"You see, my Lord? The Elf carries his own peril with him!"

"That remains to be decided, Lord Bofur," Thorin ruled chillingly. The King Under the Mountain was in a formidable temper, to be sure, seated on his throne like a great bear on a crag. "Now that I have heard the disgraceful tale of what has occurred within my halls, I am of a mind to put a stop to this folderol. What is it you suggest?"

Gimli sat next to his father in the rounded formation of council chairs, enduring an equal measure of both indignation and anxiety. This was only the second day, and already there was trouble! Had Legolas been called to stamp out fires like this in his household? The Elf was not present now, for he had disappeared in a silent but sullen mood to change his clothes lest he look like something out of the slaughterhouse. He had taken Scatha with him to tend both their hurts, something with which Gimli knew Legolas would rather busy himself while the Dwarves took heated counsel among themselves. Already it seemed he was becoming fed up with the volatile world of the Mountain, and would not be disappointed in the least to hear his welcome had worn thin.

"It was regrettable folly for the Lord Legolas to come here at all," Dwalin said firmly. "I cannot guess why the Elvenking would provoke us so."

"Thranduil never wanted Legolas to come here!" Gimli threw in for himself, unable to sit quiet any longer. "He came because he wanted to. But I fear we have fallen far short of his expectations."

"Then he may go as he pleases, back to the Wood where he belongs," Nori growled. The long years of high living in the Mountain had made him fat and peevish, but had not dulled his vitality. He was not always so irritable, but Gimli reflected that this council was keeping the old lord from the table beyond his time.

"Stop this!" Thorin snapped, beating a jeweled fist repeatedly against the carven arm of his chair. "Thranduil accepted Gimli into his halls and kept him with favor.  Now what is he to think of the Mountain if not as a den of pigheaded fools intent upon making a lingering nuisance of themselves?  Master Legolas already has reason enough to be wroth with us from what I have heard.  It will be a grim tale that comes to the ears of the Elvenking if this is not righted."

"He must remain in the confines of the common halls," Dwalin said. "He must not reenter the forges."

"I doubt he would return there if you begged him to."

"So be it.  Much could have been averted if he had stayed away from the first."

"Master Legolas shall judge for himself what company he will spurn now," Thorin insisted adamantly, "though you all seem unworthy of him.  Or was it he who began the quarrel?" In answer he received only stubborn silence. "So I thought.  Now, you tell me the Elf was unarmed and is therefore blameless.  Who was it who dared throw the blade?  It matters not for whom it was meant."

"None would confess to the deed," Gimli had to say. "We know not who it was, for many things were thrown."

"A pity," the King sneered, idly fingering the braided end of his beard as he considered just what punishment he would have ordered. "And as for this Náin, it was he who began it?"

"Yes, sire. Nor is it the first time, as my Lady Mother will tell you."

"Yes, I had heard of that. A repeated offender in just two days," Thorin mused grimly, finding a victim at last. "Let this be a lesson to all," he decreed. "Náin son of Nali will bear twenty-eight lashes to repay in blood his insults to the name of Legolas Thranduilion o Lasgalen. Then he shall be imprisoned so long as the Lord Legolas chooses to remain here among us.  Any who would openly harass the Elven-prince will suffer the same fate, be he lord or no.  I have had enough of this murmuring, this malcontent.  And as for the unworthy miscreant who imperiled the life of Thranduil’s son – when I shall find him – I myself will see that he is impaled through the hand as well. In the meantime all those present in the forges at the time will be questioned until their part in the conflict is known."

"But, sire – " Nori protested.

"There is nothing more to be said," Thorin decreed firmly. "Will you bring more shame down upon the Mountain?  It is I who must answer for you!  Your fates rest now on the magnanimity of the Prince Legolas, and I pray he will forgive the monstrous debt we owe for this trespass against him. I will not have the house of Thranduil so affronted again!"

It was a slow and awkward task, but at last Legolas had managed to staunch the bleeding of Scatha’s tail. The little beast was as shy of pain as one would expect, unceasingly voicing a strange squeaking whimper.  Once he had pulled the ugly splinter from his own hand Legolas managed to hold him still and attend the wound at the same time.  At least most of it remained, he thought testily as he bandaged it as well as he could. It was an odd creature, but the tail had been beautiful. It was not shortened beyond use, though it would take some getting used to.

Freed at long last from the disagreeable attentions, Scatha fled to curl into a pathetic shuddering lump on the bed until the lingering pain should subside. Legolas did not blame him. He was himself still unfit to be seen, for he had given but little attention to his own hurts in the interest of tending Scatha before he should bleed to death. He had been offered Dwarvish attendants, but had tactfully declined them.

Now that he had the time he looked again at his hand. It was not so frightful now that the blood had been washed away.  It was not much more than a dark hole in his palm – no more than a very large prick really – but deep and sore. He flexed it cautiously and found it a bit stiff, but that would pass.

He pulled off the ruined shirt and donned one of his own. Of a simple woodland colors, it reflected the turn of his mind.  These Dwarves were impossible, and he was ready to be done with this mission before something worse happened.  He left Scatha to recover and went to seek company he understood, difficult though it was to find such in this place.  He was given a wide berth by the others in the corridors, for his change of temper was evident.  Sullen indignation had overpowered what vestiges of caution had governed his comings and goings; now he went where he and when he would, and none quite dared to oppose him after what had happened but a half hour ago. He could forgive the damage done him, for it would be indistinguishable in a day or so. But the memory of the vulgar words smeared upon his name would make him bristle for many days hence. He could endure much, but he would suffer no one to equate his kin with orcs. He reflected ruefully that a rat like Náin was probably not worth his ire, but at the moment he had not been able to help himself.

His steps led him through many winding ways until he had drawn near the front gates. A turn brought him to another tunnel, one that descended an incline into the less elegant chambers of the mountain that nonetheless seemed much more appealing to him at this point. The stables of Erebor were housed in an open cave at ground level that would admit the sun on a clear day, but for now the rain continued unabated.  The cold and wet sound was like music to him. The air smelled of horse and dust, but even that was better than the pervading aura of Dwarf.  Picking his way over the hay strewn on the floor, he reached out to stroke the pale face of one of the only tall horses to be found stabled there among the work ponies, the one he had ridden from Dale, pricking his ears and nickering as if to say, where have you been, and what are we doing here?

"Sometimes I wonder," he said, burying his fingers in the silver forelock. Horses never changed, and they remained beautiful in their simplicity. They did not care for difficulties of race or allegiance.  If only the weather would permit, he could have benefitted greatly from a timely ride.

"Mae govannen, my lord."

Legolas stopped, taken a bit off his guard. That was no Dwarf. He turned to see a Barding man standing at a respectful distance, silhouetted against the pouring rain outside. Moreover, he wore the livery of the king’s house. "Mae govannen," he returned courteously. "And what brings you to Erebor?"

"As the King’s courier," the Man explained with a patient smile, "duty often brings me to the Dwarvish Mountain. But this time I was given yet another trust independent of my errand to Thorin."

Legolas nodded absently. "Plainly you know my name," he said. "And there you hold the advantage over me."

"Your pardon, my Lord. I am Gereon, son of Gildas of Dale."

"The name is familiar."

"It should be, my lord. It was my son who gave you the use of his horse. He bade me come here – without your knowing, of course – and see how his friend was getting along."

Now Legolas smiled, remembering the boy. "He certainly did not let him go lightly," he said. "It could be that I return him before long."

Gereon turned a knowing look upon him. "There is unrest within the halls?" he asked surreptitiously lest Dwarvish ears catch his words. "I knew you had set a challenge for yourself, my Lord, when you left our city."

"So it has proven," Legolas said with a touch of wry humor as they stood together with the horse. "It grows by the day. I begin to believe it would be best to leave well enough alone until a few years hence, when I may visit without such peril."

"Perhaps, my lord.  Here you are still salt in old wounds.  And I may say also that the guardsmen you left behind are beside themselves with worry. The one called Dorthaer has not ceased to pace the halls of the palace in the past days."

A monstrous clap of thunder interrupted them for a moment, as though threatening the outcome should tensions go unrelieved. The rumble was a long time in dying away, and Legolas felt he could recognize a warning when he was given one.

"He need not worry himself for much longer," he said, his mind made up. He had fulfilled his father’s errand, and it seemed best to admit defeat for the moment in his secondary endeavor. It was not worth the risk just now. "You may tell him when you return that I shall not be far behind."