They came clattering back into the stables behind Menegroth with a great noise of hooves and boisterous laughter, their youthful energy still running riot after their long excursion into the wilds of the northern marches.  All six of them dismounted in good order and set about accommodating their horses, stirring up the familiar homely smells of sweat, leather and sawdust, all under the watchful eye of their Master.

Beleg found their exuberance refreshing, even while it could seem exhausting at times.  He truly enjoyed mentoring the younger generations in the ways of the wardens and the woodland warriors.  He found he had more patience than Mablung and a softer touch than Thoron.  Whatever time he could spare from his primary duties was in high demand, especially by those with enough influence to command it.  This particular patrol was comprised primarily of the new flower of Mithrin nobility, the sons of the lords and princes of Doriath more accustomed to life in the King’s court than to the harsh realities of soldiering.  They were a promising lot despite this handicap, and Beleg found he could be intensely proud of the progress they had made together.  

He did not pretend to understand the complexities of their social lives, but even he could recognize that his patrols seemed to form around existing cliques of friends united in the mutual dislike of the other groups.  Each had a natural leader who directed their efforts to antagonize one another, and Beleg recognized the seeds of idle political intrigue already taking root.  He could hardly expect better of them when he could observe the same divisions among their entitled parents.  Some behaviors already ran too deep for him to rectify.

Another party of riders returned as they were brushing down their horses.  Beleg sighed, recognizing the arch rivals of his troop.  Trouble was certain to ensue, but young lords must learn to settle their disputes in their own way.  

The first among the newcomers, Faelos son of Lord Falchor, turned up his nose as he and his friends took note of who was present.  They had clearly been out for pleasure rather than purpose, and were irreproachably dressed with not a hair out of place.

“Now I do not wonder at the stench,” Faelos quipped, looking down from his stallion with a decidedly superior air.  His fellows sat their mounts behind him, lending greater weight to his derision.  “I wonder that they allow such riffraff to trouble these fine horses.”

“At least we riffraff know how to handle horses.”  Faelos’ equivalent among the patrol vaulted over the stall door to confront him, conspicuously large and fair even for that company.  “Unlike you milksops.”

With a flick of his wrist he swept the fletching of an arrow across the stallion’s groin, sending the beast into a squealing frenzy.  Faelos was thrown against the wall to the horror of his companions and the unrestrained amusement of the scouts.

Beleg leapt into the fray and seized the panicked horse by the headstall before it could do any further damage.

“Oropherion!” he snapped.  “Such reckless conduct will not be tolerated in my charge.  Would you have us all trampled to death?”

“My apologies, Master Cúthalion,” Thranduil said.  He seemed serious enough, but plainly thought the result well worth the rebuke.

Faelos pulled himself out of the dust, bleeding from his nose.  “Crude and artless,” he spat, “just like your father!”

Thranduil sneered.  “Gutless and offensive, like your own."

“Enough!”  Beleg deepened his voice into a tone that would brook no opposition.  “Faelos, take your friends and have your hurts attended.  Thranduil and I shall see to your horses.”

Thranduil was obviously not pleased by the prospect of extra work, but he dared not object.  Faelos likewise stalked away without protest.  Whatever their blood, at heart they were still boys in need of discipline, perhaps more so than others.

The rest of the young scouts were dismissed to return to their homes, but Thranduil dutifully stayed behind to perform his penance.  Beleg considered his noble protégé in silence for a time as they brushed the horses and wiped down the saddles.  There was already something about proud Oropher’s son which inspired people, even if his only following at present was a rowdy gang of adolescents.  There was a seed of greatness there, a confidence and indeed a competence beyond his years, though it seemed his potential was doomed to be wasted in vain amusements without greater challenges to occupy him.  An idea had been growing in Beleg’s mind which might benefit them both.

“Why do you so dislike young Falchorion?” he asked at last.

Thranduil seemed taken aback by the question, as though the answer should have been obvious.  “He is arrogant and obnoxious,” he said at last.

“Certainly no one could say the same of you,” Beleg retorted with a wry smile.

Thranduil scowled at him from behind a horse, taking his point but refusing to comment.

“You need something better to occupy your time than courtly feuds, Thranduil,” Beleg decreed.  “I have a favor to ask of you, if you can spare a moment from tormenting your peers.”

When the horses were properly bedded in, Beleg beckoned Thranduil to follow him.  They left the stables and walked through the grounds, past the granary, past the dovecote, until they could see the hutches.  There was a boy peering intently over the fence at the rabbits, thin and pale.

“He is my sister’s son,” Beleg explained.  “He has a great and true heart, but he is timid and small and in need of a strong friend.”

“Me?” Thranduil asked, caught off his guard.

“I would not have him fall prey to those ungentle games of adolescence which you play so well, Thranduil,” Beleg said.  “I believe you may both benefit from knowing one another.  Please consider it.  His name is Galadhmir.”

Thranduil avoided Beleg and all thought of his prospective new friend for several days.  He was nearing his majority and did not particularly relish the idea of being shadowed by an awkward and inquisitive child.  But he could not escape the sense of obligation for long.  He had benefited from untold hours of Beleg’s time and attention, and so could hardly deny him the first and only favor he asked.

Deeply reluctant, but seeing no other choice in the matter, Thranduil went in search of Galadhmir.

He found him by the hutches again, as he had expected, but little Galadhmir was not alone this time.  Faelos and his gang of friends were there as well, and their intentions were far from amiable.  Already feeling strangely protective, Thranduil quickened his pace before the situation could deteriorate.

“My favorite is this one with the flop ear,” Galadhmir was saying.  “I call him Barandal.”

“You do know that these are not pets,” Heledir said very deliberately.  “Soon Barandal will be in someone’s pot.”

“No, he will not!” Galadhmir insisted.  “Somehow I shall buy him and set him free.”

“Unlikely,” Faelos decided.  He leaned into the hutch and lifted the rabbit in question by the ears.  “He looks like a fine catch now.  Perhaps I shall bring him for our supper tonight.”

“Unhand the rabbit, Faelos,” Thranduil demanded, coming to stand at Galadhmir’s side.  The poor boy had tears in his eyes, helpless to defend the creature.  He seemed grateful to have some assistance, though he was quite unable to account for it.

“Why should I?”  Faelos was incredulous.  “You are not lord enough to command me, Thranduil.”

“No, but I am man enough to force you,” Thranduil countered ominously.  “Drop it.”

Faelos considered his threat for a few long moments.  It was not for nothing that Thranduil had earned a checkered reputation for fighting.  At last he seemed to decide the cruel joke was not worth a brawl and let the flop-eared rabbit fall back into the hutch.  

“Too scrawny after all,” he said.  “Turn it loose if you must and let the wolves take it.”  He tossed his head at Galadhmir as he and the others turned to leave.  

Thranduil continued to glower after them until they had all safely gone.  Ordinarily he would have provoked them further, but he held his tongue for the boy’s sake.  “Gutless and offensive,” he said again, almost disappointed that Faelos had chosen not to fight.

“What?” Galadhmir asked, still a bit perturbed by the whole incident.

“Nothing,” Thranduil assured him.  “They will not trouble you again.  If they do, you come to me.”

“Thank you.”  The boy went quiet, still uncertain of Thranduil’s motives and plainly used to callous treatment by anyone a few years short of adulthood.

“Tell me about Barandal,” Thranduil said, encouraging him to relax.  “Do you come to see him every day?”

Galadhmir nodded.  “I always try to bring him some weeds or roots,” he said.  “He never makes trouble, but that black one is jealous and bites him.”  He indicated a large black buck ensconced in the most prominent nest bin.  

“It seems you and Barandal have a few troubles in common,” Thranduil observed.  “How do you propose to save him from the stew pot?”

Galadhmir’s face fell.  “Mother says I must find my own way,” he said.  “I have tried to earn enough to buy him myself, but it is taking too long.”  He drew his hand out of his pocket and looked at his collection of small coins.  “I am afraid that by the time I am ready, he will be gone.”

Thranduil sighed.  It was a pathetic little tale, and he found that he did not possess the same forbearance as the boy’s parents in the face of an almost inevitably tragic ending.  He nodded at the hutch keeper who smiled and made a note in her ledger.  Then he lifted Barandal out by the scruff and placed him in Galadhmir’s arms.  “I suspect Faelos was quite right about the wolves,” he said.  “You had best keep this little fellow at home.  Save your coins to feed him.”

Galadhmir was speechless with joy for some time, eyes wide and mouth agape, clutching the animal to his chest.  His happiness was infectious, though Thranduil wondered what Oropher would say when he was billed for a rabbit he had never seen on his table.

“Thank you, my lord!” Galadhmir stammered, not entirely aware of what he was saying.  “I know not how . . . I am completely . . . thank you!”

Thranduil could not help but smile.  Perhaps this association would not be so terrible after all.  “You may call me Thranduil, Galadhmir,” he said.  “We cannot rightly be friends if you are prattling ‘my lord’ at me at every turn.”

“Thank you, Thranduil!”  He seemed even happier, if that were possible.  “If we are to be friends, then you must come to supper.  Follow me and I will show you our house.  I cannot say what we may offer, except that it will not be rabbit!  Come, come!”

Thranduil followed as Galadhmir led him back into Menegroth by the south gate, swept along in the whirlwind of excitement.  They entered one of the simpler apartments, and Thranduil was immediately struck by the unaffected warmth of the place, quite different from the grand furnishings to which he was accustomed.

“Mother, I have brought a friend for supper,” Galadhmir called proudly across the interior of his home.  

“Have you indeed?” she called back from another room.  She sounded pleased.

With no more than a familiar smile, Galadhmir gave Barandal into Thranduil’s care and set about emptying a large wooden chest of all the clean linens inside.  When it was cleared, he retrieved the rabbit and set him down inside with a cushion for his comfort.  “Have we any carrots?” he asked.

There was only bemused silence for a moment.  “Is your friend unusually fond of carrots?” his mother asked, emerging into the sitting room.  She stopped short at the sight of Thranduil, clearly not at all the sort of person she had been expecting.

“They are not for me, I am afraid,” Thranduil said, almost apologetic.  He nodded toward Galadhmir and his makeshift hutch.

The lady of the house struggled to regain her composure.  “Yes, there are some carrots in the larder,” she said, and Galadhmir went in search of them at once.  “Welcome, of course, to our home, Lord Oropherion.  I am Linaewen.  My brother has told me a great deal about you.”

“Nothing too shocking, I hope,” Thranduil smiled.  It was only then that he noticed a bright pair of eyes watching him intently from behind her skirts.  “Who is this?”

“Lindóriel, will you greet your brother’s friend?” Linaewen asked, trying to coax the child into being sociable.  “She is still very shy for her age,” she apologized.

“No need to hurry her,” Thranduil said.  “We may yet see a great deal of each other.”

Galadhmir returned then with his carrots and also a few other vegetables from the family cache.

“Do not feed that rabbit everything in the pantry!” Linaewen protested.  “His life may yet be forfeit if your father has nothing on his plate tomorrow.”

Little Lindóriel was still watching him with a precocious intensity from the safety of her mother’s shadow.  Thranduil smiled at her, and after a moment of indecision she dared to smile back.  Then she blushed and ducked away out of sight.

He had been incredulous at first, but now Thranduil suspected Master Beleg had been quite correct, as always.  He was already certain he would not regret making the acquaintance of this endearing family.