The sound of horses galloping into the forest, their hoof beats already muffled by the dense carpet of leaves that covered the Elf Path like a multi-coloured blanket, finally faded into the distance, signalling that the party from Lothlórien was well on its way back to the Golden Wood. That Mirkwood had been chosen by Galadriel as the venue for the council meeting was no less than his due, Thranduil believed, since the topic under discussion had been Dol Guldur and the Necromancer, the evil that now lurked in the south of the once great Greenwood. He was relieved that Mithrandir, who had left earlier, had decided to seek more information about the happenings in that dark place, but he feared greatly that all the Istari would find would be confirmation of his worst fears. The feeling of dread that was hovering on the edge of his consciousness was not new; Thranduil had lived with this shadow ever since Dagorlad and the battle of the Last Alliance. Sauron’s physical form had been destroyed when Isildur took the ring but ever since then Thranduil had felt some small essence of the Dark Lord’s spirit remained. Over the past few years he had become certain of it, and he shivered slightly at the thought of the return of such evil.

“Surely you are not cold, Thranduil?’ asked Glorfindel as he stood beside the King of Mirkwood and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Even though the wind blows cold from the snow-laden mountains, it is still quite pleasant for this time of year. Winter is not yet upon your forests.”

“It soon will be, but it is not the cold that chills my blood,” answered Thranduil absently, and Glorfindel knew that he was not referring to the weather alone.  “Nevertheless I think I will retire to my study where the fire that Mithrandir insisted on lighting to ‘warm his old bones’, as he put it, still burns in the hearth. Would you both care to join me, I believe the Istari may even have left us some wine?” The question was directed to both Glorfindel and Elrond, who had also paid Galadriel and Celeborn the courtesy of bidding them farewell at the gates of Thranduil’s Hall. He and Glorfindel had decided to remain a few days in Mirkwood, allowing their escorts, Elladan and Elrohir, to spend some time hunting spiders with Legolas.

“I would not be so sure,” laughed Elrond, as the three elder Elves made their way back to the warmth and comfort of Thranduil’s study. “Mithrandir seems to have quite a fondness for wine, of any variety.”

The fire burned low in the hearth so Thranduil added a large log, sending bright sparks up the chimney. Despite Glorfindel’s contention that it was not cold, they all drew their chairs into a large semi circle around the fire and sipped their wine, each staring into the flames in quiet contemplation of their private thoughts.  

“I do believe that Haldir and several of the others were surprised that you and Thranduil were behaving so civilly towards one another at the council meetings,” Glorfindel commented nonchalantly, finally breaking the silence.

“Why should he be surprised?” asked Elrond, with a slight frown at Thranduil who was smiling and nodding his head knowingly.

“You, my dear Elrond, need to take more notice of the messengers who travel between our realms,” he said lightly.

“Yes, he should,” agreed Glorfindel sagely, but not elaborating further.

“I always take great heed of any correspondence I receive,” declared the Lord of Imladris sounding quite offended. The other two laughed as their teasing had the desired result. “I am at a loss to understand to what you two are both referring.”

“Not only do the messengers deliver letters of importance, but during their travels they also pick up information of great interest….”

“….. And usually very little basis in fact,” interspersed Glorfindel.

“… that they impart, often with embellishment, to anyone who cares to listen,” explained Thranduil.

“Gossip, you mean,” surmised Elrond, the tone of his voice indicating his distaste for what he considered to be a pointless pastime.

“It is often quite interesting,” commented Glorfindel as he picked up the wine bottle and refilled his glass, doing likewise for the others. “According to the most popular and persistent rumour over the centuries, the fact that visits between Imladris and Mirkwood are rare, and that last time you and Thranduil met you were seen to be involved in a very heated argument …well…the natural conclusion seemed to be that there is still much hostility between the two of you.”

“Our sons are often together, either hunting spiders in Mirkwood or orcs in the mountains near Imladris,” said Elrond. “If we were at such odds, that would not be the case.”

“It is the commonly held view that they are simply being rebellious in their choice of friends, as is often happens with younger Elves,” said Glorfindel with a smile.

“The whole idea is total nonsense, of course,” agreed Thranduil. “Our opinions differ widely on many topics, and sometimes our discussions are rather loud, but I do not even rightly remember what it was we were arguing about last time, it was several hundred years ago.”

“Something about whether it was Legolas or Elladan and Elrohir who were to blame for the bubbles and the strange red colour in Elrond’s favourite fountain, I believe,” offered Glorfindel, an amused smile playing on his lips as he remembered the three young elflings who had come to him with a slightly different plan. Fortunately for Elrond’s dignity, he had convinced them that the fountain was a far better ‘target’, and likely to invoke a much milder punishment than would be the case if they had coloured the Lore Master’s bath water.

“Ah, yes, now I remember. I have often wondered about that incident, for it seems to me that the prank required some adult assistance. At their age, none of them would have known which plants to use to pigment the water,” Thranduil said looking questioningly at Glorfindel who, except for the twinkle of mischief in his eyes, was looking far too innocent.

“The same thought had crossed my mind, and not only about that incident, but several others as well. Is there anything you would care to tell us?” Elrond asked his golden haired friend.  

“No.” The simple reply spoke volumes to his two friends who knew him so well, and the joined in their laughter as he realised he had not fooled either of them. “At least I managed to prevent them from putting the concoction in your bath water, Elrond. It would have turned you a nice shade of pink for the rest of the day.”

“Thank you for sparing me that indignity, at least. However I still do not see how a mere difference of opinion over an elfling prank could lead to such a conclusion,” said Elrond concerned over the misinformation. “Does it not bother you, Thranduil?”

“I am not interested in idle chatter and false accusations, let them believe what they will,” he replied easily. “Should I hear such nonsense being spoken in my presence, however, that may be a different matter entirely. It seems I also have a reputation for being hot tempered.”

“Well, there is some truth in that,” teased Elrond, ignoring the snort of disgust from his friend. “I am curious as to what you have heard, Glorfindel, for you seem to know much more of this ‘gossip’ than I would have thought.” 

“As I said before, I find it fascinating, and on the odd occasion I have actually heard something of value. Anyway, as far as you and Thranduil are concerned, Haldir and many of the Lorien warriors believe that ever since Dagorlad you two have nurtured an immense hatred for each other and are in a constant state of feud, which has brought you to blows, on the odd occasion.”

“Nonsense!” declared Elrond emphatically. “How dare anyone suggest that we would resort to physical confrontation? I will send Celeborn a message asking him to speak with his warriors.”

“Well, we did not come to blows, but that we were almost in a state of feud was certainly true at the time,” said Thranduil, closing his eyes against the pain of the memory of seeing his Adar and many of his friends slain in battle. In his grief he had blamed Elrond and Gil-galad for not providing the Silvan army with more suitable weapons and armour. Elrond had responded that Oropher’s pride had had already lead him to refuse such an offer, as he had refused to be lead by the High King. A fiercely heated and very public argument had ensued between the two proud elves as they defended the honour of their leaders.

“Fortunately Glorfindel was there, or it may have come to blows, as I now recall. If we had, I doubt that either of us would be here now, providing a source of interest for Elvendom,” Elrond commented wryly. It had been the steady voice and strong hands of Glorfindel that had eventually calmed them, but the hatred had intensified after the War was won and Isildur kept the ring. It had remained so for centuries afterwards.

“I have more to thank him for than you know,” said Thranduil as he rose from his chair to place his hands on Glorfindel’s shoulders. “There is a part of that day that I have never told anyone, but I would tell Elrond now, with your permission, my friend?” he asked the elf lord, who simply nodded and indicated for him to continue. “After you had returned to your camp, Elrond, I began collecting stones to use as a burial mound for Adar and was surprised to see Glorfindel return and offer to help.”

                                 *****

“Why are you doing this?” asked Thranduil suspiciously.

“To pay homage to a fallen King, as is his right,” Glorfindel replied. “I had a great deal of respect for Oropher, for despite what you may hear others say of him, I believe he was a wise and noble leader, as he demonstrated by his commitment of his realm to this alliance, albeit not entirely how Gil-galad would have preferred,” he added with a chuckle, not quite willing to go so far as to admit that he liked the rebellious nature of the slain King. 

“Then I would be honoured to allow you to help,” Thranduil said with a polite bow. They completed the task in silence, and after Thranduil had said the words of mourning, Glorfindel put an arm around his shoulder and said quietly, “I have a bottle of Dorwinion in my tent. Will you join me?”

The grief-stricken Thranduil complied wordlessly, and downed the first glass in one gulp. The warmth of the liquid as it travelled down his throat provided little relief from the coldness around his heart, but he thanked Glorfindel nevertheless.

“What will you do now? Will you remain until the war is over or do you plan to return to Greenwood?” asked Glorfindel. Thranduil looked at his companion as if he had lost his senses.

“I shall remain, of course. Greenwood will honour its commitment. Adar believed very strongly that this was the right course of action, as do I.”

“Then I propose a toast to the memory of the old King, and to welcome the new,” said Glorfindel raising his glass.

“To Adar,” whispered Thranduil, trying desperately to prevent the tears that were welling from escaping until he felt a strong arm about his shoulders and the voice of wisdom in his ear.

“Let your grief out, Thranduil Oropherion. There is no shame in your tears.”

                                      ******

As he finished speaking, Thranduil quickly took a sip of his wine to help swallow the lump in his throat. Elrond looked at his friends with a new understanding. He had often wondered how their friendship had come about, but until now neither had offered an explanation, even when he had asked directly.

“So now my questions regarding your friendship are answered. Perhaps there is a use for ‘gossip’ after all,” concluded Elrond thoughtfully. “Maybe you should spread the word amongst the messengers that we have long since put the enmity of those times behind us,” he suggested to Glorfindel.

“I doubt it would work, considering the source. I am friend to you both, after all,” he added by way of explanation. “Besides an end to your ‘feud’ would be far less interesting than anther argument,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“If you ask me, I think Glorfindel enjoys allowing the misconception to continue,” guessed Thranduil.

“It is just that I strongly suspect that many would find it difficult to believe that two powerful warriors such as yourselves had been forced to put aside your differences at the insistence of your lovely wives,” laughed Glorfindel.

“You knew them both, what chance did we really have?” asked Elrond with a smile as he remembered the day he and Thranduil had received  ‘the ultimatum’. The Ladies of Imladris and Mirkwood, who had become close friends, were tired of having to dance around the pride and egos of their respective husbands in an effort to maintain their friendship and allow their children to become friends as well.  On the day in question, at the agreed time, Celebrían and Mirkwood’s Queen sought out their husbands and told them that unless a truce of some kind was reached, Lothlórien would find its population increased by the arrival of two mothers and their four elflings until such times as their Lords came to their senses.

“It was a good strategy, forcing us to ally once more against a common enemy,” commented Thranduil. “I wonder if they would have really gone had we not agreed to meet as soon as possible?”

“Most assuredly,” said Elrond. “Celebrían had already packed for the journey. How is it that that information is not widely ‘gossiped’ about?” he asked Glorfindel.

“They were both such lovely creatures, and always ready to listen to advice, particularly about keeping their private matters, well.., private,” said Glorfindel with a wicked grin. “I hope they have both found peace in the undying Lands, I miss them both,” he added in a respectful tone of voice.

“As do I,” whispered Elrond as he turned to stare once more into the fire.

Thranduil said nothing but nodded in agreement, sadly staring at the flames as his thoughts turned to his beloved wife who had succumbed to the call of the sea not long after Celebrían had felt the need to sail west after her capture by the Orcs. Sensing the now melancholy mood, Glorfindel placed a comforting hand on the arm of each of his friends, offering them the silent support of his love.

“Enough of this sadness,” he said cheerfully after a few minutes. “It is almost time for the noon meal, and I, for one am starving. Shall we go to the dining hall and have a little fun? There are still quite a few messengers around, no doubt with their eyes and ears wide open.”

“You are incorrigible, Glorfindel,” said Elrond, exchanging a look of amused exasperation with Thranduil.

“Whenever possible,” replied the elf lord haughtily, trying desperately to keep a straight face.

Several days later, after Elrond and his party had returned to Imladris, Thranduil found himself saying farewell again, only this time to his scouting parties. As was his custom, the Woodland King spoke to each of the members of the patrol, wishing them a safe return. This particular group was headed towards the western outskirts of Mirkwood, and the Elves had barely disappeared from view when Legolas turned to his father and requested permission to join the last party of scouts who were leaving to patrol the borders to the northeast. Thranduil met the request with stony silence, showing his reluctance to allow his son, who was still very inexperienced as a warrior, to place himself in such danger.

“There have been reported sightings of both Wargs and Orcs, as well as some strange men attacking the Men and Dwarves from the east. My skill with the bow would be most welcome should we encounter such creatures in our forest,” argued Legolas, full of confidence in his own abilities.  

“I do not dispute your skill, but there are already many fine archers in the border patrols,” countered his father, “and most of them have far more experience in battle than you.”  

“Exactly why I should be allowed to join them!” declared Legolas, hoping that Thranduil might be relenting slightly. “Besides, surely it is only fitting for the King’s son to lead by example?”  

Thranduil smiled at what appeared to be a sudden change of heart on Legolas’ part. “I thought you had no interest in being regarded as someone of title, or of becoming a leader?”

“In the past that was true, but I have come to realise that it is my duty, both as your son and a warrior of Mirkwood, I must find the courage to accept my destiny, rather than try and avoid it. I must follow whatever path is laid out for me,” Legolas replied. As he stood there, shoulders straight, head held high with pride and self-confidence, Thranduil felt as if he was looking back in time at himself as a young warrior. He had even used words very similar to those Legolas spoke when Oropher had asked him to help lead the Silvan Army, rather than ordering him to do so.  

 King Thranduil had no choice but to grant the request that the father in him would rather have denied.

                                                    ******* 

That had been many decades ago, mused Thranduil as he stood on the bridge in front of the gates to his Hall, staring into the clear waters of the river below. In the intervening years Legolas had spent most of his time in the forest with the patrols, learning the art of war from the older warriors and gaining the respect of all for his skill in Woodcraft and archery, his bravery in battle and the quality of his leadership. It had become a great honour for a warrior to be selected to join Legolas’ scouting party.  

Even so, Thranduil had been delighted when his son felt that he had learned all that he could, and finally decided to come home. There had been many nights of feasting and dancing under the stars in the following months until the young Ranger, Aragorn, had arrived with Gollum. Thranduil had reluctantly agreed that the Elves of Mirkwood would keep the creature in captivity at Mithrandir’s request, and Legolas was given the responsibility for Gollum’s safekeeping and well being.  

The tedious duty had been performed with a little too much compassion, in Thranduil’s opinion, making it relatively easy for the minions of Sauron to infiltrate Mirkwood and help Gollum escape. The cost to the Elves had been more than their loss of honour, for several of the guards were slain. Thranduil remembered that Legolas blamed himself totally, and had been so determined to set things right, that he immediately organised a search party which he lead south, in the direction that he believed the creature had fled.  

It had been over a month since Legolas and his warriors had ventured to the dangerous south of Mirkwood to find and recapture that miserable creature, Gollum, and Thranduil had not seen or heard from his son since. He was becoming extremely concerned for the safety of the search party.  

 While he waited for news, Thranduil had plenty of time to think and he had come to realise why he felt his kind hearted, if somewhat impatient son was not totally responsible for the escape. Thranduil and the older warriors had all been guilty of complacency as well. Certainly Legolas had been given the responsibility of keeping the creature captive, but he had failed to warn his son of the insidiously evil and calculating nature of the one from whom Aragorn had wrested Gollum in the first place. He should have known that there were spies of the Dark Lord, even in his own realm; he had certainly felt the chill of the darkness increasing ever since the Council meeting he had hosted many years ago.  

“Good news, at last, Sire!” exclaimed his Steward, as he stepped onto the bridge, waving a message tube that bore the mark of the House of Oropher.  

“So Legolas has finally found time to send me a message,” grumbled Thranduil hiding his relief for his son’s safety behind his disgruntled façade. He favoured his Steward, who had merely raised an eyebrow to indicate he was not fooled by the King’s demeanour, with a quick smile as he opened the tube, carefully removing the rolled up parchment from within.

Thranduil quickly scanned the brief letter; his frown deepening as he read the words written in Legolas’ elegant script that informed him the mission had been unsuccessful thus far.

“I take it they have not found him yet?” asked the Steward, easily reading his King’s darkened mood.

“No, and I fear that neither will they. Legolas mentions that they have encountered several bands of Orcs, some of whom seem to be able to withstand the daylight.” 

“The news about the Orcs is most disquieting,” commented the Steward. “I hope that there has been no loss of life?”  

“No, thank the Valar, but several of the party have sustained injuries. Legolas and the others are all skilled warriors, as you are aware, but I have to admit that they are totally outmatched by this particular enemy. I will not risk their lives further. Send word that they are to return as soon as possible. I suppose I must also inform Mithrandir, somehow,” he added wondering how one actually went about contacting the Istari and decided it would be unnecessary since in his experience, Mithrandir always seemed to simply ‘appear’ whenever he was needed.  

“I believe the Istari may be headed for Imladris,” offered the Steward, as if reading his thoughts.  

“How would you know that?” asked Thranduil curiously, constantly amazed by the information the Elf always seemed to possess. Obviously he also listened to ‘gossip’. The memory of a conversation long ago caused Thranduil to smile, and he wondered if Elrond had learned to hear all the news the messengers were telling him.  

“The patrol that watches the pass across the Misty Mountains mentioned they encountered him. He refused their offer to escort him to his destination, hinting that he was meeting the sons of Elrond at the pass,” he explained.

“Then I shall send Legolas to Imladris when he returns. It would be best if he explained Gollum’s escape to Mithrandir in person, and Elrond should be informed of these new dangers. No doubt both he and the Istari will have many questions that Legolas will be best qualified to answer.”   And it will also serve to keep him out of danger, at least for a short time, thought Thranduil, who was tired of worrying and waiting for news of his son’s safety from whichever patrol Legolas lead into battles with the dark creatures that tried to invade his home. Besides what harm could possibly befall him at the Last Homely House?