This story is set in the autumn of 2510 TA, the year that Tolkien tells us that the Balchoth, men from the east who had been living along the southeastern edge of Mirkwood, finally invaded Gondor. Gondor’s soldiers defeated them with the aid of the people who later became the Rohirrim.

In my stories about Legolas, it is thus set between “Growing under Shadow” (in which there is tension between Men, Elves, and Dwarves over the sale of weapons) and “My Brother’s Keeper” (in which there is tension over the sale of an addictive herb). Legolas is 30, or about 12 in human years. You should not have to read those stories in order to enjoy this one.

I owe Nilmandra many thanks for beta reading this chapter.

*******

1. Arrows Fly

Legolas carefully turned the arrow shaft in his fingers, drawing a thin line of dark red around it with the brush he held in his other hand. He eyed the line anxiously, but he seemed to have judged the necessary amount of paint correctly this time, and none of it threatened to tremble over the line’s edge in ungraceful bulges.

“Good,” said Thranduil, pausing in cutting the nock in one of the shafts Legolas had crested the previous afternoon. Legolas smiled at him and then held the shaft next to the cresting pattern on the paper that lay on the table before painting the next red line. As his father had reminded him when they drew the pattern, the cresting in a set of arrows should be consistent, or when they stood in his quiver, the mismatch would be obvious, and the elegant effect would be ruined.

The door opened, and with his brush poised in his hand, Legolas looked up to see a smiling Eilian limping into the sitting room. Legolas blinked in surprise. His brother had been sent home from his warrior patrol two weeks ago with a deep cut in one calf. He had had to stay off his feet entirely for several days, and then had been allowed up only on crutches.

Thranduil put down the arrow shaft he was holding. “Did the healers say you could discard your crutches?” he demanded.

Eilian grimaced slightly. “Yes, Adar,” he sighed. “I am allowed to walk on my own, and Belówen said I could start training again tomorrow.” He advanced to the table and picked up one of the already crested and nocked shafts. “Very nice, brat,” he admired. “Would you like me to help you fletch them? I have some handsome peacock feathers that you can have if you want them.”

Delighted by the thought of how splendid the feathers would look, Legolas opened his mouth to accept the offer and then suddenly glanced at his father and hesitated. He loved the fact that his busy father was taking the time to help him make this set of arrows, and he did not want to do anything that would cost him a second of Thranduil’s company. But he also would enjoy having Eilian help him, for his brother was away far too much. And he longed for the peacock feathers. No-one else in his archery class was likely to have feathers so beautiful, and he could just picture their faces when they saw his quiver full of these arrows next week when they all were supposed to bring shafts of their own making.

He looked across the table to find Thranduil watching him appraisingly. His father shifted his gaze to Eilian. “If you can be here in the late afternoon, you may help us fletch the arrows,” Thranduil said, “and we would be happy to have the feathers in any case.”

“Of course,” said Eilian hastily, with a glance at Legolas. “I would not want to disrupt anything.”

Legolas relaxed, elated by the idea of having both his father and brother help him. Sometimes Thranduil and Eilian erupted in what seemed to Legolas to be completely unpredictable quarrels, but surely nothing would disturb them when engaged in a task so pleasant and absorbing.

“It grows late,” Thranduil said, putting his knife down next to the already nocked shafts. “You need to put the paint away and clean your brushes, Legolas, or you will not have time to bathe before evening meal.”

“Just let me finish the red,” Legolas begged, and Thranduil nodded.

The door opened again, and Ithilden strode into the room, looking disgruntled. “That did not take long,” he said in disgust.

Legolas applied another band of red to the shaft in his hand, and then eyed Ithilden covertly, trying not to look too interested. His father usually sent Legolas out of the room when he and Ithilden talked about Ithilden’s concerns as the Woodland Realm’s troop commander.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and Ithilden accepted the invitation. “One of the supply rafts was attacked between Esgaroth and the edge of the forest.” Legolas abandoned all pretense and stared at his brother with his mouth open. He pictured Orcs on the eastern edge of the forest, and his breath quickened. He had never seen one of the creatures who had killed his mother, not while he was awake anyway, but he had imagined them.

“Attacked?” Thranduil said sharply. “By whom? What happened?”

“The attacker was a single Man,” Ithilden said, and the tightness in Legolas’s diaphragm eased a little. “The raft was on its way home, so the Elves on it were poling it along near the river bank, trying to keep out of the current as much as possible. Someone apparently hid in the trees there and shot one of them. Everyone else dove for cover or went to the aid of the injured Elf; the raft got out of control, and the current drove it hard into some rocks. Some of the Elves wound up in the river. By the time anyone could scramble ashore and look for the attacker, he was gone, but they could see his tracks leading back toward Esgaroth. They did not follow him far. He had a long head start, and they had a wounded Elf on their hands.”

“When did this happen?” Thranduil demanded.

“Early yesterday. It took them a while to get home. The raft was destroyed, I am afraid,” Ithilden added.

“Where were Esgaroth’s warriors?” Eilian asked. “I thought they patrolled that stretch of the river.”

“They did,” Ithilden responded grimly, “but Esgaroth’s forces have been busy keeping the Balchoth from venturing anywhere near the Long Lake. Two weeks ago, they pulled their warriors away from the river so they could put more of them into that effort. I cannot blame them. They have apparently lost a number of warriors.” He ran a hand over his tightly braided hair, a gesture that Legolas recognized as a sign of frustration. “They suggested that I send some of my warriors to aid them,” he added.

“We have problems of our own,” Thranduil said grimly, “and coordinating the command of two forces like that is not something I would ever wish you to have to do.”

Legolas knew immediately what his father was thinking about. Thranduil did not speak about Dagorlad often, but when he did, it was clear that he had come back with mixed feelings about Men, who had been courageous allies, but, unlike Elves, had also fought on the side of Sauron. And Thranduil had talked before about the problems inherent in commanding mixed forces. But Legolas had recently been studying the Last Alliance with his tutor and the thought had occurred to him that his own grandfather must have struck Gil-galad as an excellent example of just such problems, so he did not think that Men were the only people likely to balk at serving under a commander they were not used to.

He glanced from Thranduil to Ithilden, whose mouth was pressed in a tight line. “I could not spare the troops even if I wanted to,” he said. “That is why I did not send some of our warriors to patrol that part of the river after the Men left. It is in Esgaroth’s territory anyway.”

“That paint is too dry, Legolas,” said Thranduil suddenly, and Legolas realized that his father had noticed his absorption in their conversation. He looked in dismay at the drying paint on his brush. “You will have to finish tomorrow,” said Thranduil. “Go and bathe now.”

“I will finish cleaning up here for you,” Eilian volunteered, taking the brush from his hand. Recognizing his dismissal, Legolas rose and made his way toward his own chamber, thinking about the Men who lived to the east of his father’s realm. He had caught occasional glimpses of Men coming and going on the river, but he had never spent much time in their company, and from what he had seen, his father was right. It was hard to know how much any Man was to be trusted. They were such unpredictable creatures compared to Elves, he thought. Then he thought again of Eilian’s offer of the peacock feathers and forgot about all else in imagining beautiful arrows.

***

“One of the rafts was attacked on its way back from Esgaroth yesterday,” said Turgon, dropping to the ground between Legolas and Annael with his bow in his hand to wait for the archery master.

Legolas looked at his friend in surprise. How had Turgon known that? Legolas had been tempted to tell Annael about the attack on the raft. Thranduil habitually kept him so far away from talk about trouble that he seldom knew anything about such things before Annael had heard of them from his warrior father. But he had also been repeatedly admonished that what he learned at home about the realm’s business was private, so with some difficulty, he had held his tongue. And now Turgon, who never knew anything, already knew about the raft.

“How do you know about that, Turgon?” Legolas asked.

“The Elf who lives in the cottage next to ours was shot. I went to visit him and saw his wound.” Turgon sounded pleased by this accomplishment, and Legolas made a face. There were no warriors in Turgon’s family.  Legolas had already seen Eilian in particular come home wounded often enough to last him forever.

“Our neighbor says that the Men no longer guard their part of the river,” Turgon went on indignantly. “What cowards they must be!”

“Ithilden says they left because they are fighting elsewhere,” Legolas protested. “I do not think that makes them cowards.”

Turgon shrugged, but then his face brightened a little. “I heard that Men let their sons join their army when they are very young. That is how new warriors are trained. I think that sounds like a much better way to learn than taking classes like we do and then having to spend years as a novice.”

Annael frowned at Turgon. “Are you sure?”

Legolas wanted to ask the same thing. He could not imagine his father or brothers ever allowing him to do such a thing, not even Eilian, who could sometimes be talked into letting him do things that Thranduil would have strongly objected to had he known about them.

“Yes,” Turgon answered firmly, although Legolas doubted that he really had reliable information. But then that never stopped Turgon for long. “The young ones clean the weapons and care for the horses and do other things like that, and the Men like being waited on.”

At that moment, the archery master appeared, carrying a large bundle of arrows. “Come and look at what we will be using today,” he invited. With his two friends, Legolas got to his feet and joined the other students looking at the arrows that Penntalion was spreading out on the ground in front of them. Legolas could see that some of the shafts were heavier than others and that the length and position of the fletching varied.

“Until now, you have always used the same kind of arrow,” Penntalion said, “a kind that the armorers make for us. But since you are making your own arrows right now, I thought it would be interesting for you to try these and see how their differences affect their flight.”

Next to Legolas, Turgon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “An arrow is an arrow,” he muttered quietly enough that only Legolas could hear him. “I do not see what all the fuss is about.” Something in his tone made Legolas glance at him quickly, but Turgon was watching Penntalion and did not meet Legolas’s eyes. Legolas turned to look at the archery master too.

Penntalion picked up a slightly heavy looking arrow with long fletching. “If you think about it, you will realize that the feathers on an arrow stabilize its flight and balance the head. The heavier the head, the longer the fletching needs to be. But the longer fletching also slows the arrow down and shortens its range. When you are hunting in the forest, that does not matter so much though.”

He picked up another arrow and held it next to the first one. “Notice too that we have been using arrows whose fletching wraps around the arrow slightly, so that the front edge of the feather is not directly lined up with the back edge. Do you see how the feathers are attached to this arrow a little differently? They are straight. Like shorter fletching, straight fletching will give you a longer shot, but it will be less stable at a short range.”

Legolas listened intently, nodding as he recognized each point that Penntalion made. He had noticed most of this before when he compared the arrows he used for training or hunting to those his brothers had among their warrior gear.

“I have brought arrows with several kinds of heads too,” Penntalion said. “We have been using these broadheads, because they are good for hunting, but I also brought some bodkins.” He picked up an arrow with a long, narrow point on its tip. “You will not be using these routinely until you are novices, but you can try them today. They are good for penetrating armor.”

Legolas stared at the arrow in Penntalion’s hand. Until now, the archery master had talked about their training as if all they were learning to do was hunt, a skill that was necessary for almost anyone living in the woods. Even most of the maidens took archery classes, although they did it separately. But the lethal looking point in Penntalion’s hand left no doubt as to its purpose. Legolas was sobered by the thought.

“Take several different types of arrows, and we will practice shooting from different distances so you can get the feel of them,” Penntalion instructed, and Legolas moved forward to obey.

For the next two hours, he and his classmates tried out the various arrows, moving closer to and farther away from the target. Legolas found that he had to adjust his shot when the arrows varied from what he was used to, but he also found that he could do that, once he realized what was required. In the long run though, it seemed to him that what Penntalion was teaching them was that it was best to select the arrow you needed for the job you wanted to do. He wondered fleetingly if peacock feathers were good for the kind of shooting they did in class. He hoped so. He did not want to give up on the beautiful feathers. He would have to ask his father what he thought.

When Penntalion sent them yet again to retrieve their arrows and then had them stow them in two quivers propped nearby, Legolas was surprised to realize that their class time was up for the day. But then, he often found that with his archery classes. He only wished his time with his tutor would pass as quickly.

“Your brother is waiting for you again today,” Annael observed. Legolas looked toward the edge of the field to find Ithilden waiting to walk home with him for their mid-day meal. He was talking to the sister of Tonduil, one of Legolas’s classmates, who frequently came to walk him home too. Legolas eyed them critically. He was beginning to be suspicious about just why Ithilden had been so attentive lately.

“I will see you later,” he told Annael and Turgon and then approached the couple tentatively, having been scolded by Ithilden for interrupting only last week. Tonduil caught up with him, and the two of them walked the last few yards together.

Ithilden turned to face them. “Mae govannen,” he greeted them “Did you have a good class?”

“Yes,” Tonduil muttered, looking at Ithilden shyly from under half lowered lids.

“Mae govannen,” Legolas said politely. Ithilden had also scolded him for failing to greet Tonduil’s sister, and Legolas had to admit that Thranduil would have regarded that as a lapse of manners too, but Legolas was never quite sure what to say to her. She was very quiet.

“Mae govannen,” she responded, and then they all lapsed into silence. Legolas shifted impatiently. He felt awkward and wanted to suggest that he and Ithilden should be going home now, but he was reasonably sure how that suggestion would be received too.

“We must bid you good day, my lord,” Tonduil’s sister finally said, her face a little pink. She nodded to Legolas and then beckoned to Tonduil and set off toward their home.

“Did you see me shoot, Alfirin?” Legolas could hear Tonduil asking eagerly. “I am getting better.”

Legolas looked at Ithilden, who was watching the brother and sister depart. “Can we go too?” he asked. “We will be late.”

Ithilden sighed. “Of course. Come.” They began walking toward the palace, with Legolas having to trot occasionally to keep up with Ithilden’s long strides.

“Slow down,” he finally cried in exasperation. And then he could not help taking satisfaction in adding, “You are being very rude.”

Ithilden immediately slowed. “I beg your pardon,” he said and smiled at Legolas, who abruptly felt sorry for calling his brother rude.

“Do you know anything about the Men’s army?” Legolas asked, turning to a topic that he thought Ithilden would know far more about that Turgon did.

“Yes.” Ithilden turned to him questioningly.

“Is it true that they have boys in their army?” Legolas was still not sure whether he found this idea more thrilling or frightening.

Ithilden looked surprised. “Where did you hear that?”

“From Turgon. Is it true?”

Ithilden’s mouth tightened a little. He had said before that he did not think Legolas should be allowed to be friends with Turgon. “Yes, it is.”

Legolas blinked at him. “How old are the boys?”

Ithilden hesitated. “It is hard to guess ages in Men, but I have seen them in uniform when then are no bigger than you are.”

Legolas contemplated that idea, and then abruptly thought about the narrow bodkin arrow tip that Penntalion had said would pierce armor. He and Ithilden walked the rest of the way home in silence. Legolas was wrapped in his own thoughts, and Ithilden too seemed to have things to think about.

***

“Come in,” called Thranduil, and Nyndir entered the king’s office and bowed. Thranduil raised an eyebrow at his steward. “Yes?”

“I need to speak with you about replacing the goods that were lost on the raft that was attacked, my lord.”

Thranduil waved him into the chair in front of his desk. “What was on the raft?”

Nyndir consulted the list in his hand. “There were six barrels of wine and some foodstuffs, flour for the most part, but the largest part of the cargo was cloth. There were a dozen bolts of woolen fabric and three of silk.”

“How much of that was lost?”

Nyndir looked up at him regretfully. “All of it, my lord. The raft Elves were busy with other matters at first, and by the time anyone could have retrieved the cargo, it had been swept away. Most of the barrels broke up on the rocks near the entrance to the lake, and the others probably went over the falls.”

Thranduil grimaced. “I assume we had already paid for the goods?”

“Yes, my lord. They were ours.”

Thranduil tapped his forefinger moodily on the desk. He did not find it altogether just that Men would withdraw the guards for their part of the river and then require the Elves to pay Mannish merchants to replace any losses, particularly when the attacker had also been a Man. Still there was no point in stewing over what could not be changed. “You have my permission to buy replacements.”

Nyndir hesitated. “That might be more difficult to do than one would think. I can buy more flour and wine, I think, but the cloth will be harder to get. We contracted for it with a merchant named Rhoc. The wool was from the sheep raised around the Long Lake, and I believe we bought most of what he had this year. The silk came from the south and would have to be reimported.”

“Does no one else in Esgaroth have the goods?”

Nyndir grimaced. “I could check. There is another cloth merchant, but I no longer buy from him because his merchandise has sometimes been shoddy. The dyes in his last batch of silk ran as soon as the fabric became wet.”

“Do what you can,” Thranduil directed, and Nyndir nodded and took his leave. Thranduil turned his attention back to the dispatch he was writing. The loss of the goods on the raft was a minor irritation compared to the wounding of one of his people and the potential for continued danger along the river’s edge, but Thranduil could not help thinking that dealing with Men sometimes seemed more trouble than it was worth.