it stood wide open. He scowled at it. “I must have left it that way when I heard adar in the hallway,” he said to himself, reaching for the handle to pull it closed. When he leaned into the room, he froze.

“Noruil,” he called.

Noruil was standing next to the table where Legolas did his studies as a child. Despite the fact that he was looking straight at Legolas when he said his name, Noruil jumped sharply.

“Can I help you?” Legolas asked, making certain he sounded every bit as annoyed as he felt to find anyone, much less Noruil, uninvited in his room.

“I was looking for you,” Noruil said, even before Legolas finished his question. “Are you coming to the Green now?”

“No,” Legolas snapped. “I have more work to do and the king is waiting for me. How did you get in here?”

Noruil shrugged. “I walked in. No one is at the doors, else I would have asked someone to tell you we…I…everyone…was hoping you would come out tonight.”

Legolas made an effort to rein in his temper. “I will come out tomorrow night,” he replied, remembering his father’s promise to do the same. He could work quickly, or even postpone some work, in order to be free to join his family for the king’s return the Green. Indeed, Hallion would undoubtedly be equally anxious to do that.

“Very well,” Noruil said, sidling past Legolas and uncharacteristically passing up the opportunity to make some jibe. Once he reached the door, he waved a quick goodbye and rushed out of the family quarters.

“Tomorrow, I am going to have to speak to Tureden about the Guard,” Legolas muttered as he pulled his door shut. “Either he must expand it or he has to find some better way to deploy the guards we have, else next I will be finding spiders in my room.”

*~*~*

Noruil jogged through the dark corridors, his heart beating far harder than it would simply from exertion. Finally reaching his destination, he pressed one hand over his tunic pocket and used the other to push open the kitchen door. As he flew through it, someone on its other side squealed. Then there was a loud crash.

“What the…!” an elleth shouted.

Dodging the door as it swung closed, Noruil saw the maid that delivered Manadhien’s food and other necessities sprawled against a work table, where she had leapt to avoid the door. The pitcher that had apparently been in her hand was in pieces on the floor.

“Watch it!” she cried, scowling up at him as she knelt to pick up the broken crockery.

She would not have looked at anyone in Legolas’s family that way. She certainly would not have spoken so sharply to him or any of his cousins.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked when Noruil kept staring at her.

“I…” he stammered. “I thought…” He could not get enough breath to speak.

She stood, tossed the pitcher into a bin and put her hands on her hips. “You thought everyone had gone to the Green for the night, so you reckoned now would be an opportune time to pilfer the pantry.”

“Ummm,” Noruil replied, not faring any better on his second attempt to explain himself.

She smiled at him. “Well be about it, you little rat. Rats in the pantry, that is what you and your friends are. The king’s sons, included.” She pointed at a rack full of seed cakes. “There are the ones Legolas likes, so take some back for him too. And blow out the candles before you leave. You would not want the kitchen to burn down overnight. You would starve then.” She winked at him and passed through the door, tugging at her apron strings as she left.

Noruil loosed a long breath and watched her go. He waited until he could no longer hear her heels on the stone floor and then he waited some more. When he could not avoid it any longer, he walked over to the lift at the back of the kitchen and opened its door. Then he climbed in and began the difficult task of turning the pulley to lower the lift. Slowly the kitchen disappeared and he was surround by stone. After far too long, he once again felt air on his face. That was the only way he could be certain he had arrived in the store rooms. The guards left no light on and it was black in the room as it was in the lift.

He remained perfectly still, listening.

He immediately heard pacing and rustling skirts. He willed it to stop. That was not the sound he needed to hear.

Finally he heard feet shuffle softly outside the main door of the storage area. The guard was out there, not in here. That was what he wanted to know.

He lowered himself carefully from the lift and crept over to the middle door in the series of cells along the back wall of the room.

“It is me,” he whispered into the key hole.

“Tell me you have it,” Manadhien whispered back. She sounded wretched.

A month in a tiny, dark storeroom would have made him wretched too. He answered by fitting the key he had stolen from Legolas’s pocket into the key hole and easing open the door.

“Thank the Valar!” she said in an almost normal voice as she rushed from the room.

Noruil frantically waved his hands to silence her.

She scowled at him. “He knows I am in here,” she whispered, cocking a thumb towards the outer door and the guard standing on its other side. “And he will know I am free in a moment.” She started towards the door.

Noruil caught her skirt. “No! You cannot go that way. He will stop you.”

She grasped his wrist roughly with one hand and pulled her dress free. With the other, she drew his knife from his belt. “Not if I stop him first.”

Noruil stood, petrified. She might take Belloth by surprise and overpower him. Even if she did, she would never get by the Gate Guards with only a knife. They had bows. He pressed his lips together. He would not warn her and then this would be over. But Belloth might be killed. That guard was a pain in the arse, but he did not deserve that. And Noruil did not want to be responsible for it.

“The Gate Guards have bows,” he whispered, just as she was reaching for the door, knife at the ready.

She froze and looked over her shoulder at him.

“There is no way out of that corridor without going by them,” he added.

She lowered the knife. “How have you been getting in here then?”

He pointed to the opposite side of the room. “In the lift. Get in and I will haul you up. It goes to the kitchen.”

She walked over to him, holding out her hand. “Give me that key. Then you first.”

Noruil put the key into her hand. What he would do with her once she was in the kitchen, he had no idea.

*~*~*

Taking long strides, Legolas pushed open the door to the family quarters and started down its main corridor while examining his parents’ bedroom door. No light shone from underneath it. His father must already be asleep. That was no surprise. He had difficulty staying alert through the briefing he insisted upon hearing. Legolas never really expected him to be awake now. Still, he did not use that as an excuse to put off following the king’s command: rather than joining his cousins, mother and guests on the Green, he instead summoned Criston away from the merrymaking and waited while the metalsmith reduced Manadhien’s ring to an ingot of gold.

Legolas traced its shape—now a little square rather than a circle—through the pouch in his hand as he walked towards the king’s office. It was a relief to be rid of one problem. But, despite the king’s expressed wish to see evidence of its destruction tonight, Legolas did not intend to interrupt his father’s rest to comply. That could wait until the morning.

He hesitated as he approached the door to his own room on his way to the end of the corridor. Then, at the last minute, he swerved left into it. “Its power is destroyed. It no longer matters if I lock this in adar’s desk or mine,” he said to himself as he entered his sitting room. “And mine is closer, meaning more time on the Green for me.” That brought a smile to his face as he tossed the pouch onto the table.

Everyone, even Hallion, was outside singing, dancing and enjoying a barrel of Dorwinion, rolled out in Mithrandir’s honor. It was only proper for him to join them now that his duties for the day were complete. Even if doing so was going to make doing his duties tomorrow much more difficult. He shrugged. No one in the capital was going to be in top form in the morning after tonight’s festivities.

“Where is my bow?” he said out loud to no one, squinting at the table. It was dark in his room. Much darker than normal. The only light still burning was a lamp on the table that should not even be lit. All the other lamps and even the fire in the fireplace had burned out. Or had never been set. It was late, but certainly not late enough that the oil and wood should be spent. He frowned. Perhaps the maids that normally lit his lamps were caught up in the merrymaking. It was certainly boisterous.

He looked at the cold fireplace and sighed. It would be unpleasant to sleep in the room if the fire were allowed to be out for too long, so he crossed over the the hearth, tossed kindling on the wood in the fireplace and frowned again as he pulled out a faggot to light in the lamp.

The wood in the fireplace was partially burnt. It had been scattered—the fire intentionally left to dwindle out. Who would do that? And why? He could not imagine the answer to either question as he used the poker to push the wood back into a suitable pile. Then he stepped over to the lamp on the table and pushed aside a chair so that he could light the faggot. His frown deepened and he stopped with his free hand still on the back of the chair.

His share of the bow strings he and Galithil had been twisting before dinner were lying on the table’s surface.

“I would have sworn I left my bow leaning here with the strings. Surely I did not bring them and leave the bow in Galithil’s room,” he said to himself. That made no sense at all.

“No, you did not,” a feminine voice responded.

Legolas gasped involuntarily at the sound and not only because he thought himself alone. His head snapped towards the opposite side of the room, near the door.

Manadhien stood there. In her left hand, she held his bow, unstrung. She leaned on it, almost casually, as if it were a staff. But her posture was stiff. Prepared for an attack.

His heart lurched in his chest and he tensed, checking, only barely, his first instinct to rush her. His gaze flitted to a place behind her, next to the door, where his sword should be hanging.

In response, she removed her right hand from the folds of her skirts. It held the sword.

Legolas drew the knife at his belt.

“No, Legolas,” a frightened voice pleaded. “You cannot fight her with only your knife if she has a sword.”

‘Yes, I can,’ Legolas immediately thought. But he was so surprised by the source of the argument that he could not manage to speak the words out loud. He focused on the shadows behind Manadhien and stared at the person pressed against the wall.

Noruil!

What was he doing? Legolas’s jaw fell open as realization hit him. Noruil was not looking for him earlier, when he was skulking about in the family quarters. He was looking for that key. Legolas glanced at his court robe, lying on the chair across from him, where Noruil had been standing when Legolas found him. Then he turned back to stare at his friend, anger warring against fear in his heart now.

“I am so sorry,” Noruil mouthed. Tears glistened in his eyes.

Legolas loosed a stunned breath, the best he could muster at the moment. He could not believe Noruil would do this!

“I tend to agree that attacking me with a knife when I am armed with your sword would be a foolish choice,” Manadhien said into the silence.

Legolas made no reply. Instead, he turned his attention from Noruil back to her and tried to think.

His eyebrows rose slightly when he noticed how she held the sword. Her grip on the hilt showed she knew how to wield it, which was no surprise, but it was tight, her knuckles almost white. He looked at her face and she lifted her chin and glared at him. But…behind her apparent boldness…was that a flicker of fear?

His teeth ground together. If she was afraid—desperate—that was definitely not a good thing.

What could he possibly do?

He could not attack her. Not because he stood little chance against her wielding only a knife. Master Langon had taught him how to defend himself against a sword with a knife. He had never been tried in such a fight, but he was not as defenseless as she seemed to think and that might be an advantage. Still, it was one he dared not press. She might threaten Noruil. He did not appear at all to be a completely willing participant in this. Much more importantly, any hint of a fight would awaken his father and draw him into the room. There was no possibility he could allow Manadhien anywhere near the king, even when he was fully capable of defending himself. And he was certainly not that at the moment.

Even as he contemplated the disaster it might be if she were to attack his father, his mind roiled with images of an even worse eventuality: what would happen should his mother return from the Green?

“Drop that knife, Legolas. Right now,” Manadhien ordered and she swung the sword she held until it was level with Noruil’s throat.

He yelped in fear and tried to dodge away from her, but she cornered him between the blade and the door.

Legolas had no desire to watch Noruil die, no matter his involvement in their current predicament. Besides, he had another knife hidden in his boot. He opened his hand and spun the knife so that it rested on his palm. “You win,” he said, Holding out his left hand in a pacifying gesture, he lowered himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off her. Then he placed the knife on the floor and gave it a shove. It skittered over to her.  

Letting his unstrung bow clatter to the floor, she took a step toward him and planted her heel on the blade of the knife. The sword—his own sword—tracked his movements as he stood.

“Now throw me that pouch,” she demanded, nodding at the table. Her eyes were a little brighter. More triumphant.

That would soon change. “Very well,” he replied, picking up the leather pouch and tossing it, gently, to her.

She picked it out of the air easily with one hand, while still holding the sword to ward off Legolas. Then she pinned it against her hip. “I told you that you would not keep this ring for long,” she gloated as she fumbled to open the pouch. Finally her fingers slid inside. Satisfaction flashed in her eyes to be instantly replaced by confusion as the pouch slid to the ground. The sword drooped slightly as she looked away from Legolas and at the object she pulled from the pouch—the little ingot of gold. She held it in her open hand and looked back at Legolas, brows drawing together severely. “What is this?” she cried, thrusting her hand forward for emphasis. She kicked the pouch. “That is the pouch you put my….” She froze and her eyes widened. “This is not…. You did not dare….” She could not even force herself to complete the question.

Legolas did not reply. He kept his expression completely neutral, but he readied himself for an attack, shifting his weight onto his left leg so that he could lift his right enough to draw the knife from his boot.

Her hand closed into a fist around the gold ingot and she lifted the sword to the same height as his head.

Fool. Too small a target. He could easily void such an attack and close inside the useful range of that sword while doing so.

But she did not advance on him. Instead, she flung the ingot at him, striking him in the chest. It bounced away onto the floor. “Can your family do anything…anything at all beyond destroy things?” she asked, brandishing the sword, but not moving otherwise. Her voice sounded rough.

Legolas dared to take his focus off the sword long enough to glance at her face. There were tears in her eyes!

“Answer me!” she yelled, thrusting the sword towards him.

He took a step back and again held his hands out, as if to hold her back. “It was a magic ring. One that you used to manipulate the people in this realm to do your will against their own. We could not allow any possibility that you could use it for that purpose again.”

“It was the ring I would have worn as my wedding ring, had my betrothed not died in Gwathlo, and you destroyed it!”

Legolas blinked at that. She was betrothed? And she needed a magic ring for a wedding band? For what? To coerce some poor ellon into marrying her?

He did not have much time to contemplate those questions.

Her eyes narrowed and her grip on the sword steadied. “Where are Thranduil and Lindomiel? And dear little Galithil, the honest?” she asked. Her voice was low and full of hatred. The same hatred he heard in the Hall when he first brought her into the stronghold.

“Outside,” Legolas lied without hesitation. “On the Green. With all my uncles and cousins. Mithrandir is here. I was the only one inside, working.”

Her expression soured. She obviously recognized the impossibility of approaching them there. “No matter,” she said. “Time is now absolutely all I have left. I will use it to my advantage.” She paused and waved the sword at the door. “Go. Out into the corridor. Now”

“Why?” Legolas asked without moving.

Her brow knit and she grasped the sword with both hands before swinging its flat side at his shoulders, as if to shoo him from the room.

He leapt out of range.

“Because I told you to,” she answered, pursuing him. “Move! You are going to show me that passage Fuilin saw you use to leave the stronghold.”

Legolas’s breath caught. She would escape! And then be free to do any damage she wanted to the unsuspecting revelers on the Green.

As soon as he thought that, a worse realization immobilized him.

No she would not escape. Because he could no longer open the door to that passage. The same foolish choice that exposed its existence to Fuilin had seen to that, but she would never believe it if Fuilin had told her he saw him use it. His heart began to race even harder. She would threaten Noruil to try to force him to open the door and there would be nothing he could do to save him.

He took a long breath. Think!

She did not know where the passage came into the stronghold. Where could he lead her that would do him any good? She would never follow him into the antechamber in front of the Hall and that was the only place where there were guards. His heart stopped again. Assuming there were guards there. Had she already killed the Gate Guards and whichever member of the King’s Guard that was assigned to watch the storerooms tonight? Who had they been? Belloth. He knew that for certain. He could not remember who the Gate Guards were. Was Lanthir one of them? Was that why he announced Mithrandir’s arrival? Whoever they were, he could not imagine how she got by them without murdering them. His eyes closed in grief.

“Move! Now!” she demanded.

He flinched sharply and jumped aside when the flat of the blade struck his shoulder. If he did not want to follow Belloth and Lanthir to Mandos, he needed to think! He slowly walked towards the open door to the corridor. Behind him, he heard Noruil whimper and his feet shuffle on the floor. She must be dragging him along with them.

Where could he take her? An idea sprung into his head even as she jabbed the point of the sword into his back to hurry him along. The door to the Queen’s Garden still opened for him! If he could get her through it and close it behind her, she would be trapped. The ledge that garden was planted on was a straight drop from a height as tall as the tops of the trees growing below it. And it would never occur to her, as it had to daring young wood elves, to try to make the jump into the trees and climb down.

He walked a little more steadily into the corridor.

“Do not even think of trying to trick me. I know where all the guards are,” she said, poking him again and leaving the point of the sword pressed against his back.

“Are they alive then?” he could not stop himself from asking.

“More alive than you will be if you are not silent,” she replied.

He crossed the corridor into the family sitting room. If she was telling the truth, that was a relief. He led her to the side of the room where the stone wall was carved with an arching bough of leaves and flowers.

“That door does not look particularly secret,” she said. The bite of the blade in his back lessened when she stopped following him.

He half turned back to face her. “It is secret enough. No one comes into the family’s private sitting room but the people allowed to know about the door,” he replied with an even voice. He did not dare look at Noruil, so he could only pray his expression would not give that lie away.
 
Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the latch on the door to the family quarters clicked.

Legolas and Manadhien both looked towards the sound. Panic pinched her face.

And likely his own. Any hope he had of trapping her was gone. He had to act before whoever had just come through that door became a victim of Manadhien’s desperation.

His hand flew downward, to his boot, as he sucked in a breath to yell a warning.

Manadhien lunged forward, pushing him off balance before he managed to yank the hidden knife free. He stumbled back and his shoulder struck hard against the stone door to the garden.

“Legolas! We are here to take you to the Green. No more excuses,” his mother called out cheerfully.

Steel bit into the side of his neck.

He ignored it. “Nana, get out of here! Now!”

Manadhien’s fingers tangled in his hair and pulled down sharply, in an attempt to keep him unsteady. She held the blade of his sword under his chin, but, to his surprise, did not drive it home.

“What in all of Arda is wrong?” Lindomiel’s now plainly worried voice asked. Her footsteps hurried closer.

Legolas reached again for the knife in his boot with his right hand. With his left, he grasped Manadhien’s sword arm.

In his peripheral vision, he saw his mother, Galithil and someone else, still out of view behind them, walk through the wide doors of the sitting room and freeze.

He could not spare time to worry over them if he was to subdue Manadhien before she turned on them.  He succeeded in dragging down the sword, but too late he realized that her other arm was swinging across her body. She struck him, full force, in the temple with her elbow. His head swam from the blow and she took advantage of his momentary incapacity to push him into the table that held drinks and treats for the family. Goblets, wine bottles, a platter of cakes crashed to the floor as she slammed his wrist into its edge. “Drop it!” she snarled.

He slashed at her, forcing her to release him in order to dance back, out of range.

He staggered back against the table and pressed his free hand to his head to steady himself.

“Elbereth!” his mother whispered.

As his vision slowly cleared, he glimpsed her in the doorway, trying to force her way into the room. Galithil blocked her path, arms wide, shielding her, knife in his hand. And someone else was racing toward Manadhien, ignoring Galithil’s order to stop.

“Leave him alone!” an elleth’s voice demanded.

“No!” Noruil called over it.

The sword blade flashed in an arc.

Lindomiel screamed.

Something hot splattered across Legolas’s neck and hand.

“Elbereth, forgive me!” Noruil cried, collapsing to his knees.

Manadhien made the strangest face. She appeared resolute, certainly. But also shocked and dismayed. And…surely not regretful.

A tangle of hair and bright cloth crumpled to the floor, landing in an unmoving heap.

Legolas stared at it. He could not be seeing this. He refused to believe it. It was not possible.

Something grabbed his wrist. Manadhien. She raised the sword she wielded above his arm and swung it down. She meant to cut off his hand to force him to drop the knife! He wrenched from her grip.

With a growl, she leapt away from him again, back-peddling, this time fulling extending her arm behind herself, sword leveled at Lindomiel’s throat. She stopped just out of Galithil’s range, her hand shaking so hard the sword wavered. “Drop your knives. Right now. Both of you. Or Lindomiel suffers the same fate as your little princess there. Even if I have to go straight through Galithil to do it.”

Legolas gasped for breath. It was Aewen on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood. This could not be happening. He was too stunned to even respond to Manadhien’s demand.

She made a threatening hop towards Galithil and Lindomiel.

His cousin crouched, preparing to dodge inside any attack. With his left hand, he groped behind himself. “Run,” he whispered, giving Lindomiel a shove when his hand finally found her hip.

She did not move. Instead, she reached to the bust line of her gown, where she normally concealed a small dagger.

“Do not even dream of moving,” Manadhien snapped. “Last chance to drop the knives.” She gathered herself to lunge.

“Please, Manadhien,” Legolas begged without shame. “Let them go. Allow them to walk back out of the family quarters and I will open the door. But if you harm them, you will never escape this stronghold. Surely your own life is more valuable to you than theirs.”

Lindomiel’s gaze met his and she gave her head the slightest shake.

Manadhien did not move.

“I will be your hostage,” Legolas continued, taking a step forward in an effort to draw attention away from his mother and cousin. “I deserve it. More than nana. Or Galithil. I killed Demil and Mauril. Let them go and I will go with you.”

“No!” Lindomiel exclaimed. She did not sound frightened. She sounded like the king.

Galithil loosed a scoffing noise and looked at Legolas defiantly. “The only problem with that offer is that the doors in this stronghold will not open for him,” he said. “They will open for me.”

“Silence,” Legolas hissed.

“True,” Lindomiel agreed. “And they will yield to me. I will escort you out, Manadhien, but only if you allow everyone else here to leave. Right now.”

“No!” Legolas and Galithil said in unison.

Manadhien made a bitter laugh. “You are all so noble.” Without further warning, she leapt past Galithil at Lindomiel, grabbing her by the throat. Lindomiel grasped Manadhien’s wrist with both her hands, trying to pull her arm down.

Reach for your dagger, Legolas willed, rushing forward himself.

Galithil also moved to defend Lindomiel, striking out with his knife, but Manadhien had anticipated his attack and closed too quickly. The hilt of her sword cracked against his head. He grunted, dropped to his knees and then sprawled on the ground. Manadhien’s follow through left the blade of Legolas’s sword lying against his mother’s neck.

Lindomiel remained perfectly still.

Legolas slid to a stop and all the blood in his body froze in his veins.

“Go,” Manadhien said, pulling Lindomiel further into the room. “Open the door.” She gave Lindomiel a shove and fell in behind her, burying the tip of the sword in her hair at the base of her neck.

Making no effort to resist, Lindomiel walked calmly—as calmly as she would to lead the family to dinner—towards a cabinet on the back wall of the room. Then she slipped behind it.

Manadhien followed closely. She appeared confused, at first, until Lindomiel laid a hand on the wall behind the cabinet. A seam appeared and then a crack. Manadhien took her eyes off Lindomiel long enough to glare at Legolas.

“Go on then,” Legolas said, taking a step towards them, but stopping when Manadhien prodded his mother with the sword hard enough to make her wince. “Go,” he repeated, “but let her go now.”

Manadhien’s glare grew scornful. “I know there is another door at the other end of this passage.” She pushed Lindomiel into the darkness.

Legolas ran towards them, but Manadhien hurried through the door and leaned against it, closing it before he could reach it. Legolas did not stop until solid stone arrested his movement. He slapped it with his hand. “No!” he yelled. But no one answered.

*~*~*

Adar/ada — Father/dad
Naneth/nana — Mother mum
Elleth — female elf

The title of this chapter comes from the unattributed (as far as I can determine) quote: “Those who are heartless, once cared too much.”

As for Thranduil’s injury, he is suffering from what is called in our world “Gerstmann's Syndrome,” which is a result of damage to the left parietal lobe, in the region of the angular gyrus (a friend of mine has this as a result of a car accident). It causes right-left confusion, difficulty with writing (agraphia), especially numbers or symbols, difficulty with mathematics (acalculia), and inability to distinguish the fingers on the hand (finger agnosia). In mere mortals, there is little hope of much improvement. Thranduil, mercifully, is an elf. I imagine he would recover from this eventually, just as any other wound on his body that he survived would heal.

Chapter 11: Death is not the greatest loss in life

Chin held high despite the sword against the back of her neck, Lindomiel ignored her son’s pleas for Manadhien to release her and strode swiftly through the secret door. She would have liked to look over her shoulder to see Legolas and Galithil one last time, if it were to come to that, which was undeniably possible, but she did not dare. She was determined that Manadhien should take no further notice of them, so she made herself move quickly, praying to hold Manadhien’s attention by forcing her to hurry if she wanted to control the prisoner she already had.

Of course, even if Lindomiel managed to lure Manadhien out of the sitting room, she still needed some way to close the secret door behind them before Legolas could charge through it. That problem, she had not yet worked out. Her mind swirled around and around it without encountering a solution. ‘Just stay back!’ she willed, but Legolas would never obey such a command even if she voiced it. He was just like his adar in that regard.

Manadhien had only just crossed the threshold into the passage when the bite of the sword against Lindomiel’s neck lessened. Manadhien had stopped following her!

Lindomiel tensed and slowed to a stop, casting about for some way to goad Manadhien into focusing on her….some way to keep Legolas from pursuing them…some way to make her household safe….

“Move,” Manadhien ordered, her voice oddly strained.

Lindomiel quite willingly took a few more steps.

Manadhien made a half panting, half grunting noise and did not seem to notice when her hostage walked away from her sword entirely.

Lindomiel turned her head just enough to see what Manadhien was wrestling with. Please let it not be Legolas! His voice was now nearly on top of them.

Stone ground against stone and darkness engulfed her.

The breath Lindomiel was holding burst out of her in an astonished laugh. It was done and Manadhien had done it to herself! She imprisoned herself! She obviously did not realize it yet, but she had. She could never harm Legolas, Galithil or anyone else again. There would be no more bloodshed.

Lindomiel’s jaw tightened. Well, no more assuming she could now escape herself. She had an idea how she could accomplish that, but she needed to act quickly.  

“It is blacker than the pits of Utumno in here!” Manadhien whispered, as if the darkness might shatter under the weight of a normal speaking voice.

‘You would know,’ Lindomiel thought as she reached in front of herself. Her fingers brushed the wall of the passage. Pressing against it, she slipped a few more paces away from the door.

“Where have you gone?” Manadhien called a moment later, her voice a little shrill. “Where are you?”

Lindomiel saw nothing but blackness—not even an elf could see in the complete absence of light—but she imagined Manadhien flailing her arms about, searching. She continued feeling her way along the wall as quietly as she could.

“Darkness take you! You cannot hide from me forever.”

Metal clanged against stone.

Lindomiel reflexively dropped into the lowest crouch she could manage and hugged the wall even more tightly.

The sound repeated again and again, rhythmically, swiftly, on one side of the passage and then the other, tiny sparks of light flashing with each blow. Manadhien was indeed flailing about. With Legolas’s sword!

Lindomiel’s mind raced. She either needed Manadhien far enough away from one of the doorways that she could escape without being followed or she needed a better means of defending herself if she were forced to remain in here for any amount of time. Either way, she needed distance.

“You are not trapping me in here!” Manadhien cried, her tone openly panicked.

The sword struck the wall directly opposite Lindomiel.

Rough cloth—the plain wool of Manadhien’s skirt—slapped Lindomiel in the face as Manadhien spun around for another swing, this time aimed at Lindomiel’s wall.

Lindomiel pulled at the ring on her finger, yanked it off, and flung it as far as she could. It jingled against stone midway down the passage.

“Get back here!” Manadhien shrieked, her voice turning away as she spoke.

Lindomiel held her breath.

Footsteps trudged through the powdery sand on the floor. A moment later, they stopped.

The passage was as silent as it was dark.

Lindomiel remained still, huddled against the wall, listening. How much distance had she managed to buy? Did Manadhien realize she had been tricked? Had she only figured out that she was giving her enemy an advantage by revealing her own location with all her noise? Was she still moving away or was she now coming back?

There was no way to know.

Lindomiel glanced behind herself in the direction of the sitting room. Did she dare try to dash back through that door?

And lose everything she had gained? Expose Legolas, Galithil, Thranduil and everyone else in the household to danger again if Manadhien was too close?

She shook her head, stood, and faced the wall. She would escape into the forest or not at all.  And since Manadhien stood between her and that door, she needed a weapon. She ran her hands carefully, slowly, over the smooth, cold stone at waist height. Where was the notch? Had she already gone too far? Her heart began to race. If she could not find it, she was in trouble.

There! An indentation in the stone.

Lindomiel slipped her fingers into it, but hesitated. Once she pulled, her location would be revealed.

“Curse this place!” Manadhien cried, dozen or so paces away. “I swear, when I find you, I will make you sorry for the foolish game you are playing!”

Metal began scraping against rock. It sounded as if Manadhien was raking her sword along one wall and something else—probably a knife— along the other, while coming closer. Fast.

“And I am going to find you,” she added with a snarling voice.

Lindomiel did not doubt it. She tugged on the notch and a small compartment yawned open with a rasping noise.

Manadhien gasped and, for a moment, her weapons ceased dragging along the stone. Then she continued forward again, twice as quickly.

Lindomiel slid her hands up and over, until her left wrist bumped into a torch stuck into a stand on the wall next to the hidden compartment. She reached up, a little higher, above the torch, feeling about on the ledge next to it.

Manadhien was so close that Lindomiel could smell her—the musty scent of the store rooms where she had been imprisoned clung to her clothes. She hastily seized the steel and flint she had been groping for on the ledge. A single, sharp strike produced enough of a spark to light the oil-soaked torch.

Lindomiel and Manadhien both flinched against the sudden brightness.

“You are going to regret that,” Manadhien growled. Her face was contorted with both anger and the effort to see. She held up her left arm, knife in hand, to shield her eyes. “The darkness was your only ally.”

“Not my only ally,” Lindomiel replied, stepping away from the open panel and sliding a sword from a cache of weapons—mostly pikes, with a dozen or so swords. She smiled grimly in response to Manadhien’s astonished look. “Surely you have guessed that this passage was intended to allow those sheltering in the stronghold a means of escape should the Gates fail,” she said. “Do you think we would turn our people out into a battle with no way to defend themselves?” She turned the sword this way and that, inspecting its blade and balance. “These are not high quality weapons. Not at all. The king would not allow his warriors to wield them, since they are forged from metal scavenged from the enemy. But they are functional. And I think you will agree that this one will serve to make this ‘game,’ as you called it, a bit more fairly matched.”

Manadhien narrowed her eyes and raised Legolas’s sword to a mid guard.

Lindomiel raised her own. “I do not have any desire to harm you, but neither will I ever open either of the doors in this passage. No matter what you do or threaten to do, I will not free you. You are trapped here until Legolas brings an army of guards to return you to your cell. Until then, you have only two choices. You can drop that weapon, sit down and wait for arrest or you can fight me. You would be wise to bear in mind that if you are found attacking me, the guards will do anything they must to protect me. If they find you already surrendered, no harm will come to you.”

Manadhien responded with a bitter laugh. “You think yourself so clever. You think you have seen all sides of this battle. But I was fighting battles three ages of this world before you were born. I see what you have not: if you cannot be forced to open the door at end of this passage—and that remains to be seen—when Legolas brings his army, they will not touch me if I hold you as my hostage.”

Saying that, she charged.

‘You will not have a hostage,’ Lindomiel thought, but she did not spare the breath to voice that assertion as she voided Manadhien’s attack and launched her own.

*~*~*

A scream jolted Thranduil out of a troubled slumber.

Nightmares, he mouthed while breathing out a sigh. Nothing new. He had nightmares—heard the screams of the dying—for years after the destruction of two homes in Beleriand and after returning from Mordor. The recent battles in the south could hardly be compared to any of those wars, but they were terrible. And, like in Beleriand, they had forced him to fight elves. That was, not surprisingly, enough to provoke more nightmares.

Somewhere in the fog that laid over his mind he heard muffled voices arguing. He dismissed them in an effort to return to the path of dreams, rather than nightmares.

“Aewen! No! Please, no! Do not be dead! You cannot be dead!” he heard a voice plead, just as he was almost asleep again.

Legolas? Was that Legolas? This was a truly odd nightmare and one that made his heart beat an unnatural rhythm against his ribs. His son sounded utterly grief-stricken and more than a little panicked.

“Galithil!” Legolas called a moment later. “Wake up, Galithil!”

A soft moan answered.

Thranduil rolled onto his side, to face his bedroom door, struggling to make sense of all he was hearing. That was the problem with nightmares. They never made sense.

“Guards!” Legolas shouted a moment later. His voice sounded closer, as if he were now in the main corridor of the family quarters.

Wood slammed against stone once and then again—the inner and outer doors of the family quarters flying open.

“Lanthir!”

That call echoed as it would in the antechamber.

Thranduil rubbed a hand over his eyes and tried to clear his mind. “Dreaming about Legolas in a battle,” he muttered, this time out loud to himself. No wonder, after hearing just a few hours earlier that his son was actually in the south. Not just in the village, like Galithil, which would be bad enough, but in Rhosgobel. And near a nazgul. That was a true nightmare.

“What is wrong, my lord?” Lanthir answered, his voice remarkably clear for a dream and drawing nearer with every word.

“Find Dolgailon. He is outside somewhere. Check the Oak. Tell him to take Galudiron—and you go with him too—to the back side of the stronghold. To the hidden passage. Manadhien is trying to escape through it.”

“Manadhien!” both Lanthir and Belloth exclaimed. “She is in her cell,” Belloth added, also coming closer.

“I assure you, she is not,” Legolas snapped. “And send Hallion to me. I need him as fast as you can get him in here to open the door in the sitting room.”

“What door, my lord?” Belloth asked. “What hidden passage?”

“Lanthir go!” Legolas shouted. “Belloth come with me. And give me that bow.”

Silence followed.

Thranduil shifted, plumped his pillow a bit and tried to settle himself more comfortably into it, forcing himself to relax. Hopefully, this disturbing dream was ending. It was a little too real. Manadhien escaping! Valar forbid!

A sharp cry—it sounded like Belloth—caused Thranduil’s whole body to tense again. The guard and Legolas spoke rapidly, but Thranduil could not make out their words.

“What is going on?” Hallion called after a few more moments. “Oh my…! What…? Legolas, what in all of Arda?” He sounded…openly alarmed, at the very least.

That was something Thranduil had not heard since the war in Mordor. His fingers tangled in the bedsheets. This could not be a dream or even a nightmare. He was not asleep. His waking eyes took in the room around him. His own room. In the stronghold. Lit only by a crackling fire in the fireplace.

“No time to explain,” Legolas replied. “Open the door!”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows. His young son’s tone was nothing short of imperious. ‘He sounds just like his grandfather,’ Thranduil thought and he could not help but laugh at that idea as he pushed himself up to a seated position slowly, so the room would not spin too badly.

“The door?” Hallion repeated. “But Aewen…”

“Aewen is beyond help,” Legolas interrupted. “If we are to prevent nana from following her…”

A frown replaced Thranduil’s smile. What did that mean? Wait! Did Legolas say moments ago that Aewen was dead? He shook his head and immediately regretted it. Aewen could not be dead, he thought while pressing both hands against the pain in his temples. She was a child. Still a child. And what would she be doing in the stronghold at this hour? That had to be part of the nightmare. But…. Thranduil’s eyes darted around the room he shared with his wife. Where was Lindomiel?

“…simply obey. Open this door. Right now!”

That definitely sounded like Oropher. The command was punctuated by the sound of flesh hitting stone.

Heart pounding, Thranduil searched in the flickering light for slippers while reaching for his robe. None of this had been a dream. He was definitely fully awake and something was certainly very wrong. What else could possibly induce Legolas to speak to his uncle in such a manner?

Just as he arose from the bed, one hand grasping a bedpost for stability, the other still pressed against the pounding in his head, stone ground against stone.

Thranduil’s gaze snapped in the direction of the noise.

“Oh!” both Legolas and Hallion exclaimed at once.

“Elbereth Gilthoniel!” they cried in unison a moment later.

Thranduil repeated that prayer in a whisper as everything he had heard thus far suddenly coalesced into place. Legolas was insisting Hallion open the door! The hidden door in the sitting room! And he had sent Dolgailon to its other end. With warriors. Because…. Thranduil drew a long breath.

Manadhien had not really escaped her cell, surely!

The breath rushed from his lungs. Lindomiel could not be involved!

The sound of clanging swords sent Thranduil charging out of the room, even if he had to catch himself from falling several times by clutching at furniture along the way when his injured leg failed him. He pulled his own sword from the wall and limped into the corridor.

He immediately caught a glimpse of three forms…ellyth…he only got a decent look at the last of them...dashing through the open door to the family quarters and disappearing into the sitting room. Thranduil pursued them in time to see the last elleth—Maidhien—drop the knife in her hand and fall to her knees on the ground just inside the room. It took him a moment to realize why: Galithil was slumped there too, leaning against the wall. Maidhien held him upright with a hand on each of his shoulders as he clasped his head between both his hands. His knife lay next to Manadhien’s, on the floor. Arthiel hovered over them. Her knife was also in her hand.

“What is happening?” Thranduil yelled, running towards them, supporting himself along the wall.

“I did not mean for any of this to happen!” an almost tearful voice answered him.

Thranduil scowled. Noruil. He had not noticed him, hunkered down, almost hiding behind Galithil.

The child cringed and flinched back the moment Thranduil’s gaze met his. “I am so sorry!” he cried.

Thranduil had no interest in Noruil. Not now. He only wanted to find out for certain what was happening, starting with why his foster son was on the floor.

Galithil had finally managed to look up, but could not quite focus on Thranduil. “I am uninjured, uncle,” he mumbled, trying to rise.

He clearly was not. A blue bruise and lump were already forming on his temple.

Maidhien was trembling, glancing between Galithil and something behind Noruil, but she was able to steady Galithil and prevent his ill-advised efforts to get up.

“What has happened here!” Thranduil demanded again.

Arthiel looked with wide eyes from him, past the children on the floor and into the sitting room. “There has been some sort of…fight,” she managed to whisper.

Thranduil faced the room. Over-turned furniture, goblets, broken glass, spilt wine and food littered the floor. Eirienil was crouched over a heap of yellow cloth on the far side of the room. No, not just cloth. A person. A body. And the floor was…stained. His breath caught. That was not wine. It was too red. It could not be blood! There was so much of it!

Eirienil turned at the sound of his gasp and looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her movement revealed an elleth. Aewen! It was her blood.

Thranduil struggled to draw his next breath. His vision blurred, as if to reject the sight that his mind involuntarily blended with memories…horrors…he thought were two ages behind him.

This could not be, but…. Aewen had to be dead. Dollion’s daughter had been killed, right here, in the family sitting room.

Impossible!

He tightened his grip on the sword in his right hand.

“Hold!” Dolgailon’s voice ordered from inside the hidden passage, where clanging swords still heralded an intense battle.

Thranduil turned towards the noise.

Manadhien! It had to be her. But who fought her? Hallion? His heart raced at the thought. Then it stopped altogether at the possibility that Legolas might be Manadien’s opponent. “Impossible,” he said again, this time out loud to add force to the sentiment. Belloth had been with Legolas. Surely he fought Manadhien. He and Hallion would never allow Legolas to engage her.

But where was Lindomiel?

Thranduil froze as Legolas’s words to Hallion replayed in his mind. If they were to prevent Lindomiel from going the way of Aewen….

“No,” he whispered, launching himself towards the open door. His plea echoed in his ears with each labored step towards the passage, each strike of sword on sword, each pounding heart beat. He was not going to see his wife fighting Manadhien. He was not going to see Hallion, Legolas or any member of his family fighting to avenge her.

He raced through the door.

Inside, Legolas and Hallion stood nearest the entrance. Neither wielded a sword, but their bows were drawn. Belloth was just in front of them, doubled over on his knees, his sword on the ground next to him, hands pressed against his side. He was heaving in what appeared to be a largely failing attempt to breath. A knife protruded from his ribs!

On the far side of the passage were Dolgailon, Galudiron and Lanthir. Dolgailon also had his bow drawn, undoubtedly because his still recovering leg would not support a sword fight. Galudiron and Lanthir stood to either side of him, weight forward, blades ready, eyes following…. searching….

The tip of Thranduil’s sword sank to the ground and he leaned against it, lest he collapse.

Between Legolas and Dolgailon, Lindomiel fought Manadhien.

Lindomiel fought her!

Instinct born of long experience overcame his mind’s second attempt to deny what his eyes showed him and he joined the guards, analyzing the battle for the best place to enter it.

Manadhien’s back was to the far wall, in a bend of the passage way. She held a sword in her right hand and a knife in her left. She kept Lindomiel at close range, even given the narrow confines of the passage, and had maneuvered her so that any arrows the archers loosed would have to go through Lindomiel to get to their target. So that any attacker with a sword would have to approach head on, to be met with the same fate Belloth had suffered—a thrown knife.

Thranduil leveled a glare on Manadhien as he raised his sword. She understood the mechanics of this battle, he had to grant her that.  But she was badly outnumbered now. The single knife she still wielded—the sheath at her waist was empty and he saw no other hidden weapons—was not sufficient advantage to stop him, Dolgailon, Hallion and all the remaining guards. This was going to end before either Lindomiel or Legolas was injured. He opened his mouth to order a charge.

Before he could speak, Legolas loosed two whistles. The first Thranduil did not recognize, but it was the same sort of pattern used to identify individual warriors in a battle when issuing them orders. His gaze snapped to his son when he registered the second signal’s meaning: it was the call the patrols used to order warriors to withdraw from the enemy. Pull back and leave Lindomiel to Manadhien? Not likely! What was Legolas thinking! He must have mistaken the signal he intended to use. It was no surprise that Dolgailon and the guards did not move.

But Lindomiel did!

She knew the patrol’s signals?

Apparently so. She sidestepped—deftly sidestepped, Thranduil could not help but notice—the savage blow Manadhien aimed at her shoulder and, rather than following up with an attack of her own, she leapt back, towards the center of the passage, trying to move out of range and hold Manadhien on point.

Legolas, Dolgailon and Hallion pulled their bowstrings to full draw, shifting closer, searching for a clear shot, but Lindomiel had not managed to move far enough from their target. Manadhien pursued her, closing inside sword range again, while sheathing her offhand weapon. She used her now free left hand to grab at any part of Lindomiel she could reach. She caught a hank of hair and pulled.

Lindomiel aimed a vicious cut at Manadhien’s thigh.

Rather than voiding or parrying, Manadhien held off the attack by letting go of Lindomiel’s hair and grasping the wrist of her sword arm. She twisted it, attempting to pull Lindomiel off balance, but Lindomiel was her equal in strength, so she accomplished little. While Manadhien kept Lindomiel’s sword occupied, she reached her own around Lindomiel’s back and used the flat of the blade to hold her close.

She intended to use her as a shield. A hostage.

That could not be allowed! Ignoring how his head swam and his injured leg throbbed, Thranduil rushed forward.

Someone seized his arm from behind.

“No,” Engwe called.

Thranduil made no more response than to wrench his arm free. He pressed forward.

Engwe grasped his collar, shouldered around him and planted a hand on his chest, as much to hold him upright as to stop him. “You are in no condition,” he said, positioning himself between Thranduil and the battle. “You will make matters worse, not better. Stay back. Let your guards and warriors handle this.”

“Get out of my way,” Thranduil growled, still shoving against his uncle.

Engwe did not obey.

Golwon, Isteth and Berior, all carrying bows, raced around them to stand next to Legolas and Hallion.

As one, Legolas and Dolgailon called the signal for them to spread out and surround the enemy. They did, weapons drawn.

“Let her go, Manadhien,” Legolas shouted, tracking Manadhien with his arrow. Dolgailon yelled a similar order.

“I will kill her first! Stay back!” Manadhien shrilled.

“What is happening here?” Mithrandir’s voice sounded in the sitting room. “Oh!” he cried. Then, a moment later, he repeated the same exclamation, his voice a little clearer and louder. Three gasps immediately followed. A glance showed they came from Elrohir, Elladan and the healer from Imladris. They all stood in the doorway of the passage with their mouths frankly hanging open.

Lindomiel loosed a keen cry.

Thranduil spun back around.

A rapidly expanding line of blood stained the delicate fabric at the waist of her gown. Thranduil tamped down panic to determine its source: Lindomiel’s struggles to pull away had forced Manadhien to use the cutting edge of her blade to hold her in place. It sawed into Lindomiel’s side as they fought. Manadhien’s off-hand still clutched Lindomiel’s wrist, grappling for control of her sword.

Lanthir and Galudiron leapt forward.

“I will cut her in half if you come any closer!” Manadhien yelled.

Rage and terror exploded in Thranduil and he renewed his efforts to push past Engwe, gaze fixed on his wife. He could not watch her die. He would not.

Lindomiel’s left hand was now fumbling at the bodice of her gown. A moment later, something glinted in the torch light. Her jeweled dagger! She drove its needle-sharp point into the hand grasping her sword arm.

Manadhien shrieked, but did not let go.

Lindomiel was able to use Manadhien’s pain to put a slight distance between them. She took advantage of it to shift her sword to her free hand and raise it over the arm still clutching her right wrist.

Eyes widening, Manadhien made an incoherent noise, released Lindomiel and back-peddled.

She was not fast enough.

Lindomiel brought her blade down across Manadhien’s arm, not far from where the little dagger still impaled her hand.

Manadhien loosed a scream that reverberated off the passage walls and stumbled away. The motion dragged the sword still pressed against Lindomiel’s waist deeper through flesh, wrenching another cry from her. Blood welled over the blade.

Thranduil’s heart raced so hard that the resulting pain in his head was nearly enough to blind him.

Manadhien staggered back and launched one, final, desperate attack, slicing her sword in front of herself in a wide arc.

Off balance, Lindomiel leapt backward and parried awkwardly.

Thranduil pushed against Engwe. Lindomiel was faced away from him. He could not see. Had she jumped far enough? Had she deflected Manadhien’s attack?

Bows twanged.

Distance between Manadhien and Lindomiel was all the archers had been waiting for. Three arrows flew straight through Manadhien’s sword arm and splintered against the wall.

Manadhien’s scream rose in pitch and her sword followed the arrows an instant later, flying from her pain-weakened grip at the end of her swing to clatter against the wall. She doubled over, cradling her left hand between her body and her injured sword arm. Her voice failed, reduced to panting gasps, and she raised her gaze. Her eyes shone with hatred.

Her right hand slid along her waist.

Thranduil sucked in a sharp breath to call a warning. She was reaching for her knife.

Before she could draw it, before Thranduil could speak, Legolas sent a second arrow through her right shoulder, forcing her to stagger back several more steps and finally lose balance. She sprawled onto her backside in the dirt.

At the same moment, Lanthir lurched forward, grabbed Lindomiel with an arm around her waist, and threw her, bodily, away from danger, against the far wall of the passage. He pinned her there, blocking her from all view. Dolgailon and Galudiron also interposed themselves between her and Manadhien.

Thranduil willed them to move aside, just enough that he could assure himself Lindomiel had avoided further injury. That she stood under her own power. But he could see nothing other than guards who would not move until the enemy was subdued. He swung his attention back to Manadhien.  

Whimpering, she yanked her knife from its sheath.

Legolas and the other archers again fit arrows against their bowstrings and took aim, but they did not release.

Manadhien held her knife in front of her, close to her body. Disarming her would mean sending an arrow through her hand and into her gut. A fatal shot for certain and a terribly cruel death.

The same death Lindomiel faced if Manadhien’s last cut had landed.

Thranduil’s hand shook on the hilt of his sword and he swore an oath to himself: if Lindomiel were fatally wounded, he would give Manadhien whatever death she had given his wife.

“We have done this before,” Legolas said, interrupting Thranduil’s dark thoughts with a calm and even voice—one Thranduil knew himself to be incapable of at the moment. “On the Forest Road. It took three arrows to put you down there. Must it take three again?”

“She is going to pay for what she did!” Manadhien cried, still searching for a glimpse of Lindomiel, but sparing a glance at her left hand. It dangled grotesquely by a slim bit of flesh. It was all but severed! Blood soaked the front of her dress and slickened her grip on her knife. “She will pay!” Her gaze shifted to Legolas. “If not with her own blood, then with the blood of one she holds dear.”

Thranduil pushed a step towards his son in response to that threat, despite Engwe’s hand still firm against his chest.  At the same moment, Hallion moved to stand between Legolas and Manadhien.

Face contorted in anger, Legolas shouldered Hallion aside. “Enough!” he yelled and drew his arrow back further, now aiming it at Manadhien’s nose.

Not even breathing could be heard in the passage.

“You want pity for what nana did to you?” Legolas continued. “You are insane! You attacked her first. After attacking me and Galithil and killing Aewen! You killed nana’s parents. And Berior’s adar. You sold me and Anastor to men. You sent Tulus to Dol Guldur and tried to send Dolgailon there.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened at that accusation. He had not heard it before.

“You commanded orcs in a battle that leveled two villages,” Legolas continued. “I pity more the people whose lives you destroyed. You have done enough! Do not doubt for a moment that I will do whatever it takes to prevent you from injuring another, single person in this realm. Yield! Now!”

Thranduil stared at his son. Most people—elves, men, dwarves and possibly even orcs— would have obeyed that command, or any other thusly delivered, and there was no denying it.

Manadhien was not like most people.

“I would rather you shoot me than send me back to that cell,” she retorted, brandishing the knife, but still not throwing it. “Do it!”

Thranduil did not want to see his son kill an elf. Not even Manadhien. Why did Hallion or Dolgailon not do something? How dare Engwe hold him back! He reached for his uncle’s wrist to pull it down.

Legolas’s grip on his bow tightened. Then he took several deep breaths and relaxed it. “Despite your murders,” he finally said, his tone once again even, “I have no desire to kill you. Do not force me to it. Put that knife down. Just put it on the floor and everyone will survive this, including you.”

Manadhien shook her head, her eyes darting from person to person, her breath coming in gasps.

“We should all just pause for a moment to gather our thoughts. And our wisdom,” Mithrandir intoned.

Thranduil did not begrudge him the effort—at least he had made one—but he did not believe even Mithrandir could cool this fire. Legolas had himself under control, for the most part, but Manadhien had neither wisdom nor even self-restraint to appeal to.

No one moved.

“Valar preserve us!” Tureden cried from the doorway. He, Galuauth and Pendurion, all wearing their quivers and sword belts over night shirts and hastily donned leggings, rushed into the room.

Manadhien started and glanced at them.

In that moment of distraction, Galudiron dove on her. He pinned her against the wall and slammed the hand holding the knife against a rock until her weapon fell to the ground.

Thranduil loosed the breath he was holding, lowered his sword and ceased pushing against Engwe’s hands.

Legolas did not release his draw. “Galuauth. Pendurion,” he said, pointing at Manadhien with a jerk of his chin as Tureden took his place beside him. “Help Galudiron.”

They approached her, bows drawn. Pendurion held an arrow on her while Galuauth kicked aside the knife she had wielded and helped Galudiron pin her arms to begin searching her.

Thranduil watched long enough to be certain that Manadhien was fully subdued and his son was safe. Then, every muscle taut with dread at what he might see, he turned to look for Lindomiel, only vaguely hearing Legolas’s orders to the guards—something about finding a key and keeping Noruil in the sitting room. In his peripheral vision, he saw Pendurion depart through the secret door and Elrohir rush to Belloth’s side. Elladan and Helindilme ran into Thranduil’s line of sight, towards the far wall, where Lindomiel was still surrounded. Her guards parted to allow the healers’ approach and Thranduil finally caught a glimpse of her.

Relief flooded over him so forcefully his head spun as the air rushed out of his lungs.

Lindomiel was leaning against the wall, but she stood!

Thranduil raked his gaze over her body. She bore deep gashes across her side at waist level. They appeared to cut muscle—a serious, but not mortal, wound. Another, shallower cut oozed blood on the front of her torn gown. Manadhien’s last effort. It had failed.

“Thank the Valar!” he whispered, not capable of more voice. He pushed around Engwe and raced after the healers, arriving at Lindomiel’s side as swiftly as he could manage, desiring nothing more in the world than to hold her.

She let her sword fall to the ground and held out her hand to him, smiling, though tears welled in her eyes.

He reached for her hand, but hesitated to embrace her, fearing to hurt her. She seemed completely unaware of any injury. The rush of battle. Thranduil knew it well. And he knew what happened when it inevitably, and all too quickly, wore off. He could not bear to think of the pain she would soon endure. He closed his eyes and carefully drew her to him with a hand on the small of her back. Ignoring anyone else’s presence for the moment, he pulled her tight against him and savored the sensation of her closeness.

“I am not seriously hurt,” she said as Helindilme began to examine the gash on her side.

“By the grace of the Valar,” Legolas muttered.

Thranduil opened his eyes to see Legolas holding his mother’s outstretched left hand in both his own, his bow slung over his shoulder. Thranduil frowned slightly. Legolas was clutching his mother’s hand, in truth. The calm facade he had worn moments before was completely vanished. He looked…relieved, frightened, grief-stricken….

“By the skill of my blade,” Lindomiel retorted in a stronger voice.

Legolas scowled and pointed to the sword on the ground next to her. “Where did you get that?”

Lindomiel nodded towards the wall.

Like Legolas, Thranduil followed her gaze. Only then did he see the hidden weapons compartment open. He looked back at the sword she had wielded. Why was she fighting with one of those weapons? And how had she come to be in this passage? He glanced at Manadhien. The sword she had lost was Legolas’s! And the bow Legolas carried was not his own. What had happened here?

Legolas was shaking his head, fear and grief rapidly disappearing to be replaced by anger. “Even knowing those swords were here, what you did was insane, nana. Unnecessarily dangerous. You should have let me handle her. I never again want to see you take such risks. Not for me.”

Lindomiel laughed—a genuine laugh that seemed entirely out of place under the circumstances, except it came from Lindomiel, who always laughed. “I am your mother, Legolas. Of course I will take such risks for my child, every time the need arises. Depend on it. Moreover, I am the queen of this realm. It is mine to defend and not for you to command otherwise. And, I will remind you that I have nearly thirty years more training with a sword than you have.”

Thranduil closed his eyes. “Thirty years,” he whispered to himself.

“I am every bit as capable of defending myself as you are,” Lindomiel concluded.

Legolas all but snarled while sucking in a breath to respond.

Thranduil turned to him at the sound. “Mind to whom you speak,” he intervened in a soft voice.

Still frowning, Legolas seemed to fully register his father’s presence for the first time. He strove, with much less success than he normally managed, to bring his expression under control.

Thranduil could forgive that lack of decorum after all he had just witnessed.

“You would have allowed this?” Legolas settled for asking, directing his frustration at his father and sweeping an arm in front of himself to encompass the carnage in the passage.

Thranduil regarded him levelly, unaccustomed to being addressed in that tone by anyone and much less his son. “Not if I could prevent it,” he replied.

Legolas nodded with a ‘you see my point’ expression.

“But an age of experience has taught me that your naneth follows her own council,” he concluded.

“Enough of that,” Lindomiel said. “And that,” she added, pulling away from Helindilme. “My injuries are not serious.”

“Respectfully, my lady, I will be the judge of that,” the healer replied.

Thranduil, for once, agreed with a Noldo.

“Rather than worrying over me…” Lindomiel let her words drift off as she looked over to Belloth. Elrohir had his hand pressed against the guard’s side while Golwon and Hallion lifted him from the ground. Isteth hurried out the passage ahead of them, saying something about fetching Nestoreth and medicine. “Has anyone looked after Galithil?” Lindomiel continued. “Or…” she cut herself off with a worried glance at Legolas.

Legolas grimaced and half turned away, but he answered in a relatively normal tone of voice. “Galithil was already regaining consciousness when Hallion arrived to let me in here.”

He paused, visibly bracing himself.

In the silence, Elladan nodded and mouthed, ‘Concussion’ and ‘But he will recover.’

“Aewen is dead,” Legolas concluded.

Lindomiel’s body tensed in Thranduil’s arms. “Oh, Legolas!” she cried, reaching for him.

Legolas sidestepped and then turned his back on her altogether. “Dolgailon,” he called.

Lindomiel tried to catch the shoulder that pulled away from her grasp. Failing that, she clutched Thranduil’s arm. “He must be…simply devastated. Get him out of here,” she whispered in his ear.

“My lord?” Dolgailon responded, stepping forward to stand before Legolas, apparently awaiting orders.

Thranduil’s eyebrows rose involuntarily.

“Secure that door.” Legolas gestured to the far end of the passage. “Then, make sure Glilavan is still in his cottage. If Manadhien tried to escape…” he let that sentence drift off.

As Dolgailon nodded, Thranduil frowned. Over the last season, he had watched Legolas use work—or over-work—to distract himself from the horrors he had witnessed or been forced to commit. He could not allow Legolas to continue on this path. He had a right to what remained of his childhood. And he needed to mourn Aewen properly.

“Once you have seen to Glilavan, find Dollion, Menelwen and Delethil and bring them to the Hall,” Legolas concluded.

Face grim, Dolgailon bowed and moved off to do as he had been bid. Galudiron followed his charge.

“Thranduil,” Lindomiel whispered, grasping his arm even tighter. “You have to stop this. Legolas cannot speak to Dollion. You cannot let him.”

That, Thranduil could not disagree with. Speaking to Dollion about his daughter’s death was too much. He placed a kiss on Lindomiel’s cheek. “I will look after Legolas.” His brow knit as he noticed Lindomiel was now bent over slightly towards her left side, the length of her left forearm pressed against her waist. “You allow someone to take care of you.”

She nodded and released his arm.

Helindilme resumed her work and Thranduil’s brow furrowed even more when he realized Lindomiel needed the healer’s aid to remain standing. She had not been hanging on his arm solely out of concern for Legolas. He turned and spoke into Elladan’s ear. “She has never had a wound like these,” he whispered, throwing a glance in Lindomiel’s general direction. “She has no idea how bad…. I want her drugged to unconsciousness before you clean and close them. Understood?”

“Of course,” Elladan agreed at once.

Watching the healers help Lindomiel from the passage, Thranduil wish he had ordered Elladan to produce whatever drugs he had immediately. She did not make it to the door before her knees buckled. He needed to manage Legolas quickly so he could go after her.

His son was now standing over Manadhien. Her head rested against the wall behind her and her eyes were closed. Weakened by her injuries, she made no reaction to his presence, but Legolas’s bow was back in his hand and Tureden was at his shoulder, sword raised.

“You and Lanthir take her back to her cell,” Legolas was saying to Galuauth, holding out a key clenched in his hand. “Fetch Nestoreth to look at her wounds and once she is done, bring the key back to me.” He started to walk away. “Perhaps this time, we can keep her in place,” he muttered.

Lanthir took a step after him. “I…I beg forgiveness, my lord. On my part and Belloth’s. I do not know how she escaped, but I can say she did not come through the antechamber. I swear it.”

“I know how she escaped and it is not your fault, Lanthir,” Legolas replied quietly. “It is mine. Do not think on it. Just get her out of…” He cut himself off mouthing, ‘my sight.’ “Here,” he concluded out loud. “Back to her cell.”

Lanthir bowed and helped Galuauth pull Manadhien away.

Thranduil watched her stumble through the door. How could her escape have been Legolas’s fault? He looked back at his son. The wizard was approaching him.

“What happened here, pen neth?” he asked.

Legolas turned towards him, eyes wide. He had clearly not noticed the Maia’s presence before now. He only managed to hold his gaze a moment before looking down at his feet. “I am…utterly horrified that you were forced to witness this,” he whispered. Then he clenched his jaw and glanced at Mithrandir again before looking back at the ground. “I was careless with the key to Manadhien’s cell,” he continued in a stronger, almost normal, voice. “As a result, Galithil and Belloth are injured, nana was almost killed, and Aewen is dead.”

Thranduil stared at his son. He had been careless with the key? Thranduil found that very hard to believe. There had to be more to this.

“You might have been careless,” Mithrandir replied, making his tone gentle in response to Legolas’s obvious discomfort. “That I cannot judge, because I do not know the facts. But if you were careless, you rectified your mistake. That elleth is once again your prisoner. And you cannot be held to blame for any of the injuries you named. You did not inflict them. She did. You restrained yourself from repaying violence with violence.”
 
Legolas’s shoulders tensed and his back stiffened. “I nearly killed her, as you no doubt saw. I wish I could tell you that I made threats with no intention of carrying them out, but I fear I cannot. You must judge that as you will, but, just as the queen has the right, and obligation, to defend this realm, so do I.”

Mithrandir put an arm around Legolas’s shoulder and began to lead him from the passage. “You do, my lord,” the wizard said. “I would never question that. My words were not intended as a veiled criticism.” He smiled. “You will find I am more direct than that. I meant what I said sincerely. But my judgment, since you asked for it, is this: while I well understand there are many ways a ruler is called upon to sacrifice himself for the sake of the people he has sworn to defend, a wise ruler is one who, while making those sacrifices and defenses, understands that death is not always the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”

“I do understand that, Mithrandir,” Legolas whispered.

The wizard tightened his grip around Legolas’s shoulders. “I believe you. I saw you demonstrate it just now. And so, though I realize it is a great deal to ask, I hope you will continue to find pity in your heart for that elleth you just sent away. Doing so might lead you both to life.”

Legolas said nothing to that as he allowed Mithrandir to draw him towards the secret door. They only paused for a moment—long enough for Legolas to study something on the sandy floor and bend over to pick it up.

Scowling disapproval, Tureden silently followed.

Thranduil was little better pleased. He did not appreciate the wizard’s interference. Not at all. But before he could pursue his son, his gaze fell on his foster son.

Berior’s eyes were still wide and the knuckles of the hand gripping his bow were white. He looked little different than he did the night he killed Lagril. Still, his was one of the arrows that struck Manadhien’s arm.

“I am fine, uncle,” Berior said in response to Thranduil’s scrutiny, trying and almost succeeding to sound confident.

“You did well,” Thranduil replied, reaching to put an arm around Berior’s shoulders.

A thunderstorm of voices erupted from the sitting room, forestalling any further reassurances Thranduil might have made.

“You have no right to hold my son responsible for what Manadhien did!” Dolwon shouted.

“He is only a child,” Lalfien cried, her voice tearful.

“I sincerely do not think he understood what he was doing,” Dannenion said in a quieter voice.

“I did not,” Noruil agreed.

“Be silent, the lot of you,” Legolas commanded, speaking over them.

Again, Thranduil heard Oropher.

Berior exchanged an openly concerned glance with Thranduil, and they both, along with Engwe, rushed out of the passage in time to see Legolas finish stalking across the sitting room, Tureden at his shoulder.

Near the door, where he had been cowering when Thranduil first emerged from his bedroom, Noruil was now being pulled in two directions. Pendurion held firmly onto one of his arms, keeping him in place, while Lalfien clung to her son’s other arm, trying to draw him away from the guard and out of the room. Dolwon was beside them, shaking off Dannenion’s attempt to prevent him from advancing on Legolas.

Tureden, right hand on the hilt of his sword, appeared more than ready to succeed where Dannenion might fail.

Maidhien, a slightly steadier Galithil, his guard, Colloth, Arthiel and Mithrandir all gathered around them. Maidhien, Galithil, Colloth and Arthiel blocked the door.

Thranduil blinked at their little group. Anastor stood with them, his astonished, betrayed, furious gaze boring into his cousin.

Eirienil still stood over Aewen’s body.

Legolas ignored everyone but Noruil. “You explain to me, right now, why you stole that key,” he demanded, fists clenched at his sides. He stood toe-to-toe with Noruil.

“My son would not have stolen…”

“Keep him quiet or remove him,” Legolas interrupted, never taking his eyes off Noruil.

Tureden and Colloth stepped forward, coming along either side of Dolwon, hands on their weapons.

Mouth open in mid-complaint, Dolwon’s wide-eyed gaze darted between the guards, Legolas and his son.  After a moment, he closed his mouth and settled for resting his hand on Noruil’s shoulder.

“Surely not!” Thranduil exclaimed, finally putting together Legolas’s earlier reference to poorly guarded keys leading to Manadhien’s escape, his order that Pendurion keep Noruil in the sitting room and Noruil’s panicked reaction earlier. Noruil had helped Manadhien escape? Impossible! He could not be involved in his father’s crimes! He was no older than Legolas!

No one seemed to hear him.

“Explain yourself!” Legolas repeated when Noruil only gaped at him. “Speak!”

“Honestly Legolas, I am sorry,” Noruil began. His tone did not entirely match his words. Not enough to have satisfied Thranduil, had they been standing in court.

“And you are going to be a good deal sorrier,” Legolas said through clenched teeth, stepping even closer to him.

Noruil’s eyes widened, but he drew himself up and held his ground.

“Why would you do this? Why would you help her?” Legolas demanded. “Even if you would not believe me when I told you she is evil, how could you not believe Anastor? He is your own cousin and she sold him to Men!  Her servants tried to kill your uncle. How did the loss of Dannenion’s arm not prove to you the danger she represents?”

“I understand very well how dangerous she is,” Noruil retorted with a glance at Dannenion. His voice was still pinched, but he managed to lift his chin and puff out his chest a little.

Legolas’s hands, already balled in fists, tightened further. He thrust them behind his back in a way that left Thranduil wondering if he had done it to prevent himself from laying hands on his friend. Legolas’s back was to the room, so Thranduil could not see his son’s expression, but it must be very dire given how Noruil now shrank away from him.

“You understand?” Legolas repeated, with a soft, carefully controlled tone. “You clearly do not understand much. First of all, you want to remember to whom you are speaking. At this moment, I am not your friend. Far from it. I am the person who will order your fate. I am who these guards,” he pointed to Pendurion, Colloth and Tureden each in turn, “are going to obey when I do so.” He paused briefly as Noruil’s mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly.

Thranduil found himself staring as well, first at Legolas and then at the guards, whose postures confirmed Legolas’s assertion. Indeed, every person in the room, except for Noruil’s parents, looked to Legolas, clearly ready to obey any order he might give. Everyone. Even Engwe. Thranduil laughed silently. Engwe only obeyed the High King when it suited him! He sobered. Even Dannenion appeared ready to aid Legolas. There was a transformation.

“Secondly,” Legolas continued, focused solely on Noruil, “you want to remember that your words—and attitude—are going to determine what my orders will be.”

Lalfien loosed a frightened little cry,

Legolas ignored her. “Now, tell me why you did this,” he demanded once again.

Noruil spluttered a few incoherent sounds, while looking from his uncle to Anastor to Galithil to Berior to Maidhien for support. Seeing none, he spread his hands wide in front of himself. “She said…Manadhien said…well, it was actually Fuilin who first said it…they said they would do worse to me. And my parents. And Anastor’s family. Worse than sell us to men…”

“Fuilin is dead. And how could Manadhien be any threat to you or your family—or any one else’s family—while locked in a store room in this stronghold?”

“She has allies….”

“You heard me tell the people on the Green that all her allies are dead. You were standing right next to me when I announced that.”

“You cannot be sure you killed them all…”

“I knew I had all but one. I confess, I never guessed you were that one.”

“I am sorry, Legolas.” This time Noruil sounded completely sincere. “I was afraid of her. She sent Fuilin after me. And some orcs. Orcs, Legolas!”

“You are lying. Fuilin is dead…”

“This happened before the battles…”

“You are still lying. Orcs could not get anywhere near the stronghold. Or maybe you were so far outside the range of the Guard that you deserved to run across orcs…”

“Here now!” Dolwon exclaimed.

“No one deserves to run across orcs, Legolas,” Thranduil intervened.

“I may have gone a bit too far hunting,” Noruil said, speaking over them. “But I am not lying. I saw them. Fuilin said they would come after all of us—my parents and everyone—if I did not do what he asked. I had to do it!” Noruil stopped speaking, out of breath, nearly crying, his expression now wholly remorseful.

Legolas faced him silently for a long moment, fists still clenched.

Thranduil drew a breath to take charge of this interrogation. It begged thorough understanding. But Legolas spoke first.

“Start at the beginning, Noruil. Go slowly and tell me every detail. When did you first see Fuilin? When did you see orcs? Where? How long have you been aiding Manadhien? How, precisely, were you involved? What did you do at her command? Who else was involved? Tell me everything.”

Noruil looked down, nodding and twisting his hands. He remained silent for a few breaths. “I first saw her…” he finally began, glancing up. “Do you remember when we were in your uncle Aradunnon’s village? After he…died? On the way home from Selwon’s village?”

Legolas took a step back. “This goes back that far!”

Noruil avoided his father and uncle’s gaze as he nodded. “I followed adar and uncle Dannenion into the forest while we were there. I only wanted to see more of the trees. They were so…dark. But adar and uncle Dannenion were meeting with…her…”

“She was there? In that village? Even then?”

Noruil nodded again. “I was hiding, because I did not want adar to see me following him. I heard her telling adar and uncle Dannenion that she would take control of Aradunnon’s village and to do so, she needed information. About when Thranduil traveled. And Dogailon. And your guards. And…things. I do not remember all her demands because I did not understand it all.”

Dolwon and Dannenion both shifted from foot to foot, glancing from under partially bowed heads towards Thranduil.

“Uncle Dannenion told her to be satisfied with what she had accomplished and use it to help the forest,” Noruil continued, “and she threatened him. Him and my adar. She said she would make them pay for disloyalty.” His frown deepened. “While she was talking to them, Fuilin found me. He had orcs with him….”

“Orcs!” both Thranduil and Legolas exclaimed at once. “Then?” Legolas continued. “In that village? Do you think she orchestrated the orc attacks even then?”

“I know she did, Legolas,” Noruil whispered. Dolwon and Dannenion nodded. “She said she did. And Fuilin made the orcs with him grab me. They had me. They grabbed my arms and clothes and hair. Anything to keep hold of me. It was…terrifying….I thought they would kill me…. They took me over to Manadhien and my adar. Adar was so frightened. And angry, afterwards. But, because of her threats, adar and uncle did as she asked. Until Tulus caught Demil. Adar told us that he heard in court that Demil admitted he intended to kill…everyone. Your whole family. When they heard that, my adar and uncle tried to break with Manadhien.”

Dolwon and Dannenion were now watching Thranduil steadily with worried expressions. No doubt afraid Noruil would reveal something they never had. Thranduil’s own fists clenched. He had enough of this!

“They really did try to break with her,” Noruil repeated. “Uncle Dannenion actually did it. He killed the hawk she sent to him. You know what that got him. You were there.”

“Anastor, sold to men,” Legolas responded.

Noruil nodded. Then he looked sidelong at his mother. “It was after that happened. I was hunting…quail…because uncle Dannenion cannot hunt anymore, so I was trying to help…and I went too far. Fuilin was there…along with Glilavan…. to free his brothers and…” His voice drifted off and his gaze darted to Berior.

Berior’s back straightened and his chin went up.

“Fuilin saw me.”

Lalfien gasped and tightened her grip on Noruil’s arm.

“I tried to run away, but he recognized me and chased me down. He showed me…Celonhael. I saw what they….” Noruil’s voice strangled and he could not continue.

A sob escaped Lalfien. She buried her face against Noruil’s arm.

“I saw it too, Noruil,” Legolas said softly.

Noruil met his gaze, tears now running freely down his cheeks. “Fuilin held…him…right in my face and said to me: ’This is the king’s uncle, who had guards and warriors with him. Imagine what I will do to your family.’ And he told me to get my adar’s loyalties straightened out or I would be the next one sold to men. Or maybe my naneth would be. And then he described what Men would do to nana.”

Lalfien made a strangled gasp.

Thranduil felt bile rise in his throat, both in response to her distress and the fact that Noruil’s expression made it plain that Fuilin’s description was thorough. Certainly more than a child should hear. His chest tightened painfully. He had failed to protect them.

Of course, they had refused to trust him. To let him know that they needed his help.

“I did not want to tell adar any of that. He would have been so angry. But it is why I begged him and uncle Dannenion to stay in the stronghold.” Noruil continued, looking at Thranduil, straight in the eye. “Adar would not agree to go back to helping Manadhien. He refused. Flat. And the next time I went hunting, orcs grabbed me.”

Dolwon’s mouth fell open and he stared with wide eyes at his son. Lalfien clutched at him.

“Fuilin was there then too. He asked me when he could expect hear from my adar. I was so afraid. I did not want him to come after my adar or nana or me or…anyone. But we had to go out to hunt. So I told him adar sent me…”

Dolwon groaned. “I swear I did not,” he whispered.

“He did not,” Noruil confirmed, “But I said he did, so Fuilin would leave him alone. And I promised that I would be delivering messages…that I would tell him everything I could find out. So Fuilin made the orcs let me go.” He looked back at Legolas. “I thought I would never tell them anything important. Because you never tell us anything and adar does not work in the court anymore, so I would not know anything to tell. I thought no harm could come of it. The only thing I ever told them was that it was you and not one of the guards that killed Demil—I heard Anastor and uncle Dannenion whispering about that. And I only told them that because they were getting angry and I realized that telling them nothing was not going to work, so I needed to tell them something good.” He sighed miserably. “And I told them I did not think Thranduil was in the capital anymore. I guess he had gone south to fight in the battles.” He shook his head. “And…” he shrugged. “And that is all, I guess. I never meant for any of this to happen. I meant to keep it all from happening.”

With that, Noruil fell silent, staring at Legolas, his cheeks wet with tears.

Legolas stared back at him, his posture still angry.

Thranduil felt his own anger rising. If Noruil had asked for help rather than trying to manage this on his own…. Of course, why would he do that? He was his father’s son, after all. “Helping her escape is not the way I would have chosen to prevent ‘all this from happening,’” he said.

Noruil flinched.

“Too right,” Legolas snapped. “Nothing you have said explains why you did that! She was safely hidden away, where she could not harm anyone else, but you wanted to let her go! You snuck into my room, like a thief…”

“How dare you name my son a thief!”

Legolas swung his glare onto Dolwon. “Being a thief is the least of his crimes, but he is a thief. He stole the key to her cell out of my pocket.” He turned to Noruil. “Correct?”

Noruil only nodded again.

“Then, knowing she wanted to kill my entire family….

“I swear she said she only wanted to escape…”

“…you led her into my family’s rooms, where I have invited you, as a guest….”

“She said she would escape through some secret passage. Escape, go away and never come back, since she had lost Fuilin and everyone else. I thought she meant she would use that door that goes into the garden. I did not see how she would get over the wall. I thought she would be trapped there. I did not know about…” he pointed at the open door behind Legolas.

“You led her into my room and you gave her my bow and my sword. I am your friend, Noruil!”

Noruil threw his hands wide. “When Manadhien saw me on the Green…. Did you see how she looked at me?”

“I saw her looking at someone. I never guessed it was you,” Legolas replied.

“I thought she would do it. She said she would do it—get to my family somehow—unless I helped her. Fuilin might be dead. If you say he is, I suppose it is true. But all the orcs are not dead. She could have sent them after us…”

Legolas’s hands reached towards the front of Noruil’s tunic and he only just stopped himself from grabbing him. He grasped the edges of his own tunic instead. “How would Manadhien get orcs into the capital? How would she get them past the patrols and the Guard? All while locked in a cell inside the stronghold. How could she accomplish that?”

Noruil shook his head and tried to speak, but he had no answer to that. “She has managed everything else she threatened to do,” he finally whispered. “Even capturing you, which should have been impossible, since you have guards and….everything. I thought she if she could do that, she could certainly get me and my parents.”

“Please,” Lalfien begged. “My lord,” she added hastily. “He is only a child.”

Legolas glared at her. “He is my same age,” he replied, once again managing a controlled voice. “I am perfectly capable of better choices. If Noruil had been also, or if he had the sense to ask for help, even his adar’s help, if not mine, none of this,” he pointed behind himself, “would have happened.”

Noruil looked where Legolas pointed and his gaze landed on Aewen. That was enough to make him sob again. “I am so sorry, Legolas. So sorry about… And Lindomiel….is she…”

“The queen will live,” Legolas replied, cutting him off. “Aewen…” His voice broke over her name.

Noruil’s face crumpled. “I am….”

“Sorry,” Legolas finished for him, his tone dull, anger gone from it. “So you have said. You are also guilty of treason. Do you understand that?”

Noruil took a step back, shaking his head and looking with ever widening eyes between the guards, Legolas and Thranduil.

“No!” Lalfien and Dolwon exclaimed at once.

“Treason is what you call it when you attack the king, queen or their heir,” Legolas said.

“I never…. I did not mean for any of this…. She said she only wanted to escape. I am so sorry,” Noruil whispered, tears choking off any stronger voice.

“He is a child! He is not responsible!” Lalfien pleaded.

Legolas ignored her and remained focused on Noruil. “I believe that you are sorry. I will grant you that. And that you are not smart enough to foresee the likely consequences of your choices. But that is not enough. It undoes nothing. Nothing at all.” Legolas paused and wiped a hand across his face before looking back at Noruil, sidelong. “I am so very glad—and you should be too—that it is not my place to decide your ultimate fate. Even believing your remorse—and utter ignorance—I am still furious with you. I doubt I could judge you with even the slightest modicum of objectivity, not if I waited a hundred years for my temper to cool. You are responsible for Aewen’s death, Noruil. You were nearly responsible for a good many more deaths. You let Manadhien out of her cell, knowing what she was capable of, and you did not make a single move to stop anything she did—not her attack on Galithil, me, Aewen or the queen. If it were my decision and I had to make it right now, I would send you from this forest. Right now. Tonight. And permanently.”

Noruil loosed a shocked noise and Lalfien another sob. Dolwon clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his son’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

Legolas took a step back, apparently ready to walk away. Then he stopped himself and turned a glare on Noruil, hands again in fists. This time he did nothing to hide them. “You should also be glad I am who I am. If I were not the king’s son…. If I were free to react as anyone else might…. For causing Aewen’s death—and for forcing me to watch a mad elf attack my naneth with a sword—I would give you a walloping that would finally beat some sense into your thick head.”

Defiance automatically flared in Noruil’s eyes and he looked up at Legolas.

Thranduil still could not see his son’s expression. Whatever it held now immediately quenched Noruil’s anger.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” he whispered again.

“So you have said,” Legolas repeated, his tone openly tired. “We will see what the king will do with you.”

Thranduil remained silent. He was certainly not in any frame of mind to pass judgments at this moment.

Legolas did not seem to expect anything different. He turned away from Noruil and faced Pendurion. “I do not trust him to remain in place while waiting to face justice. Put him in a cell in the store rooms.”

“No!” Noruil protested, and his parents echoed his cry. “Manadhien is there. She will…”

“She will not be able to touch you, Noruil,” Legolas interrupted. “You will be separated by solid stone.”

“Legolas, please!” Noruil pleaded as Pendurion began trying to pry him away from his now panicked parents.

Thranduil took a step forward. Noruil was a child, after all. And he appeared sincerely repentant. Granted, if he was not properly guarded, his lack of…well, even basic common sense would, very likely, lead him to rash acts that would only worsen his situation, but the cell next to Manadhien would almost certainly exacerbate that possibility. Surely there was a better way to keep him safe while he awaited justice.

“Please, my lord,” Noruil begged.

Thranduil looked back at him, but found him still addressing Legolas.

Legolas clenched his jaw. Only someone who knew him very well would know he had only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath. “I do not want him locked in the guest quarters or in a cottage, where his father will help him escape…”

“I will not help him escape. I swear,” Dolwon interjected, sounding desperate.

“…or make life miserable for what ever guard we set on him,” Legolas continued, without pause. “If we do not put him in the store rooms, where can we put him?”

“Somewhere in the family quarters?” Arthiel suggested. “Dolwon cannot get in here.”

To his credit, Dolwon remained silent and kept his expression largely neutral.

Legolas, in contrast, looked at Arthiel incredulously.

“Do you honestly believe Noruil to be a threat, my lord, or only foolish enough to try to flee?” she asked.

“The latter,” Legolas admitted.

“We could put him in the suite we are preparing for Maidhien and I,” Galithil offered. “No one is using it yet. It already has some cushions in it he could sleep on. And it has the same bathing facilities as our other rooms, so keeping him here will not be as much work as keeping Manadhien in the storerooms. I can fetch the key. If you wish, my lord.”

Legolas sighed and nodded. “If that is acceptable to both you and Maidhien.”

“It is,” Maidhien immediately agreed.

The poor child looked so miserable for her cousin and so desperate not to show it in Legolas’s presence that Thranduil’s heart went out to her. He reached to put an arm around her shoulder, which she readily accepted and which, amazingly, elicited no reaction other than possibly appreciation from Dannenion.  

“Take him there and guard him until Galithil brings the key,” Legolas said to Pendurion. “Search him and the room for weapons or anything that might be used as a weapon before you leave him in it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Pendurion replied. This time, he managed to pull Noruil free of his mother’s grasp and out of the room.

Dolwon and Lalfien followed on his heels.

“I will go with them and escort uncle Dolwon and aunt Lalfien out after Noruil is settled if you want, Legolas,” Maidhien said as they left. “You look a little tired. Which is reasonable, under the circumstances,” she hastened to add.

Legolas smiled wanly at her. “I cannot ask you to do that. I will deal with them. And I will survive doing it,” he added when Maidhien appeared ready to protest. Then his smile immediately evaporated. “Unlike others, I will survive,” he whispered.

Galithil grasped Legolas’s shoulder. “Come with me to get the key. Then I will go with you to deal with Dolwon. And to speak to Dollion.”

Legolas fixed his cousin with an appraising look.

“Elladan already said I will be fine…”

“I have been knocked unconscious before,” Legolas said, “and I was nauseous for days afterward.”

“…if a little sick,” Galithil continued, speaking over him and folding his arms across his chest. “I must face Dollion. I brought Aewen up here. I told her she could persuade you to come outside and…”

“This is not your fault, Galithil…”

“It is Manadhien’s, I know,” Galithil agreed. “But I will help you speak to Dollion just the same.”

Legolas matched Galithil’s scowl, but the depths of his eyes held worry. And grief. He drew a breath to continue arguing.

Thranduil stepped between them. “Galithil,” he said in a quiet voice.

Both Galithil and Legolas started. They had obviously forgotten he was present.

Thranduil did not spare the effort to ponder the somewhat guilty expression now clouding his son’s face. “Take the key to Pendurion and then both of you go to bed. I will manage the rest of this, including speaking to Dollion. I cannot permit either of you to face such a terrible conversation. Not after all you have already endured.”

Legolas was already shaking his head. “I will see this through, adar.”

It was a declaration, Thranduil noted with raised eyebrows, not a request. And his son’s tone was unusually firm. Ignoring that impertinence—Legolas had been through a great deal tonight, after all—Thranduil placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have no idea how difficult it will be to face Dollion and tell him….”

“It will be no different than speaking to the villagers and warriors’ families after the battle,” Legolas retorted, cutting him off and pulling away from his hand. “Galithil and I did that.”

Thranduil stared at them.

Legolas met his gaze unflinchingly. So did Galithil.

Had they truly spoken to the villagers? Where had Dolgailon been? Recovering, Thranduil immediately realized. In Rhosgobel.

“I loved her, adar,” Legolas said. His expression had not changed, but his voice was a rough whisper. “I accepted years ago that she…. That we would never…. But I owe her…. She died trying to defend me.”

Thranduil drew a shocked breath.

“She died because I failed to keep a dangerous prisoner secure. The least I can do to repay her courage and make amends for my negligence is speak to her family. And I intend to do so.”

Thranduil only shook his head. The loss Legolas felt. The grief. And the guilt. He understood them all to well.

“Before you go, Legolas,” Maidhien said softly into the silence, “you need to change your tunic. And wash your face.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted from Thranduil to Maidhien. He frowned at her in obvious confusion.

“You are covered in blood,” she explained. Then she took a step away from Thranduil’s embrace and towards Aewen. “While you clean yourself up, I will…prepare…bathe….” She loosed a frustrated noise. “Well, if Dollion and Menelwen should not see…” she gestured at the blood splattered across Legolas’s clothes, “…they certainly should not see Aewen…like this,” she finally managed. Her voice was as resolute as Legolas’s, even if she struggled for words.

“I will help,” Arthiel immediately said.

“We can take her to my room,” Eirienil suggested. “And she can have one of my gowns.”

“I will help you carry her and then I will clean…our sitting room,” Berior said, looking around himself at everything except the blood.

“I will fetch some rags and a bucket with water,” Anastor offered. “I know where to find both.”

They all began to disperse.

“No!” Thranduil exclaimed.

Everyone turned to him.

He could not allow this! Arthiel was an adult. Barely. But surely Dolgailon would not approve of her being subjected to such atrocities. And Maidhien! Eirienil! They were both children! Golwon would be furious! He was stunned Dannenion had not already dragged Maidhien and Anastor away. He closed his eyes briefly. Worst of all—Berior and Legolas! They were both far too close to this same sort of grief to face it again so soon.

“We cannot ask a maid to do this,” Berior said, interrupting Thranduil’s thoughts. “Anastor and I can manage it.”

Anastor took a long step sideways to stand shoulder to shoulder with Berior. “We can,” he agreed.

Eirienil turned a pleading look on Thranduil and hurried to speak right after her cousin. “Aewen is my closest friend, uncle.”

“And mine,” Maidhien added.

“Let me help,” Eirienil continued in a rush. “Let me do this one last thing for her.”

Maidhien nodded, looking simultaneously determined and lost.

Tears welled in Thranduil’s eyes at Eirienil’s words and Maidhien’s expression. He could not hold them back. How had this happened, again? This time in the realm he had sworn to protect?

“They have earned the right to see this through,” Engwe whispered in his ear.

Thranduil turned his head to scowl at his uncle. “They are children,” he whispered back, using the same argument Engwe himself repeated over and over to protest the responsibilities Thranduil had seen fit to bestow on his son and foster sons. He expected his words would earn him offended silence. Instead they earned him a shrug.

“Perhaps they are children,” Engwe replied. “By tradition, if not in practice. Of course, that is a Sindarin tradition that, like every other tradition not solely based in merry-making, the elves in this forest value only when it suits them.”

Thranduil loosed a scoffing puff of air, both at Engwe’s slight of the Silvan and his words in general. “I am Sindar,” he began. ‘And so is my House,’ he intended to add.

“And I am Silvan,” Legolas interjected.

Thranduil’s brows rose involuntarily and he could not prevent his posture from stiffening.

“I intend no offense, adar,” Legolas continued. “But I was born in this forest and that makes me, by definition, Silvan…”

“Of Sindarin parents, which makes you, by definition, Sindarin,” Thranduil countered.

“Of Sindarin parents who gave him a Silvan name,” Engwe said airily.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at him.

Engwe shrugged again, “Laegolas is a perfectly good Sindarin word, which you chose to ignore…”

“Silvan. Sindarin. Neither is relevant. Nor is my age,” Legolas said, before Thranduil could fully turn on his uncle. “What is relevant is that I have managed the affairs of this House for the last month, for good or ill, and I was managing them the moment Aewen was murdered. Therefore, Dollion and Menelwen have the right to hear me explain how their daughter died and I have the responsibility to face them. I am not a coward, adar. I will not shrink from this, no matter how painful it will be. Nothing could make me. Not my adar. Not even my king. This is an argument you will not win, so I recommend you do not pursue it.”

Thranduil stared. He had found himself staring at Legolas several times this night. Staring at a son he did not entirely recognize. His son, for whom he now felt an irrepressible swell of pride. And an overwhelming surge of grief. It must have been the grief that made it to his face.

“I know what concerns you, adar,” Legolas said softly, taking a step towards him. “Of course I do. You want to protect me. Us. My cousins and I.” He shook his head. “We do not need protection. We have the strength of our upbringing. More importantly, we have each other’s support. Together we will do what we can for Aewen and her family. And each other. We all loved her and together we will mourn her.” He paused before adding in an even softer voice. “‘If we stay together, we will not just endure, we will flourish.’ Are those not the words my cousins and I were taught in lesson after lesson to believe? We have learned them, adar. Now we will act upon them.”

For a moment, Thranduil could not breath. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, he felt Engwe tense as well.

‘Together we will not just endure, we will flourish.’

Oropher had first, to the best of Thranduil’s knowledge, said those words to buoy the spirits of the people he led, in the dead of winter, from Menegroth to Sirion as refugees. He repeated those same words when he led the Sindar again—this time east, to the forest. Thranduil had used them to persuade his father to join the Last Alliance. He had used them again when the capital moved north to this stronghold. Legolas was correct that those words had begun many chapters in the lives of the House of Oropher.

Thranduil knew they were intended to be comforting. Given the ultimate fates of Sirion and so many of the people that followed Oropher east—including those in this stronghold—he found them a little bitter.

“Legolas has long used his parents’ own arguments against them,” Engwe said drily.

“Now is not the time for your bile, uncle,” Legolas replied without looking at Engwe. He kept his gaze fixed on Thranduil. A gaze that he had, apparently, learned to use to some effect. Thranduil found it difficult to meet.

His resolve crumbled. It sickened him. He would have gladly given his life to prevent these children from ever knowing such grief. But they did. And Legolas was right. “Go, then,” he said softly.

With an audible sigh of relief, Anastor darted out of the sitting room and down the corridor to the cupboard in the dining room, where the servants stored cleaning supplies.

Berior threw his cloak onto the floor next to Aewen and he, Maidhien, Eirienil and Arthiel lifted her onto it to carry her from the room.

Legolas closed his eyes as they passed.

Galithil silently grasped his cousin’s shoulder.

Mithrandir stepped forward to grasp his other. “You said some very wise words a moment ago,” he whispered. “Trust now that they were true.”

Legolas nodded, eyes still closed. “I will be fine,” he said. “We should go to Dollion and Menelwen,” he added a moment later. His voice was not normal. It was definitely tinged with deep grief. But it was still strong.

Despite his own grief, Thranduil could not have been more proud of his son. Of his family.

*~*~*

Adar/ada — Father/dad
Naneth/nana — Mother/mum
ion nin — my son
ellon — male elf
elleth — female elf
pen neth—young one

“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” —Unattributed, as far as I can tell.

AN: I am so sorry. It has been a really horrible year in a lot of ways. I never intended to leave this story hanging for a year. I just couldn't find it in me to post this chapter amongst everything else that was going on. I am going to try to be more on top of things. A chapter every week? Not likely. But regularly? I promise. I really do appreciate everyone that reads so much! I hope you continue to enjoy.