As always, thanks to Nilmandra for beta reading this chapter.

2. Visitors and Families

Ithilden bowed with his hand over his heart and then, at Thranduil’s signal, advanced toward his raised seat in the Great Hall.  “I wanted to let you know that the border patrol has seen representatives from Esgaroth approaching. They should be here later today.”

“Good,” grunted Thranduil. “At least they responded promptly when you told them you wanted to speak to them about the matter.”

From his position standing next to Thranduil’s chair, Galivion cleared his throat. “I know you are primarily concerned with military matters, my lord,” he told Ithilden, “but please remember that our trade with the Men must be preserved. We depend on them for many goods.”

“We have gotten along without the aid of Men before and could do so again if we had to,” Thranduil reminded his chief advisor crisply.

“You are undoubtedly correct, my lord,” Galivion hastily agreed, “but I would far rather not have to try to do without what we gain by trading with them.”

“In this case, preserving trade and maintaining security are inseparable,” Ithilden declared. “We cannot expect the raft Elves to make the trip if they are going to be shot at.”

Thranduil nodded grimly. “Tell the Men that we will send no more rafts until we know who made that attack four days ago.” That should raise some alarms in Esgaroth, he thought with satisfaction. By virtue of its position on the lake, most of the Men of Esgaroth lived by trade. They would be horrified at the thought of losing the Elves’ custom.

Galivion grimaced slightly. “What if the attacker is never caught?”

“He will be,” Ithilden interposed, turning to face the advisor squarely and narrowing his eyes a little. Thranduil nodded, regarding his threatening-looking son with a half-smile. He did not doubt Ithilden’s determination or capability for a second; the perpetrator of the attack would be found if Ithilden had to go to Esgaroth himself to see to it.

Galivion let out a little sigh and admitted defeat. “Of course, my lords.”

Ithilden bowed again. “By your leave,” he said, but before Thranduil could give him permission to depart, one of the door attendants approached and murmured into Galivion’s ear. The advisor looked up in surprise. “You have visitors, my lord.” He nodded to the attendant, who hurried back toward the doors.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Who?” Galivion kept track of what business was to be conducted in the Great Hall each day, but he normally spoke to Thranduil ahead of time about most of it.

Thranduil’s question was answered not by Galivion, however, but by the herald at the door of the Great Hall. “Mithrandir, and Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Master Elrond of Imladris,” he announced. And to Thranduil’s surprise, Mithrandir advanced into the room, flanked on either side by the tall, raven-haired twin sons of the lord of Imladris.

With a cry of welcome, he rose to his feet and strode to where they had stopped and bowed. “Mithrandir! As ever, you arrive unlooked for but most welcome. And,” he hesitated for only a second as he looked at the figure to his right, “Elrohir, we welcome you to the Woodland Realm, as we do you, Elladan.” The sons of Elrond both inclined their heads, indicating to Thranduil that he had identified them correctly. He had met them at the first meeting of the White Council a number of years ago and was pleased that he could still tell them apart.

“I have not been in your halls for far too long, my lord,” Mithrandir smiled at him.

Thranduil turned to invite Ithilden forward from where he hovered on the edge of their conversation. Ithilden had accompanied Thranduil to that first White Council meeting in Imladris and knew the twins rather better than Thranduil did, for they had spent time together as their elders argued around the council table. Ithilden bowed to Mithrandir and then grasped the arm of each twin in a warrior’s greeting. “Welcome,” he echoed Thranduil.

Ithilden smiled at them all, but while Mithrandir returned the smile, Thranduil was suddenly struck by the thought that the twins looked somehow subtly different than they had when he had first met them. Something in their eyes and the set of their shoulders made them look less open, more distant than he remembered them being. And when Thranduil glanced at Ithilden, he could see that his oldest son too was studying the sons of Elrond. He was not surprised. Ithilden was perceptive and had commanded troops for a long time now. He could read people’s attitudes quite well.

Thranduil turned to where Galivion stood. “Am I finished in here for today?”

“Indeed you are, my lord.” Galivion looked a little apprehensive, Thranduil thought, suppressing a smile. Mithrandir did not visit his realm often, but when he did, he usually brought news that somehow stirred things up. Thranduil did not understand it himself. All he knew was that he could never understand how Men could mistake Mithrandir for a helpless old man, as many of them seemed to do.

“Then we will adjourn to my office where we can have wine and be more comfortable as my guests tell me the news. But Galivion, you may tell Nyndir that we will feast in the Great Hall tonight in honor of our visitors.” The advisor nodded, and Thranduil turned to lead the way to his office.

“By your leave, my lord, I would like to return to my own office to await the arrival of the Men,” Ithilden said. Thranduil nodded his permission. “I look forward to seeing you all this evening,” Ithilden told the visitors and then took his leave, while Thranduil guided the others to his office, poured wine for all of them, and waved them into the comfortable chairs near the hearth, where a low fire burned against the chill of the autumn air. Mithrandir settled down comfortably, looking ready to chat, but Elladan and Elrohir both sat erect and somehow remote, as if ready to be off as soon as they could. Thranduil remembered them as warm when among friends, but now they looked preoccupied, with their thoughts elsewhere. What was the matter here? he wondered. Something in their attitude reminded Thranduil of someone else, but he could not quite put his finger on whom.

“I was on my way to see you anyway, Thranduil, when I met these two near the ford,” Mithrandir told him. “They graciously agreed to accompany me and see to my safe journey.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. He had never before heard Mithrandir express any sort of concern for his own safety and had always assumed that anything or anyone attacking him would soon regret it.

“But they have sad news for you, I fear,” Mithrandir went on and looked from one twin to the other.

They had both attended politely when Mithrandir mentioned them, and now they glanced at one another and shifted uneasily. Finally Elladan drew a deep breath and turned to Thranduil. “I regret to tell you that our naneth has sailed west.”

Thranduil felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Celebrían had sailed? How could that be? He would have staked his life on her remaining with Elrond for as long as he chose to stay in Middle-earth. The love between them had been palpable when Thranduil had seen them together. Elrond must surely be devastated. His mind darted to thoughts of his own dead wife as he felt for the loss of the lord of Imladris.

“I am so sorry,” he told the twins, suddenly understanding something of what he saw in their eyes.

Elladan stoically nodded his thanks for the sympathy. “Indeed, her sailing partially explains Mithrandir finding us near the ford. We accompanied our grandparents back to Lothlórien from the Havens, and leaving there, we saw a large number of Orcs sweeping from the Misty Mountains into the plains south of the woods.” Something in his tone as he mentioned Orcs made Thranduil’s breath catch, and his thoughts again flew to Lorellin. He glanced at Mithrandir and found the wizard watching Elladan with a look of deep pity.

“We rode out to aid the Men of Gondor,” Elrohir picked up the story as his brother’s mouth tightened and he lapsed into silence. “Fortunately the Éothéod came as well.” He shrugged, but his eyes narrowed and his mouth curved slightly in satisfaction. “We drove the Balchoth away and killed the Orcs.”

There was a second of silence, and suddenly Thranduil realized whom these two reminded him of in their obvious grief and rage: Eilian in the days after his mother’s death, and Legolas too in his more childish way. Ithilden had retreated into responsibility and guilt, but his two younger sons had both been angry and Eilian in particular had been vengeful. A terrible certainty crept into his mind. He rose, drawing everyone else to their feet too, and went to pull the bell rope near the fireplace.

“I can see that you are weary,” he said, as a servant came to the door in response to his summons. “The servant will show you to guest rooms so that you can refresh yourselves before this evening’s feast. I would welcome your staying with us for as long as you can. And I know that Ithilden will want to learn whatever you have to tell him about the Men’s war.”

The twins exchanged a glance. “Thank you, my lord,” said Elladan. “I believe our stay will be brief, but we would be happy to discuss these matters with Ithilden.” They bowed and followed the servant from the room.

Thranduil waited until the door had closed behind them and then turned to Mithrandir who had shown no sign of leaving. “Allow me to guess,” he said, seating himself again and taking a deep drink of his wine. “Whatever drove Celebrían to sail had something to do with Orcs.”

Mithrandir reseated himself. “Yes,” he said heavily. “They attacked her in the Redhorn Pass as she was on her way to visit her parents. Elrond and his sons rescued her, but she had been tortured and she simply could not stay.”

Thranduil let his head fall back against his chair and closed his eyes so that Mithrandir would not see the bone-deep pain his words had evoked. For a moment, Thranduil thought he might have to leave the room. Then he shoved thoughts of Lorellin’s last moments into the dark corner of his mind where he usually managed to keep them and drew a deep breath.

“What about those two?” he asked, jerking his head toward the door through with the twins had gone. The emotion he had read in them disturbed him more than he liked to admit. It had been far too familiar for comfort.

“They are having a hard time,” Mithrandir said. “Elrond knew I was coming this way and asked me to keep an eye out for them. When I met them, they were on their way into the mountains to hunt further for Orcs. Elrond would like them at home, and it seems to me too that they would be better off there.”

Thranduil swirled his wine in its cup and stared at the purple liquid. “You are right. The family will need one another.” He thought about his own sons in those first few terrible months, and then he put his cup down and rose. “Perhaps you too would like to rest a bit before this evening, Mithrandir.”

Mithrandir smiled and allowed Thranduil to steer him to the door and turn him over to the servant who waited outside it. “Is Lord Eilian here?” Thranduil asked the servant as he was about to escort Mithrandir away.

“I believe he just returned from training, my lord.”

“Send him to me.” He went back into his office and waited with his hand braced against the mantelpiece and his eyes on the fire.

There was a light tap at the door and Eilian entered. He was still in the sweaty tunic he had probably worn to train in, a sign of how recently he had come home. “You wanted to see me, Adar?” He sounded cautious and Thranduil suppressed a grimace.

“Yes.” Thranduil turned to face him. “Mithrandir has arrived, and the sons of Elrond are with him.” Eilian’s face brightened. He liked Mithrandir and was always interested in meeting new people. “I have favor to ask of you, however, that will keep you from the welcome feast.” Eilian’s mouth tightened in annoyance, but Thranduil pressed on, giving him no time to protest. “I had intended to help Legolas finish his arrows tonight. He leaves on a camping trip with the woodcraft master tomorrow and needs to have them finished before he goes because he is supposed to have them ready for use almost as soon as he returns. He would not have gone to the feast in any case, since it would be too late for him, but would you eat with him and help him finish the arrows?”

Eilian looked mollified. Thranduil knew that Eilian treasured Legolas as he did few others and probably saw this request as a welcome one. “Of course.” He grinned suddenly. “I will tell the kitchen to send us only the best of the feast.”

Thranduil laughed. “Go ahead.”

“By your leave,” said Eilian, his usual cheer restored, and he left the room at Thranduil’s nod of permission.

Thranduil picked up his wine and took a sip. He felt sorry for the sons of Elrond, but he was appalled that they had brought their all-too-obvious anguish into the presence of his own sons, where it might resurrect pain that all three had struggled to deal with. Ithilden would have to confer with the sons of Elrond, and Thranduil probably could not prevent Eilian from meeting them eventually, although that thought did not make him happy. But Legolas was still young enough to be vulnerable, and Thranduil had seen him stiffen when Ithilden had spoken too openly about the attack on the raft. Fortunately, with the camping trip scheduled for the next day, Thranduil could probably keep him away from them and what was likely to be their contagious sorrow.

Legolas knocked on the door of Turgon’s cottage, and a moment later, Turgon jerked the door open. “You are so late!” he exclaimed, as he almost always did. Legolas’s lessons were longer than those of his friends, and he was always the last to arrive in the afternoons. “We are in my room making arrows,” Turgon said, leading Legolas down the hallway.

The door to the family’s sitting room was closed, so Legolas assumed that Turgon’s father was working in there. He was a minstrel, and when he was writing a new lay, he would shut himself away for hours and everyone else was supposed to be quiet. More often than not, Turgon, Annael, and Legolas forgot and made too much noise, and he would come rushing out of the room and scold them. Then either he would leave the cottage to seek peace elsewhere, or he would send them outside to play. Today they were making arrows though, and that was quiet work. Moreover, Legolas saw no sign of Turgon’s mother or his five-year-old brother, so he thought that Turgon’s father would probably remain undisturbed.

He entered the room Turgon shared with his brother to find Annael working at a small table that had been set up near the window. Annael was frowning in concentration as he wound thread about the fletching on an arrow that was still without its point. Dropping his cloak next to Annael’s on Turgon’s bed, Legolas blinked at the shafts spread out on the table and then picked one up to inspect it more closely.

Like everyone else they knew, Legolas, Annael, and Turgon had made arrows for their own use from the time they first picked up a bow, but none of them had ever done the whole task himself and none of them had ever painted crests on their arrows before. Given that the practical function of a crest was to allow an arrow’s owner to identify it among many others, they had never needed to use one because they had used arrows from the armory when in class and had used their own only when hunting with one another or their fathers. They were marking their arrows now because, for the first time, Penntalion had instructed them to bring arrows of their own making to class.

The crest that Legolas was using was a simple, elegant pattern of colored lines that he had designed with the help of his father. In contrast, the arrow he held in his hand was a riot of colors that twined around the shaft in an intricate series of spirals. Legolas had never seen anything like it.

He looked up to find Turgon watching him with his lower lip caught in his teeth. “Did you do this, Turgon?”

His friend nodded stiffly. “My adar helped me.”

Legolas looked at the shaft again. “It is beautiful.” Suddenly, he could feel himself starting to grin. “And there will be no doubt at all that these arrows are yours. They could belong to no-one else.”

Turgon’s posture relaxed a little. Legolas turned the arrow to look at the newly cut nock and his grin faded. The cut was off center and not oriented properly against the grain of the wood. “My adar is busy now,” Turgon said, still watching him, “so I made the nocks by myself. I just did them today. I have to hurry, or I will never finish.”

Legolas turned to exchange a look with Annael. The arrow Annael was working on was the first one to be fletched, a fussy, time-consuming task with which Legolas’s father or brothers always helped him. And after that, all the points would have to be attached. He did not see how Turgon could possibly have a dozen arrows finished before they left on their camping trip the next day. “Do you always fletch your arrows by yourself?” Legolas asked seating himself at the table.

Turgon shook his head. “Amelas used to help me, but he left.”

Wishing for some adult’s help now, Legolas began the tricky business of placing, gluing, and then tying feathers along the shaft. He knew who Amelas was. He had lived in the cottage on the other side of this one from the wounded raft elf. He was one of Thranduil’s couriers who had taken a message to the Havens and been caught by the sea longing. He had come home only to carry the return message to Thranduil and then bid his friends farewell and depart again, and his cottage now stood empty. Someone would move in eventually, or the neighbors would pull it down so the forest could grow there again, but no one had had the heart to do either thing yet.

Legolas could not imagine what it would be like to be drawn inexorably away from the woods. He was curious about the far-away places of Middle-earth that he had read about with his tutor, and he hoped to see them someday, but he would never want to live where there were no trees. The world must surely seem flat and lifeless without their constant whispering presence.

For a while, the three of them struggled with feathers, glue, and thread. Legolas was just peeling off a feather that had somehow become glued to one of his fingers when the cottage door opened and slammed shut again and quick footsteps came running down the hall. “No,” Turgon moaned, hastily sweeping his arrows toward the edge of the table that was against the wall, dislodging at least one feather in the process. The door to his room burst open, and his little brother, Amdir, came running into the room.

“Turgon!” he cried in gleeful greeting. He ran up to the table, peered over the edge, and then put a chubby hand up to grasp at a brightly painted arrow.

“No!” Turgon exclaimed, grabbing his wrist. “Naneth!” he shouted. “Naneth! Come and get him.” Legolas jumped up from his chair to rescue arrows, and across from him, Annael did the same. Legolas had seen Amdir’s arrival produce this kind of chaos before, but he could not help being appalled by it.

Turgon’s mother appeared in the doorway. She smiled vaguely at Legolas and Annael and said, “Come, my sweet,” to Amdir, who ignored her.

Turgon grasped his little brother by the waist and half-dragged, half-carried him from the room, protesting loudly all the way. Another door opened. “What is all this noise? How am I supposed to work?” came the voice of Turgon’s father. Legolas looked at Annael, who looked back with an anxiously puckered brow.

Turgon’s father appeared in the doorway next to his mother. He frowned at them. “All of you go outside and play,” he directed. “Take Amdir with you.”

“I have to finish my arrows, Adar,” Turgon protested over the sound of Amdir’s wails.

His father looked at the jumble on the table and made an exasperated noise. “Very well. I will go and work in the woods. That will be better anyway.” He stalked off, and the front door opened and shut yet again.

Turgon’s mother took Amdir from him. “Come, my sweet,” she soothed him. “There is bread and honey in the kitchen.” His protests softened to weak cries that seemed more a formality than anything else, and she hauled him away.

Turgon came back into the room and slumped in his chair. The three of them sat in silence for a moment. “Turgon,” ventured Annael, “I am sorry, but I have to go home now. I am not supposed to be late for our evening meal.”

Legolas started as he realized that Annael was right; it had grown late. Turgon poked at the unfinished arrows. “I suppose I can always use the armory arrows,” he said gloomily. “Penntalion said we could do that if we needed to.” The archery master had indeed said that, but his tone had been cool when he said it. Learning to make arrows was part of learning to be an archer.

Legolas grimaced and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Perhaps we can work on them again after the camping trip,” he offered. “We might not need them right away.” Turgon nodded, but he did not look particularly hopeful.

Annael picked up his cloak and handed Legolas’s to him. “We will see you in the morning,” Annael said, and he and Legolas left Turgon seated at the little table and let themselves out of the cottage, which was now quiet again. They paused outside the door and looked at one another. Legolas did not want to say that he felt sorry for Turgon, although he did. Saying it somehow sounded insulting. In silent accord, they began walking along the path, until they reached the place where Annael would turn off.

“I will see you in the morning,” he said and struck off for his own home, while Legolas walked the rest of the way to the palace.

As soon as he went through the Great Doors, he could see that something was afoot. Tables were being set up in the Great Hall, and servants were rushing about, looking harassed. His interest quickened. Some sort of unexpected feast was apparently going to take place, and the most likely explanation was that visitors had arrived.

“Has someone come?” he asked the guard at the doors to the Hall.

The guard nodded. “Mithrandir is here, and the sons of Elrond were with him.”

Legolas’s interest turned immediately to excitement. He had heard wonderful stories about Mithrandir, but he had never met him, at least not that he remembered. And he had heard equally wonderful stories about Imladris and its master. Glorfindel lived in Imladris! Elrond’s sons would be able to tell him about the Balrog slayer, whom they knew first hand. His father did not usually allow him to attend formal feast, saying he was too young and the ceremonies ran too late, but perhaps Legolas could talk him into making an exception this time.

He hurried into the family quarters and met Eilian coming down the hall toward him. “There you are, brat,” Eilian said. “I am sure you will be pleased to hear that I am going to help you finish your arrows tonight, while everyone else goes to the boring old feast.” Legolas stopped dead. He had forgotten about the arrows. Reluctantly, he concluded that he would need to surrender any idea of going to the feast.

“Come,” said Eilian and led him to the sitting room, where the table with the arrow-making supplies still stood. “We can finish the arrows and then get the kitchen to send up the best of the food for the feast.”

Legolas took his place at the table and Eilian sat down too. The only thing that remained to be done to his arrows was the attaching a few more points. “The guard said that Mithrandir and the sons of Elrond were here,” he said. “Do you think they will still be here when I get back from the camping trip?”

Eilian shrugged. “I do not know. One never can predict what Mithrandir will do, and I have never met Elrond’s sons.”

“Have you met Elrond?”

“No. Galeril once made me make a chart of his family ties. I believe he was punishing me for being difficult at lessons.” He grinned at Legolas. Galeril had been Eilian’s tutor before he was Legolas’s. “Ithilden met them all, of course, when he went to Imladris with Adar.”

“I would like to see Imladris,” Legolas said.

Eilian shrugged again. “It sounds rather boring to me. I would like to meet Glorfindel, but I think that everyone should come to the Woodland Realm.” He grinned again, but Legolas rather suspected he was only half joking. Eilian liked excitement, but he tended to see most other places in Arda as irrelevant to his concerns.

Legolas picked up one of the arrows, admiring again the dark blue peacock wing feathers that formed the fletching. “Where did you get these, Eilian?”

Eilian laughed. “I won them in a wager on a horse race, I am afraid. Do not tell Adar please. He has strongly suggested that I am too ready to place a bet and that I should mend my ways.” He winked at Legolas, who smiled back but squirmed a little at his brother’s dismissive attitude toward their father’s anger. Then he settled down to finish his arrows, with Eilian letting him do most of it himself and stepping in only when Legolas asked him for help. Legolas thought of the scene in Turgon’s cottage and was deeply grateful for his own family, troublesome though they sometimes were.

AN: In constructing this story, I am drawing on The Peoples of Middle-Earth, Vol. XII of HoMe. In that version of the Tale of Years, the account of the battle with the Balchoth in 2510 contains this information: “Elladan and Elrohir rode also in that battle. From that time forth the brethren never cease from war with the Orcs because of Celebrían.”

Thank you to everyone who is reading this story and especially to those who reviewed it. I always fear that people will grow tired of these stories, so I’m grateful to anyone who stays with them.