Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Hello, and welcome to this story. To be honest, I'm not entirely certain where the idea for this one came from. Bits and pieces of it kept threading themselves into my mind. In order to connect those bits and pieces into a coherent story, other bits and pieces had to be added, and then those bits and pieces had to be filled in with supporting details, and hey presto! A story began to form.

The few details that Tolkien gives concerning how the War of the Rings played out in Mirkwood can be found in Appendix B of The Return Of The King. It's a couple of paragraphs of teensy little type wedged into the main timeline. Following the timeline, this story is set between the end of March and about mid-October of the year 3019 of the Third Age. We don't really know exactly how Thranduil of Mirkwood and Celeborn of Lothlórien are related; best guess is that they are cousins of some variety with roughly one generation of remove.

We know very little of the culture of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood save that they are a rather more rough-and-tumble lot than the High Elves of Lothlórien or Rivendell. I have tried to make my characters reflect this a little. It shows mainly in the description of their music at one point. I imagine that the music of the Wood Elves shares the complex melody and driving rhythm of the Celtic reels that are still played in Ireland, Scotland, France and Quebec. On the other hand, they are still Elves, and they accomplish little without talking things over quite a bit.

That's all from this end. Have fun, and I will come back at the end of the story.

It was over. Thranduil of Mirkwood was not certain of much in life, but he was certain of this. He had seen the pain and terror on the horrible faces of the orcs as dawn had broken suddenly, rays of pale sunshine stabbing through the gaps in the trees and paralyzing the orcs with fear. The Elves had made their rally then, fighting with all they had left, and the foe had been destroyed. And then, for the first time in a month, no more came. It was over.

Thranduil and the Wood Elves moved quickly through the ruins of the settlement, picking up the wounded, marking the dead, and quenching the small fires that still flickered here and there among the trees. The orcs had set fire to the settlement, destroying over half of the little wooden houses and killing many fine old trees. Thranduil could only be thankful that it was winter and that the forest was cold and wet, rather than tinder-dry from summer's heat. The houses, of cured and seasoned wood, had gone quickly, and many individual trees had burned, but the fire had not crowned, and the forest as a whole had been spared.

All around him, he could hear the wailing of his people as they discovered a dwelling burnt, or a loved one impaled on a black spear. Thranduil's heart turned over as he pulled the body of the captain of his guards from beneath a pile of orc corpses. The captain had fought bravely, taking down several foes before succumbing himself. Thranduil squatted down next to him, drew his eyes shut, and then buried his own face in his hands.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his immediate grief. He knew who it was. Very few Elves in Mirkwood would have approached their King so familiarly at such a time. Thranduil turned around to see his old seneschal, Luindil. Luindil had been seneschal to Oropher in his time, and had gradually come to love Oropher's young son as the child he had never had. Although he had a full council of advisors, it was always to Luindil that Thranduil had turned for aid in the most important events of his life. He was cheered beyond words to see that Luindil had survived this battle.

"Luindil . . . " he began, but then his throat closed, and he could say no more.

"It was a hard victory," Luindil said, "and we will not forget it quickly, but victory it was, nonetheless."

"So many are dead. So many of my people. And so much is ruined. Almost it seems that the battle is not yet won."

Luindil looked around at the devastation. "The battle is won, King Thranduil," he said. "You have led your people to victory. You cannot see it now, through the smoke and the tears, but the battle is yours."

Thranduil surveyed the ruins of the settlement and heaved a sigh. "I hope you are right, Luindil," he said. "I will trust your judgement for now. You could always see farther than I, in any case."

Luindil smiled. "That is a wise decision, oh King," he said. "Now we must continue our work. The sooner we have cleared the battlefield, the sooner we can begin to turn our tears into song." He turned and strode off to quench another small fire.

Thranduil lingered behind for a moment, gazing at the captain of the guard. For a moment he wondered, as he had done many times over the course of the winter, if a similar fate had befallen Legolas. With an effort, he shook off that worry once again. It was no use fretting, he told himself. Whatever had become of Legolas, it was not in his power to change. He would wait patiently for news. In the meantime, there was work to be done at home.

As the reports trickled in, it became apparent that there was even more work than Thranduil had anticipated. While the major part of the Wood Elves had survived, their homes had not. Even though the winter was mostly over, the nights were still cold and damp, and the homeless Elves would need some place to live. Thranduil directed his staff to open the emergency halls deep in the Wood Elves' cave system. Oropher had designed the residence to be as much fortress as dwelling, and it was capable of housing the entire settlement in an emergency. Quarters would be tight and privacy would be at a minimum, but Thranduil intended for every Elf in Mirkwood to have a safe place to sleep that night. The fortunate few whose houses had not burned also opened their doors to the homeless, for which their King was profoundly grateful.

After shelter, Thranduil's next worry was food. The Wood Elves had never had especially bountiful stores of food to begin with, and the winter had been a hard one. He was cheered to note that most of the royal storerooms had been spared, although one or two had been raided by orcs. There was just enough jerky, preserved fish and dried fruits and vegetables to keep the Elves until summer, when the forest would once again offer up such bounty as she had to give. The food would have to be rationed sparingly, but Thranduil was reasonably sure that no one would starve. He could only hope that, despite the damage to the forest, there would be new food when the stores ran out.

He had reckoned a small victory feast into his estimation of the food supply, feeling that his folk deserved at least one night of celebration before buckling down to the long, grueling task of rebuilding. So it was that a few days after the final battle in Mirkwood, King Thranduil stood in his largest hall, a cup of Dorwinion wine in his hand, and looked out over the entire remaining Elf population of Mirkwood. So many were to attend this feast that Luindil and the cooks had decided to do away with dining tables and benches. They had arranged the long tables around the outside of the room and set the food and decorations there, so that the celebrants could choose what they wished.

There were more decorations than food on the tables, and the absences of the dead hung heavily in the atmosphere, but it was a celebration all the same. The drums pounded out their irresistible dancing rhythms, the flutes wailed and the fiddles cried, and Thranduil led the Wood Elves in songs of victory even as tears of loss rolled down their faces.

As was his wont, Thranduil drank little, preferring instead to sit and enjoy the sight of his people at their merrymaking. Many Elves approached him over the course of the evening, wishing to congratulate him on the victory and thank him for his leadership. Thranduil accepted their praise graciously and extended his condolences to those who had lost loved ones. Hour after hour he presided over the celebration, as outside the stars wheeled overhead, sparkling down through the new gaps in the forest cover.

Finally, the last victory song had been sung, the last loss mourned. The Elves made their way to various resting places. A fortunate few went home. The rest bedded down in the King's halls, which had been turned into dormitories. Thranduil stayed behind in the Great Hall for a while, listening to the soft noises of the night. Luindil sat with him in friendly silence.

"I am glad the celebration is over," Thranduil said.

"It was good to have it, though," Luindil replied. "There will be much labor and toil ahead, and release was needed."

"Still, I am glad it is over. I do not think I could have consoled one more grieving widow, orphan or parent."

"You did well. They will take courage from your compassion, and they will need what comfort they can find in the days ahead."

"Perhaps," Thranduil sighed. "But the bereaved here tonight have a comfort which even their King cannot share."

"What is that?" Luindil asked.

"Whether dead or alive, they know where their loved ones are."

Luindil nodded compassionately. He remembered well the arrival of the messenger from Rivendell and the look of mingled pride and terror on Thranduil's face when he learned why his beloved son would not be returning home from his errand.

"Do not lose faith, Thranduil," he said at last. "He will come home, one way or another."

"Let us hope it is in a good way," Thranduil said.

The next morning, Thranduil and some of his senior staff began to make plans for the rebuilding of their settlement. Most of the houses destroyed had been the wooden ones at ground level, and Thranduil did not want to place his people in similar danger again. King and staff toured through the forest, counting undamaged trees of likely height and good growth.

"I do believe that there are sufficient trees that none of us ever need live on the ground again," Galion declared.

"That is good," Thranduil replied. "We will take to the trees, and deliver ourselves wholly into the care of the forest."

"What of the delvings?" Luindil asked.

"Of course we will keep the delvings," Thranduil said. "Currently, they are what sustains our people. I would never abandon such a resource." Luindil nodded, satisfied.

Thranduil walked a few paces away from the group and stopped under a large beech tree. The sturdiest of its branches appeared to extend a fair distance up the trunk. Thranduil decided to examine it more closely. With a powerful leap, he caught the lowest branch and swung himself up among the leaves.

He climbed swiftly, feeling the tree quiver with life beneath his grasping hands and feet. The sap was flowing swiftly, bringing life back to the forest. As he climbed, Thranduil breathed in the rich, heady odor of the new leaves rustling in the wind. He could feel a contented smile spreading over his face. Next to the distinctive scents of his family, his favorite smell in the world was that of new leaves in the springtime. He loved that scent so much that he had named his son for it, and as he breathed it in, he could almost imagine that Legolas was climbing next to him.

Presently, Thranduil came to a slender branch just at the level of a new gap in the forest cover. He paused for a moment to look around. His keen eyes could just distinguish small figures running to and fro by the lake. He squinted and peered a little further. The small figures did not seem to be orcs. Lake Town, too, had survived the war. The thought that the Wood Elves were not alone in the world cheered Thranduil immensely even as it reminded him of yet another task that must be done. He remained in the tree for a few minutes, smelling the leaves and breathing the fresh, free air, before reluctantly beginning the climb downward.

"What news from the heights, my Lord?" Galion asked as soon as Thranduil's feet hit the ground.

"It seems," Thranduil said, "that we are not alone in our victory. The Men of Lake Town are alive, although I could not make out their fortunes. I must send a messenger to them without delay."

Luindil frowned. "We cannot offer them our aid this time," he cautioned. "We have barely enough resources to support ourselves. You have always been generous to our neighbors, Thranduil, but in this instance you must restrain yourself."

Thranduil sighed. "I am aware of that, Luindil," he said. "Much as I wish it were otherwise, the messenger will not bring offers of food and tools. I think, though, that the news that they are not alone in their survival will cheer their hearts, even as the sight of them cheered mine."

"Perhaps the men of Lake Town may have news of the other folk in the area," Galion suggested.

"Perhaps," Thranduil agreed. "For that reason, I will send out messengers to the west, north and south as well. I wish to know how the Beornings fare, and if Dol Guldur is well and truly overthrown."

"Small armed parties would be wise," offered Inglor, the new captain of the guard. "The survival of Lake Town is cheering indeed, but other dangers may yet remain in the forest. I do not think that the spiders have been destroyed."

"No, the spiders threaten us still," Luindil said. "I would advise small parties of three to five Elves, well armed, for such errands."

Thranduil nodded. "That is wise," he said. "Inglor, will you see to the formation of these search parties?"

Inglor nodded and turned to head back to the delvings, but at that moment, a whisper from the trees stopped all four Elves dead in their tracks.

"Someone comes!" hissed Galion.

Thranduil made a short, sharp gesture, and the Elves swiftly camouflaged themselves, waiting to see who or what was approaching their battered settlement.

The darkness had shifted almost imperceptibly, and the trees began to stir. Thranduil lifted his head and looked around the small clearing where he sat. Dawn would come soon; he had been sitting there all night. Perhaps he should have been taking his rest, but he knew he would not have been able to sleep. Far better to come to the clearing instead. It was his personal place where he and his Queen, while she still walked the forest, had often come when they desired privacy. Now that she was gone, he came here by himself whenever he needed to think. He suspected that the Wood Elves knew very well where he was, but none had ever come to disturb him here, and for that he was grateful.

There had been much to think about this night, and now, as dawn approached, Thranduil was not at all certain that he had reached any conclusions. His emotions still swung wildly between pride, grief and fear, and he had conquered none of them. However, he had at least identified and sorted out what he was feeling, and he decided that that, at least, was progress. He feared for his son, and he grieved for the hurt that had been inflicted upon his people, but he was proud of them. He was also proud of himself. During his long night in the clearing, Thranduil had thought long and hard about his encounter with the wine decanter, and he had realized something about himself.

Like any Elf, his emotions ran deep, and his love for those closest to him ran deepest of all. The grief for a lost loved one was one of the worst hurts an Elf could suffer. Some were strong enough to survive it, and some were not. Thranduil's own mother had faded after Oropher's death, and one day she had simply walked away and had never returned. Thranduil had never blamed her. He had suffered from his father's death as well, and then later he had suffered the loss of his Queen. Both times, he had sought to put wine between himself and the pain of their loss. It was the grief, that terrible, cutting grief that overpowered him and made him completely ineffectual. The wine had merely been a way for him to avoid the grief.

Now that he knew this about himself, it had strengthened his resolve. Legolas might be dead, but he might not be. There was no need to grieve now. And, if it did come to that, he would allow himself to feel the pain and grieve fully rather than sink into a cup of wine and perhaps, this time, never come out. Luindil would help him, and now that Dol Guldur was no more, perhaps it would be safe for him to set aside time for personal sorrow.

Thranduil leaned against one smooth trunk of a triple birch tree at the edge of the clearing and looked up into the sky. The silken blackness of night had changed to a velvety gray, and the stars were beginning to fade. Dawn in the forest was a gradual thing, a series of glowing colors appearing one after the other. There was more mystery to it than watching the sun rise, and Thranduil preferred that mystery. He looked up at the patch of sky visible through the trees and sighed.

A rustling among the branches caught his attention. A slender hand brushed a branch aside, and Celeborn stepped out into the open. Thranduil was not altogether surprised that it was his southern cousin; none of his own people would have dared to come here. He did wonder how Celeborn had found him, though. As if reading his mind, Celeborn smiled.

"Luindil told me I might find you here," he said. "He asked me to come and check on you. It seems he had no wish to come himself, though he dearly wanted to be sure you were unharmed."

"That is to be expected," Thranduil replied. "This clearing is the subject of a little game that I play with my folk. They pretend not to know that I come here, and I pretend not to know that they are aware of my visits. But I shall say that you found me on your own, and you are welcome." Thranduil gestured to a patch of ground next to him, and Celeborn gathered his robes and sat down on the dewy grass.

"It is a beautiful place," he said. "I can see why it is that you would come here."

"I come when I need to think."

Celeborn arched an eyebrow at him. "Have you had productive thoughts this night?"

"I have." Thranduil arched his back and stretched, then moved to seat himself in the fork of the three trunks of the tree.

Celeborn shifted to look straight at Thranduil. "Luindil showed me the decanter of wine he retrieved from your library last night," he said. "He told me much that I had not known before."

"Luindil betrayed my confidence," Thranduil said sharply. "I will have words with him about that."

"Do not punish him," Celeborn said. "He told me about your troubles merely as a preface to his expression of pride in you. He cares about you as deeply as if you were his own son."

Thranduil was silent for a while. "Luindil helped raise me," he said after a while. "My father did not want to begrudge his people their ruler nor his son the care of adults. So Luindil cared for me when my father could not. When I was grown, I entrusted him with similar care of Legolas."

Celeborn laughed. "Every time I decide that Oropher was the most stubborn, thick-headed Elf since Maedhros, I hear such a tale as this that convinces me that his wisdom was indeed great, when he chose to employ it."

"Because it is such a peaceful morning, I shall take that as a compliment."

"As it was intended," Celeborn said. "And I would have you know my happiness in your choice as well. It is a difficult thing, to give up a source of comfort, treacherous though it may prove in the end."

"Thank you." Thranduil was surprised at how much he did in fact appreciate those words from a cousin he had not seen in centuries. Both Elves watched as the sky changed from gray to pale pink. "I have chosen hope over despair," Thranduil said. "I think that I wish to hold on to hope for now. Should it come to despair, then I would delay that moment for as long as I can."

Celeborn thought for a moment. "Would it ease your mind, Thranduil, to know the last I saw of Legolas?"

Thranduil started. "You saw him?" he cried. "When? Where? Did he pass through Lothlórien?"

"He and the Ringbearer and their companions left the Golden Wood nearly two months ago," Celeborn said. "The Lady Galadriel and I bade them farewell, and we gave them many gifts. When they arrived, they were weary with battle and grief, but in our land they found healing and rest. We ensured that the Fellowship had all the aid we could give for the next leg of their journey."

"I -- thank you." Thranduil could say no more. This brief report was the only news of Legolas he had heard since the beginning of the winter. Legolas was alive, or had been two months ago. Still, to have had news at all was heartening.

"I was pleased to have an opportunity to meet Legolas," Celeborn said. "He is merry and charming and as fine a huntsman as any Elf in Lothlórien. While the Fellowship tarried with us, I took the liberty of trying him out on a larger bow than the one he originally had. He took to our bows quickly, and the Lady Galadriel and I agreed that he should have one as a parting gift."

"And a princely one it was. My heart rests a little easier knowing that my son has such a weapon to protect him in battle."

"The protection lies as much in the skill of the wielder as in the weapon," Celeborn cautioned.

Thranduil smiled. "True. But when a child goes into danger, no matter how old nor how experienced, a father may put faith in any small thing that might improve his chances of seeing that child again."

"One can never stop being a parent," Celeborn observed. "My daughter's daughter is full grown and is to be wedded soon, and yet every night I find myself uttering wishes to Elbereth for Celebrían's health and safety in Valinor."

"Then perhaps you will not laugh when I tell you of one of my decisions this night," Thranduil said. Celeborn turned and looked expectantly at him. Thranduil was silent for a few minutes, searching for the right words. The sun had risen fully, and the clearing was flooded with light. "The trees look brighter now, do they not?" Thranduil asked. "The fire burned many more such clearings in the forest."

"And the shadow of Dol Guldur no longer hangs overhead."

"Exactly." Thranduil took a deep breath. "That is why I have decided that this forest will no longer be called Mirkwood. I wish to cast that name aside and call it Eryn Lasgalen, The Wood of Greenleaves."

"Eryn . . . Lasgalen?" Celeborn asked thoughtfully. "May I assume that this choice of name reflects something more than the changed appearance of the place?"

"You may." Thranduil could not quite bring himself to look in Celeborn's eyes. "Among the Silvan folk, there is . . . a belief, a superstition, that some part of an Elf is contained in the name, that a name has a certain binding power. And I thought that perhaps this new name might call to my son. It is a silly thing, I know, to believe in such a superstition . . ."

"But it is understandable, nevertheless," Celeborn assured him. "After all --"

"-- One can never stop being a parent," Thranduil finished.

"He will come home," Celeborn said. "I feel it in my heart. You, Thranduil, must ensure that he has a home to return to."

Thranduil smiled at his cousin and faced the morning with considerably more cheer than he had felt in months.

Celeborn and his company departed the newly renamed Eryn Lasgalen several hours later. They had a journey of several days before them, and Celeborn wished for time to explore his new territory of East Lórien before formally presenting it to Galadriel. His parting with the Wood Elves was amicable, and he promised that a company of builders and farmers would arrive at the settlement before very long.

"Do not worry overmuch about us," Luindil told him. "Already the warmer winds begin to blow, and the wild plants of the forest will soon bear fruit. I do not think we will starve before aid comes to us."

"See that you do not, then," Celeborn replied. "And watch over my young cousin, Luindil. Elvenking or no, someone must care for him, lest he become too responsible to care for himself." He and Luindil shared a knowing wink, and then Celeborn rode off with the Galadhrim.

"Elvenking or no," Thranduil huffed to Inglor, "they don't respect me. I am the Lord of this realm, and they talk about me as if I were a child." Inglor glanced from Thranduil to a placidly smiling Luindil and back, and then the corners of his mouth began to twitch. Thranduil glanced over at Luindil's too-innocent expression as well, and soon he and the Captain of his Guard were both struggling to repress snorts of laughter. Luindil stalked over, his head held high.

"I suppose this is a royal giggle?" he asked. Thranduil and Inglor nearly fell over each other laughing. Luindil smiled. "It is good to hear your laugh again, Thranduil," he said. "Too long has the forest been sober."

"Mirkwood was a dark and dangerous place, with little time or cause for laughter," Thranduil said. "But Eryn Lasgalen is a brighter, more cheerful forest. We are alive, after all, and it is springtime. Let us check the fish traps in the Forest River and then organize a hunting party."

"A hunting party?" Inglor asked. "In the spring? There is nothing to hunt. The deer will be thin and scrawny, and the does will all have fawns."

"Even a thin and scrawny stag will have some meat," Thranduil said. "And there are other things to hunt in the forest besides meat. There is news, for one thing. And I think we would all enjoy the expedition."

"If it brings you joy, my Lord, then we will hunt," Inglor said and ran off to see to the fish traps. Thranduil closed his eyes, breathed in the freshness of the forest, and sent off a wish to Elbereth that, wherever he was, Legolas might enjoy as fine a spring day.

As spring blossomed into summer, Thranduil and the Wood Elves worked harder than they could ever remember having worked. The messengers Thranduil had dispatched returned bearing heartening news. Dale and the Lonely Mountain were rebuilding, and the new rulers, Bard II and Thorin III, sent their regards. Thranduil ordered that a modest selection of furs and leather be sent to each new ruler as a token of neighborliness and shared celebration of survival. The messengers from the west reported that the Beornings were also alive, and as far as they could tell, had been entirely untouched by the war.

Within a fortnight, the first contingent of the Galadhrim arrived in Eryn Lasgalen, and soon the settlement hummed with activity. Each Silvan household had chosen a fine, sturdy tree, and the Galadhrim found them apt pupils in the art of building talans. The Silvan Elves then modified the southern design, replacing the light windscreen with sturdier walls of woven branches that could be insulated with furs and blankets against the chill winters of the North.

Luindil's instincts concerning the fertility of the burned ground proved accurate. A month after the fire, new green grass shimmered over the clearings. The Galadhrim declared that the earth would soon be suitable for gardening and showed the Silvan Elves how to grub up the dead stumps and smooth the ground in preparation. "You will never have lush, abundant fields here," they cautioned, "but in a year's time, there will likely be plenty of small gardens yielding a variety of foodstuffs."

"That is precisely what we desired," Thranduil assured them. "We do not seek to give up the hunting life altogether. We wish merely to supplement it with cultivated foods for which we are beholden to no one."

The leader of the Galadhrim laughed. "You are every bit as proud as our Lord Celeborn made you out to be," he said. "But when I look over all that you have done here and how long you held out against the Enemy alone, I would deem that you have good reason for your pride."

As each tree-hut was completed, there was a flurry of scrubbing and packing as the Wood Elves vacated the King's halls to move into their own new dwellings. As often as not, the King was to be found among them, helping to carry a piece of furniture or a basket of clothing, or even simply keeping a child amused while its parents attended to last-minute details.

"It seems such an odd thing, to see your Lord playing with children," Tinwen, one of the aides from Lothlórien, told Galion. "One would think that there would be plenty of maidens eager to relieve him of that chore."

Galion smiled. "He does not see it as a chore," he explained. "Our King loves all his people, and he is happy to aid them in whatsoever they require. He especially loves the little ones, and I for one am happy to see him occupied with them."

"Why, when he could be at more pressing tasks?"

"At the moment, all tasks are pressing, and all must help where they may be useful," Galion told her. "That includes the King. I believe that the children do him good. They distract him from thoughts of his own son, whose absence weighs heavily on all our hearts."

Soft footsteps interrupted their discussion. Tinwen and Galion looked up in time to see Thranduil striding purposefully down the hall, earnestly discussing some issue of security with Inglor, all but oblivious to the sleeping baby strapped to his back. Thranduil acknowledged Galion's bow and Tinwen's curtsey with a quick nod before moving on. Galion smiled after him.

"Now that," he said, "is something I have not seen for many years. He used to carry his own son with him like that, while he attended to his business."

"He misses his son greatly," Tinwen observed.

"Far more than he lets on, I think. But still, he refuses to give up hope, and continues to believe that Legolas will come home."

"Think you that he will come home?"

Galion sighed. "I do not know what to believe. For my part, I think it unlikely. Had he survived the war, he would have sent word by now. But I do not wish to give in to despair, so I force myself to share in the King's hope. Whether that is wise or foolish I do not know. The King will wait forever, if need be."

"Let us hope it does not come to that," Tinwen said.

Summer ripened into fall, and the Wood Elves found that the circumstances of life began to ease a little. The tree-huts were completed, and the settlement was adapting to spending more time above the ground than on it. Most of the Galadhrim had departed once the huts were completed, but a few stayed behind to instruct their Northern cousins in the art of gardening once spring came again.

In the meantime, the fruits of the forest had returned. The gathering was not as bountiful as it had been in previous years, and Luindil declared that the forest would not recover its former fruitfulness for many years to come. Still, there were berries to dry, nuts and mushrooms to collect, and many varieties of edible roots. The Galadhrim, accustomed to cultivated vegetables and grain, were astonished at the amount and variety of food that the Wood Elves extracted from what appeared to be a rather inhospitable forest.

As the air turned crisp and the leaves began to color, Thranduil began to lead his folk on hunting expeditions. Nearly every hunt netted at least one deer as well as squirrels and beavers. Much of the meat was smoked to preserve it for the winter, and the rich smell of smoking meat hung about the settlement for many days. There were fish in the river, and Inglor had discovered a bee tree, so there was honey as well. The storerooms in the delvings, which had stood nearly empty all summer long, began to fill once again. True, there were no imported delicacies such as apples or bread, and there were only a few casks of wine that had survived the battle, but there was food, and Thranduil cautiously allowed himself to think that there would be enough supplies laid in to last through the coming winter.

He knew that he owed the survival of his people over the lean summer to the Galadhrim with their generous gifts of lembas. The wafers of that strengthening waybread had sustained the Silvan Elves marvelously through a summer of hard labor and destroyed food stores. Now that the tight rations were easing up, Thranduil's thoughts turned to matters of propriety. The Galadhrim must be thanked properly for their aid and assistance. He decided that the best way to express his people's gratitude would be to hold a grand feast in honor of the Galadhrim. There was enough food now for a proper feast, and it had been long since the naturally high-spirited Wood Elves had enjoyed an evening of song, feasting and merrymaking.

As Thranduil had expected, the entire settlement, Wood Elves and Galadhrim alike, reacted with enthusiasm to the order for a feast. They outdid themselves in producing especially delicious dishes, and the children swarmed all over the Great Hall, weaving garlands of orange and gold leaves which they hung from every corner. Galion personally took charge of the venison roasts, improvising a dressing of chestnuts and mushrooms, since his usual apples and bread crumbs were not available that year. Musicians oiled and tuned their instruments, and everyone busied themselves preparing for what was sure to be a grand evening.

Thranduil found that he enjoyed the preparation for the feast, the more so since much of it proceeded without his direct involvement. He had been spending much time in his special clearing, gazing abstractedly towards the South. It was getting harder and harder to hold on to hope, but he steadfastly refused to give it up. One day, he told himself, the branches of the clearing would rustle in that special way, and Legolas would materialize out of the thickets. And then, Thranduil decided, he would take his son in his arms and never let him go again. He knew that all things happened at the time appointed by Ilúvatar, and nothing could change that, but he did hope that the appointed time would be soon.

But no Prince appeared, and in due course, the night of the great feast arrived. The Great Hall had been scrubbed from floor to ceiling, the banners had been washed, and the garlands glowed in the torchlight. The banquet tables were draped with fresh cloths, and laid with a startling amount of food. The dishes were fairly plain, as there were no extra delicacies to enliven them, but they had been prepared with great care and garnished with bright sprigs of pokeberries. One of the casks of wine had been tapped, and cups of wine and rose water stood at every place save that of the King, who would drink rose water only.

The feast was set to begin at sunset, and shortly before that, the guests began to stream into the Great Hall. Thranduil, standing at his place at table, began to feel strangely uneasy. Something was happening outside; he could feel the trees rustling and soughing among themselves, but in the growing crowd, there was no way to investigate or even to determine if the premonition was one of joy or danger. Several times, Thranduil had to shake his head to clear it of outside thoughts and focus on the grand feast.

At last, everyone was inside the Great Hall, save for a skeleton crew of guards, who had graciously volunteered to keep watch during the entertainment and had been provided with baskets of choice dishes for their pains. Some of the smaller children ran and shrieked, trying to see and investigate everything. Thranduil indulged their curiosity for a few minutes, then dipped his finger into a fingerbowl and ran it delicately around the rim of his glass drinking vessel. The resulting whine alerted the Elves that the feast was to begin in earnest, and the children were swiftly recalled to the table. Thranduil stood and looked out over the faces of his surviving folk.

"Hearken to me, Elves of the forest," he began formally. "We are gathered in joy and gratitude tonight. We celebrate the joy of our survival through these last dark days, and we give thanks to our Southern kin of the Golden Wood, for they have aided us greatly in that survival."

Out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil could see a commotion at the entrance to the Great Hall. A guard was frantically signaling Luindil, who was seated by Thranduil's side. Thranduil nodded to his seneschal, who slipped out discreetly. Thranduil soldiered on. "Still, no celebration would be complete without giving honor to those whose sacrifice made it possible. I speak of those of our folk and the Galadhrim who gave their lives in the final battle against darkness, that we might live to see the triumph of the light."

A hissing conversation could clearly be heard from the entryway. "But he's filthy," one voice protested.

"That is not important now," Luindil hissed back. "Send him in anyway."

"I would ask --" Thranduil said, but his voice cracked. He tried again to speak. "I would ask that we . . . " His voice trailed off, and he looked toward the entrance to the Great Hall, waiting breathlessly, remembering the stirring of the trees.

Luindil appeared in the entrance, quivering with emotion, his eyes shining. "King Thranduil," he called. "I beg leave for one last guest to attend our feast. Your son has returned!"

A tall, slender figure wrapped in a travel-stained gray cloak appeared next to Luindil and bowed deeply. Thranduil opened his mouth, but no words came out. The figure straightened, then threw back the hood of the cloak, and there was Legolas, windblown and pink-cheeked from the crisp night air, but blessedly alive and whole. There was silence in the Great Hall for a long moment as a missing piece of Thranduil's world twisted and settled solidly into place. At last he found his voice. "Legolas," he said. "Come here."

"Oh Ada! Ada, I missed you so much!" And then Legolas was running the length of the Great Hall. Thranduil stretched out his arms and caught up his son, just as he had dreamed for the past year. He heard his own voice crying out, and he felt vaguely that tears were running down his cheeks, but he cared about nothing save the living warmth of his child in his arms. Legolas hadn't washed in quite some time, and he was spattered with mud, but underneath it, he still smelled of sunshine and new leaves. Thranduil breathed in deeply, not quite able to believe that his dearest wish had come true.

Legolas wriggled in his arms. Thranduil released him from the embrace, but kept one arm draped protectively around him. He looked into his son's bright eyes and tried to smile and weep and shout all at once. All around him, the guests in the Great Hall had jumped to their feet and were chattering excitedly. Luindil climbed up on his chair and raised his cup.

"This is a joyous occasion indeed, my friends!" he cried. "Come, let us drink to the health of father and son!"

"Bring wine for Legolas!" Thranduil called to Galion. The butler hurried over to them with a decanter of a glowing red Dorwinion. He filled a cup for Legolas, then looked a question at Thranduil.

"Wine," Thranduil told him. "On this night all my joy has come home to me." Galion snagged an unused wine cup standing at a place occupied by a small child and filled it for the King. Thranduil caught Luindil's eye. The seneschal returned the glance with one of his own which reflected Thranduil's own ecstatic joy, though tempered with love and wisdom. Luindil nodded to him and raised his cup of wine.

"A health to father and son," he said. "May all our joys and treasures return to us, and may we all find such completeness and healing."

The Elves cheered their approval. Thranduil drank, and felt only warmth and joy spread through him. He looked again at his son, alive and whole. Everything that he needed was in the Great Hall now; the Enemy had failed to take it from him. Thranduil had won, and he felt now that the war was, at last, truly over.

END

Yes, he did come home, as we all knew he would. Thank you to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story.

In answer to a question I got, a seneschal can be an advisor of sorts. Technically, a seneschal is kind of an über-butler or major-domo. He manages and supervises the estate of a nobleman, keeps things running in good order, and may be a military adjunct as well. He is Mister Spock to the lord's Captain Kirk. Given the relatively informal hierarchy of the Elves which I set up, I chose to emphasize more of the chief advisor part of the role in creating the character of Luindil.

Many thanks also to those who have cheered Thranduil on throughout this story. His character and certain of his personal struggles are based on a combination of several people I know. Thranduil, I think, is one of Tolkien's most fascinating Elves. He is a member of a famously remote and perfected race who manages to display a stunning range of character traits in his supporting role in The Hobbit, being by turns suspicious, short-tempered, valiant, kind-hearted, generous, greedy and magnanimous. In short, he and his son are possibly the most "human" of all the Elves Tolkien ever wrote. I have tried to retain that sense of personality in this story, and I am grateful for all the kind words said about it.