I borrow characters and settings from Tolkien, but they are his, not mine. I gain only the enriched imaginative life that I assume he intended me to gain.

Many thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.  I got the idea of writing flashbacks from her too, so I thank her for that also.

AN:  The Legolas part of this story is set in 2590 TA.  In my interpretation of the Tolkien universe, that would make Legolas 110, or a young adult in Elf years.  I have given him relatives who will be familiar to readers of my other stories.  In this one, his nephew, Sinnarn, is about 67, meaning he has come of age only recently, again in Elf terms.

Part of this story also deals with Legolas’s oldest brother, Ithilden (Sinnarn’s father), when he was younger, and that part is set in the year 1981 TA, the year after the Balrog first resurfaced in Moria.

I have tried to write this so that readers who are completely unfamiliar with my OCs will still be able to sort them out with relative ease. Please let me know if I have not succeeded.

I am also playing around with the time lines in two different stories here, so I hope that doesn’t get confusing either.

Having probably driven away most readers by now, I say, enjoy the story!

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1.  Hunting Dragons

Every nerve alert, Legolas stared off into the night sky, trying to see if the creature was circling around for another attack, but it was his ears, not his eyes that told him that the dragon was coming again, for the roar of its wings rose like the sound of a storm in winter.  He crouched behind the rock, his arrow nocked and ready and hoped that Sinnarn and Amdir had done as he told them and taken shelter farther away from the cave to wait for the dragon to pass overhead rather than run out into the open to take their shots.

“Wait until it is overhead,” he had told them. “And then shoot and move immediately.  You do not want it to turn and breathe fire at you.”  They had both nodded, and the pallor of their faces had told him they recognized their danger, but he did not have much faith that either one of them would stay behind a rock if the dragon flew anywhere other than directly over their heads.  Amdir in particular could be startlingly undisciplined, but Legolas knew that his nephew too would have a difficult time resisting what he would see as a chance for some excitement.  Legolas thought he had sent them into good positions for a shot assuming that the dragon continued the same circling pattern it had been using, but he had no experience with dragons and therefore was not at all sure that it would.

His own heartbeat quickened now and his breath came in shorter gasps as the roar of the dragon grew and his hair blew around his face in the wind created by its wings.  He craned his neck, and suddenly, off to his left, he saw it, a black shape blotting out the stars.  To his dismay, it was coming from an angle he had not expected.  Sinnarn and Amdir would have no chance of hitting it before it reached the cave.  He was going to have to do this on his own, he thought grimly, for there was no one else with any hope of success.

His fingers tightened on his bowstring, and he had to struggle with an impulse to jump from his hiding place and begin loosing arrows, but he would have no chance of killing it or at least driving it off if it saw him, so he forced himself to wait until the creature sailed directly over his head.  With an immense sense of release, he leapt to his feet and drew and fired into the dragon’s unprotected underbelly quickly enough that he had time to draw and fire again as the creature tore past overhead.

It gave a terrifying cry and then something thick and black rained down onto Legolas’s shoulder.  Startled, he had jumped out of the way before it dawned on him what it was.  Blood! he thought exultantly. I hit it.

He spun to watch the dragon’s course and saw it wobble slightly.  He felt a spurt of exhilaration, but then, to his dismay, it steadied itself and continued its course. Then, with a guttural roar, it opened its mouth, and, to Legolas’s horror, raked the entrance to the cave with breath of fire.  The brush and trees covering the entrance burst into flame as the dragon wheeled and turned to approach again.  It is coming back, Legolas thought, trying not to panic.  He scrambled from his position to a different one behind a pile of large rocks that was now in the beast’s path.

The noise rose to a crescendo as the dragon sailed overhead and then hurled a tongue of flame toward the cave mouth.  “No!” he cried.  Someone screamed and someone else gave a loud wail.  His stomach turned and his heart froze in horror at the sound.

And then, suddenly, more arrows flew toward the dragon, coming from his right.  He had time to wonder how Sinnarn and Amdir had managed to get to that spot and then to realize that there were far too many arrows for them to have come from only two warriors, when in the course of its turn, the dragon’s tail swept through the rocks over his head and knocked them down upon him.

Too late, he leapt and tried to twist out of the way.  A rock struck him in the side, driving him to the ground and a larger rock landed on his left leg, sending an explosion of pain through his body.  Then something struck him just behind the left ear and he saw a blinding flash of light and then darkness.

Somewhere someone shrieked in pain and terror.  Someone is hurt, he thought distantly.  “Over here,” shouted a person whose voice he thought he should recognize.  “He is over here.”  The weight on his leg shifted and he tried to cry out, but his breath was coming only in excruciating gasps.

“Legolas!” cried Eilian’s voice, and he opened his eyes to see his brother’s frightened face bending over him.

“Be careful,” someone said sharply. “His ribs are broken and they are tearing at his lungs.” 

“How are the others?” Eilian asked.

“Beliond and Sinnarn are both burned,” the other speaker answered, catching Legolas’s attention.  Then Eilian tried to lift him, and this time, he did cry aloud and then he dove again into the darkness, seeking its obliteration.

The darkness faded and he found himself lying in a sling, with the smell of horse in his nostrils.  Bewildered, he groped for an explanation and suddenly realized that he was in a litter suspended between two horses.  Hot needles of agony stabbed at his leg with every step the horses took.  He moaned and then went away again.

“In here,” commanded Thranduil, with fear in his voice. “Put him in here.”

I wonder what Adar is afraid of? Legolas thought without much concern.  Whatever it was, he was sure that Thranduil would be able to manage it.  His father was comfortingly indomitable.   He let awareness slip away, but then someone touched his leg with what felt like a white hot iron, and he tried to raise himself up so that he could grab their hands and stop them, but someone else was holding him down and keeping him immobile.

“Lie still, iôn-nín,” his father said soothingly.  “The healer will soon be finished, and then you will feel better.”

Legolas doubted that.  He was unable to remember what being free from pain felt like, so he found it hard to believe he could ever be that way again.  But he knew that arguing with Thranduil was nearly always pointless, so he bit his lip and smothered his moan.

Another voice spoke.  “If he is conscious, my lord, he should drink this.  It will numb his discomfort while I finish with his leg and work on his ribs.”  His father lifted his shoulders slightly, making him gasp, and then held a cup to his lips.  He took one sip and then tried to draw away from the foul tasting liquid that was being poured into his mouth.

“Drink it, Legolas,” Thranduil ordered firmly, in the voice he used when disobedience was not to be tolerated.  Legolas braced himself and swallowed as much as he could.  His father lowered him to the bed again, and he lay, listening dully to the voices around him.  A door opened and closed.

“How is he?” Ithilden asked urgently.

“We are not sure yet,” Thranduil said, his voice tight. “How is Sinnarn?”

“His hands are burned, but they have already begun to heal,” Ithilden replied.  Legolas wondered vaguely how his nephew had burned his hands, but he had neither the time nor the breath to ask before darkness washed over him again.

He floated for a while with his pain still present but at a distance.  Then the pain drew nearer and his father was once again ordering him to drink and then it was Ithilden who held the cup and then he realized in surprise that it was dark because his eyes were shut.  I must have been hurt, he thought.  With what seemed like far too great an effort, he pried his eyelids open and, for a moment, stared in confusion at the ceiling that stood where he had expected to see the sky through the interlaced branches of the forest.

Then he remembered.  He was home.  He was hurt, but he was home.  He turned his head to see Thranduil sitting beside him, reading.  As if he felt Legolas’s eyes upon him, Thranduil looked up and smiled at him.  “Welcome back, iôn-nín,” he said gently.  “How do you feel?”

Legolas considered this question for a moment.  “My leg hurts,” he finally said, moving his left leg experimentally.  It seemed to be splinted from the knee down and it ached abominably.

“It is broken,” Thranduil told him.  “You have two broken ribs and were struck on the head as well, but the healers have finally decided that it will all mend eventually.  Would you like a drink of water?”

Legolas suddenly realized that he was very thirsty and drank eagerly when Thranduil lifted his head a little and held a cup to his lips.  Then his father eased him down again, and he lay for a minute thinking about what Thranduil had said.  He realized that he was unsure of how he had been injured.  Frowning, he tried to pull the scattered pieces of his memory together.  Suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he saw flames.  “There was a dragon,” he said in surprise.

“Yes,” Thranduil acknowledged, his voice bitter.  “There was.  The Dwarves swarming into Erebor would have spared us a great deal of trouble if they had simply told us why they were coming back instead of making such a mystery of it, but then they have never been particularly interested in saving us difficulty.”

Legolas felt his stomach tighten at the mention of the Dwarves, but he found that he could not quite remember why.  “What is all this about the Dwarves, Adar?” he asked.

Thranduil frowned.  “I do not want to tire you.”

Legolas felt a sudden desperate need to know about the Dwarves.  “Please tell me,” he begged.

Thranduil regarded him closely and then sighed.  “I had a report,” he began, and Legolas listened carefully, trying to work out what it was about the mention of Dwarves that was so disturbing.

~ * ~ * ~

One month earlier

“There are hundreds of them there, my lord, and more are arriving every day.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow inquiringly.  “Hundreds, you say?  But why?  What has caused the Dwarves to leave the Grey Mountains and come back to Erebor?”

“I do not know, my lord,” his spy admitted.  “I could gain no information from them.  All I can tell you is that they seemed frightened.”

Thranduil felt a moment’s chill.  Say what you would about the Dwarves, they did not frighten easily.  If they were alarmed enough to leave the rich resources of the Grey Mountains, then something very dangerous was happening there.  “Is Dáin still their leader?” he asked.

“No, my lord.  They now follow his son, Thrór.”

Thranduil pondered that fact too.  Dwarves lived long by mortal standards.  He would not have thought that Dáin was old enough to have met a natural death yet.  “And the Men of Dale?” he asked after a moment.  “How are they reacting to the return of the Dwarves?”

“They could not be more pleased,” said the spy in some disgust.  “They clearly plan on profiting by trading with them.”

Thranduil grimaced.  His people too did business with the Men who lived east of the forest.  He did not relish having Dwarves thrown into the mix and possibly breeding hostility toward the Elves.  “Have you anything else to tell me?” he asked.

“No, my lord, but I will continue watching them and finding out what I can.”

Thranduil nodded, dismissed him, and summoned one of his attendants.  “Send for Lord Ithilden,” he ordered and then sat back to wait for the arrival of his oldest son.  The king ordinarily handled the politics of the Woodland Realm, while Ithilden commanded its troops.  Thranduil had decided that whatever was wrong in the Grey Mountains was too serious to wait for his spy to uncover it in Erebor.  This matter needed to be placed in his son’s capable hands.  There was a quick rap on the door of his office, and then Ithilden came striding into the room.

As often happened when Thranduil sent for his oldest son, he felt a surge of satisfaction at Ithilden’s arrival.  Even his son’s broad-shouldered, self-assured appearance spoke of his competence, and Thranduil knew he was fortunate to have Ithilden by his side in his efforts to protect the Woodland Realm from the perils that increasingly threatened it.  His son approached, put his hand over his heart in formal salute, and then took the chair that Thranduil indicated.

As thoroughly as he could, Thranduil laid out the situation that the spy had described, although he did not say how he came by his information and Ithilden did not ask. His son certainly knew that Thranduil used spies, but both of them regarded the practice as part of Thranduil’s business, not Ithilden’s.  There was a moment’s silence, and then Ithilden spoke with his usual crisp efficiency.  “Assuming you do not object, Adar, I will ask the northern Border Patrol to investigate whatever is happening in the mountains.”

Thranduil nodded, regretting for only a fleeting second that Ithilden’s son, Sinnarn, and his own youngest son, Legolas, were both in that border patrol.  His grandson and son were capable warriors, even if they were young, he reminded himself firmly, and even if Sinnarn did tend to be a bit too adventuresome sometimes.   He suddenly realized that Ithilden was hesitating, as if he had something else to say.  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

Ithilden grimaced.  “Not really.  I am in the process of appointing a new captain for that patrol, though.  You may recall that Galan asked to be transferred to the Home Guard so that he could spend more time with his family.”  He paused and then said, “I was considering sending Eilian.  It is time for him to be moved out of the Southern Patrol for a while.  I have been hesitating only because he would have both Legolas and Sinnarn under his command in the north, and I am uncertain about his ability to direct them in dangerous situations without becoming overprotective.”

Thranduil considered this complication.  His middle son, Eilian, was currently at home on leave, but he had been serving as captain of the realm’s Southern Patrol, which hunted orcs and spiders in the dangerous reaches of his kingdom near the mountains of Mirkwood and sometimes as far south as the Old Forest Road.  It served close enough to Dol Guldur that the shadow growing there tended to affect its warriors strongly, and Ithilden moved them elsewhere on a regular basis.  Eilian loved the excitement of the south and was usually reluctant to be posted elsewhere, but in the past, he had suffered bouts of despair from serving for too long in the darkest reaches of shadow, and Ithilden consequently insisted that he accept another assignment every other year.

“No one is better at scouting than Eilian is,” Thranduil finally said slowly.  “In some ways, he is the best possible captain for this mission.”

Ithilden nodded.  “I know.”

“Send for him and let us get this settled now,” Thranduil said decisively.  “He would undoubtedly have had Legolas and Sinnarn under his command at some point. It might as well be now.”

Ithilden went to the door, spoke to the guard, and then returned to his chair.  He smiled a little wryly.  “I must admit that I take a certain pleasure in saddling Eilian with Sinnarn.  My son is a bit too much like Eilian for my liking sometimes.  He craves excitement just as Eilian used to and sometimes still does for that matter.  I have always rather blamed Eilian for that.  I only hope he can discipline Sinnarn to the same extent that he has managed to discipline himself.”

Thranduil frowned. “I am afraid that Eilian’s self-discipline does not extend very far at times,” he said forbiddingly. Thranduil knew for a fact that, at present, the maiden Eilian wanted to bond with was refusing all contact with him, a situation that was usually a sign that Eilian had somehow misbehaved.  “But so far as I know, his impulsiveness has never interfered with his ability to command.”

“I agree,” said Ithilden.

There was a knock at the door and Eilian entered.  He saluted both of them, dropped into the chair next to Ithilden, and said, “You wanted me, Adar?”

Thranduil looked at Ithilden.  “Do you wish to make the appointment before I explain the mission?” he asked, and suddenly Eilian looked apprehensive.  Thranduil braced himself for an argument between his two older sons.  Not that Ithilden would argue much. Even with his own brother, Ithilden was unlikely to stand for any questioning of his orders.

“It is time for you to take another posting, Eilian,” Ithilden told him.  “I am appointing you as the new captain of the northern Border Patrol, and Adar has a special mission that needs to be undertaken right away.”

Thranduil suppressed a smile of admiration at the way Ithilden dangled the bait of a special mission in front of his brother to distract him from whatever dismay he might feel at being removed from the tumultuous south and sent to the usually tame northern Border Patrol.  Ithilden was really an exceptionally good troop commander.  Thranduil watched as a series of emotions flitted across Eilian’s lean face: unhappiness, curiosity, resignation, and then surprise.

“Legolas is in that patrol,” he finally said, “and Sinnarn too. You are putting me in command of them?”

Ithilden nodded.  “I need a good captain there and, besides that, you could not avoid having them under you forever.”

Eilian drew a deep breath. “What is the mission?” he asked, looking at his father, and Thranduil smiled approvingly at how well his impulsive second son seemed to be mastering his own desires and doubts in the face of his commander’s orders and the needs of the realm.  As he had with Ithilden, he told Eilian about the need to discover what was disturbing the Dwarves in the Grey Mountains.

When he had finished, Eilian was frowning.  “If the Dwarves are frightened, then you can be sure there is something very nasty there.  That Border Patrol has many young warriors in it because it is supposed to be an easy posting where they can learn what they need to in order to survive in more dangerous places.  I cannot say I am happy at the idea of leading them on this mission.”

“You need only scout out what is happening,” Ithilden told him.

“Scouting missions can turn into battles in the blink of an eye,” Eilian declared flatly.  He looked levelly at his brother.  “This is Legolas and Sinnarn we are talking about, Ithilden.”

“I know that,” Ithilden said a little sharply.  He stopped for a second as if to get better control of himself.  “We cannot protect them forever,” he said, sounding sad.  “They are warriors.”

Eilian looked at Thranduil, as if seeking support from him, but Thranduil had already steeled himself to send his two older sons into battle and had seen the youngest one get his first wound.  He had no choice and neither did Ithilden or Eilian.  “They will have to go,” he said gently.  “I will feel better with you there to lead them, Eilian.”

Eilian grimaced.  “When do I leave?” he asked.

“As soon as possible,” Thranduil told him and he rose.

“With your leave, Adar, I will go and start making arrangements.”

“Do so,” Thranduil waved him from the room.

~ * ~ * ~

Legolas lay still for a moment, trying to concentrate on what his father was telling him but knowing that he was losing the battle to his desire for sleep.  He tried to remember some of what he had heard while swimming in and out of consciousness.  “Is Sinnarn hurt, Adar?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” said Thranduil, “his hands were burned, but the injuries were not serious.  He will be back on duty tomorrow.”

“And Beliond?”

“Sleep now,” Thranduil said, without answering his question.

Legolas could feel his eyes losing their focus, and he knew he was going to sleep again for a while.  “I am sorry,” he murmured.

“Sorry for what, iôn-nín?”

“Sorry I did not protect them,” Legolas murmured and sank into the darkness again.