As usual, I owe Nilmandra a great deal for her patient, provocative help as my beta.

***

3. Learning from One Another

“My lord, two Men from Esgaroth are here to see you,” Ithilden’s aide said from the doorway.

“Send them in.” Ithilden set his pen down and rose to greet the two Men who now entered his office. The one in the lead held himself erect and met Ithilden’s gaze, but the other, who walked with a pronounced limp, scanned the room cautiously.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” the leader said smoothly, bowing as he spoke. Ithilden had never met him but years in his father’s court allowed him to recognize the type instantly: The Man could only be some sort of important advisor to Esgaroth’s master. His companion with the limp was presumably his guard, a soldier too badly injured to go back to the war, Ithilden guessed. “My name is Caridd, and this is Tiran.” He indicated his companion, who also bowed. “We have come at your invitation to confer on behalf of the Town Master.”

Ithilden held Caridd’s gaze just long enough that the Man shifted his eyes away, and then, satisfied, he gestured an invitation for his visitors to take the chairs in front of his desk while he settled himself behind it. He had found from experience that Men were often uncomfortable when meeting an Elf’s eyes, and he was usually careful to avoid prolonged eye contact, but Caridd’s use of the word “invitation” had led him to think that a little intimidation was called for. Invitation indeed! He had worded his message to the master to make it clear that he expected someone to hasten to him immediately.

He got right to the point. “What progress has been made on finding the Man who shot at one of our rafts?”

“I believe you know Beam?” Caridd said, and Ithilden nodded. He did know the master’s son who was also a captain among the town’s soldiers. “The master has put him in charge of the search,” Caridd said.

Ithilden considered that information. He had a great deal of respect for Beam, having seen him in action on one occasion when the Elves had chased Orcs from the forest to meet a troop of Men coming in the other direction. The result had been most satisfying, as Ithilden recalled. “What has Beam found?”

“As your own people probably told you, the attacker went toward Esgaroth, but unfortunately, his trail disappeared among many others going in and out of the town. Beam is talking to some of the less desirable element to see if any of them know who might have shot at the raft.”

Ithilden leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips together and letting his eyes rove from Caridd to Tiran and back again. “In other words, he has learned nothing,” he said flatly.

“Not yet,” Caridd conceded.

Ithilden raised an eyebrow. “I could always send someone to help Beam,” he said coolly, watching as they both flinched slightly. “Indeed,” he added, with secret glee, “I could go myself, if it proved necessary.”

“There is no need for that, my lord,” Caridd said hastily. “Indeed, I believe we will get better information on our own.”

“Do you? I have sometimes found that Men respond well when I question them.” Ithilden was busy and did not really want to go to Esgaroth, but he did want the Men to know that he would do it if he had to.

Caridd began to speak, stopped himself, and then smiled slightly, with his gaze on Ithilden’s face. “I can well believe that, my lord, but I think that Beam has good sources and it would be wise to let him learn what he can from them without interference.”

“Very well,” Ithilden conceded, satisfied that Caridd understood the message he had sent as to how seriously the Elves took the incident with the raft. He decided to take advantage of the Men’s presence to raise the other topic in which he was interested. “Has the Master given thought to who will guard Esgaroth’s part of the river?”

Caridd grimaced. “We tell you truly when we say that we cannot spare the soldiers to do it, my lord. Our forces are stretched thin as they are.” Seated next to Caridd, Tiran tensed slightly, and Ithilden concluded he had been correct in assuming that the man had been wounded and sent home from the troops that were guarding the southern edges of Esgaroth’s territory. “If you wish to have some of your warriors guard our part of the river, I think the master would allow it.”

Ithilden hid his frustration. He was beginning to think he would have to do as Caridd suggested, although he had few enough warriors and the change would violate the terms of the agreement between the Elves and the Men. “I will speak to the king about extending our guards’ responsibilities,” he conceded. “He will undoubtedly want to negotiate with the town’s master about increasing the river tolls.”

Caridd frowned, although given that he was evidently an experienced advisor, he could hardly have expected Thranduil to give in on some of their terms of agreement without expecting concessions elsewhere. “I do not know how the master will respond to that.”

Assuming that the protest was simply for show, Ithilden shrugged. His father would deal with the town’s master, and Ithilden had no doubt that Thranduil would see to it that he at least had the means to buy more weapons to equip the warriors he would need to send.

“My lord?”

Ithilden looked up to find his aide in the doorway again. “Yes?”

“The king has sent an invitation for your visitors to be his guests at tonight’s feast and offers them his hospitality overnight as well,” said the aide. Ithilden glanced at the Men with one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

“The king is most gracious, and we accept his invitation with thanks,” said Caridd. Tiran looked at him from the corner of his eye but said nothing. If he had been with Esgaroth’s soldiers, he had probably not been to Thranduil’s stronghold before and was speculating on how he was to fulfill his responsibility for Caridd’s safety. Ithilden rose, and the Men rose too.

“My aide will escort you to the palace,” Ithilden said. He looked at the aide. “See to it that they are lodged next to one another, Calith.” The set of Tiran’s shoulders eased a little, as the aide nodded and gestured for the Men to accompany him. Ithilden sat down to finish reading the reports from his various captains, but it was not long before he followed the Men to the palace. He needed to bathe and change his clothes before the feast, and before he did that, he wanted to speak to Thranduil to see if Mithrandir or the sons of Elrond had brought news he should hear about.

***

Thranduil swept into the Great Hall, where his guests and many of his people were already assembled to dine together and celebrate the visitors in their midst.  The low murmur of many voices that he had heard from the antechamber ceased, and people bowed as he strode the length of the Hall to take his place in the center of the high table between Elladan and Mithrandir. Elladan wore formal robes and a circlet, as did his twin, who stood on Mithrandir’s left. Ithilden too was formally dressed and stood next to Elladan, with the Mannish advisor, Caridd, further to his right.

Thranduil picked up his goblet of wine and held it aloft. “Welcome, Mithrandir. Welcome, Elladan and Elrohir of Imladris. The stars shone upon us to mark your arrival. Welcome also to Caridd of Esgaroth.” He took a sip of his wine, as did everyone else in the Hall. He sat down and gestured for the minstrels to play and the servants to begin offering platters of food.

Thranduil turned to Mithrandir, who still wore his aged grey robes but who had at least brushed the worst of the dust of travel from them. Or more probably, Thranduil thought, one of the servants had taken the wizard in hand and dusted him down. “And where have you been since the last time you graced my halls, Mithrandir?”

Mithrandir shrugged. “Over most parts of the north, I think.” He paused as a servant put a helping of roast pheasant on his place, and Thranduil thought briefly of that last visit, which had taken place only two years after Lorellin had been killed. Thranduil seldom spoke of his loss to anyone, but Mithrandir had somehow become a welcome confidante, whose presence had been most comforting. “Is Eilian anywhere about?” Mithrandir asked. “And I believe your little one must be quite the young warrior by now.”

Thranduil smiled. “Not quite. Legolas is still too young for feasts like this one, and Eilian is helping him with a project he needs to finish before he leaves on a woodcraft training trip tomorrow.”

“I trust the child will be back before I leave,” Mithrandir said. “I would like to see him.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?” he asked a bit apprehensively. He was not sure that he welcomed Mithrandir’s interest in his youngest son. Mithrandir’s attention sometimes seemed to stem from premonitions that could bode ill for the one they concerned.

But Mithrandir simply smiled. “I am always interested in the next generation,” he said comfortably and turned his attention to his meal.

Thranduil ate some of the excellent pheasant, listening unobtrusively to Elladan, Ithilden, and Caridd talking on his right. “I am told that you and your brother have just come from the fighting in the south, my lord,” Caridd said to Elladan.

“We have,” Elladan agreed with well-mannered attentiveness. He and Elrohir were both quieter tonight than Thranduil remembered them being, but then, Thranduil could hardly blame Elrond’s sons for feeling out of place at a feast. Eilian had left the stronghold to return his patrol shortly after his mother’s death, and Legolas had been too small to go to feasts, although he had spent a goodly number of them huddled in his father’s lap nonetheless. But Ithilden had been determined to carry out his role as Thranduil’s heir and the commander of his troops and had therefore gone with grim determination to every ceremony where he might be expected.

Thranduil rather suspected that Ithilden’s presence had not always been welcome by those who wanted to forget sorrow for a while, and he knew that Ithilden had not always even registered what was happening around him, any more than Thranduil himself had. Now he recognized the way the sons of Elrond were holding themselves apart from those around them, almost as if they were puzzled by the way others could laugh and enjoy the small pleasures of music and good food, when they themselves were so devastated.

Caridd did not seem to notice any exceptional reserve on Elladan’s part, however. “Tell me how the battle went,” he urged. “Are the Balchoth really withdrawing?”

“They are,” Elladan answered and then gave the Man a succinct, careful analysis of what he had seen on the battlefield. Sitting between Elladan and Caridd, Ithilden listened intently, occasionally nodding his understanding or asking a question. Ithilden was an exacting commander when his own captains reported, but it seemed to Thranduil that he tried to curb his imperiousness with Elladan, whose report was well-given in any case. Glorfindel would have been Elladan’s commander, and Elrond’s sons were both, no doubt, well-trained.

“Do you think they are gone for good?” Caridd persisted. His concern over the Balchoth was natural, Thranduil supposed, given that the Balchoth had lived just south of Esgaroth’s territory and had driven any Men from that area north into the towns of Esgaroth and Dale. The war had been, after all, a war between Men for the most part, which made the twins’ involvement surprising when Thranduil thought of it. He saw Ithilden glance at Elladan and then frown slightly at Caridd. His son was apparently as aware as Thranduil was that Elladan was not fully himself.

But Elladan seemed serene enough under Caridd’s questioning. Thranduil noted with interest that he was easier even than Ithilden, who tended to be impatient with Men’s short-term thinking, which he saw as only too much in harmony with their short lives. Of course, Elrond had always had close relations with the Dúnedain, so his sons probably took the interests of Men to heart in the same way.

Thranduil peered into his goblet and swirled his wine. The words of the Wise told him that the Age of Elves would come to an end and the future of Arda would be in the hands of Men, a thought that occasionally filled him with despair. He was not hostile to Men, but he found them unreliable, and he was appalled by their callous treatment of one another and of Arda. He took a long drink of wine. The Age would do as it must, he thought grimly, but he would stay in these woods and fight Sauron for every inch of them if he had to.

Ithilden leaned across Elladan to speak to him. “My lord, would you mind if I invited Elladan and Elrohir to accompany me to my chamber and tell me more about the situation in the Misty Mountains?” Hearing his name, Elrohir turned to listen to the answer.

“Of course,” Thranduil said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He strongly suspected that Ithilden wanted to relieve the sons of Elrond of the duty of looking amiable at a feast, although there was no doubt that Ithilden would also want to know everything they could tell him about their encounters with the enemy. “You may go.”

Ithilden and the twins rose, bowed to Thranduil, and made their way from the Great Hall, drawing glances all the way to the door. As well they should, Thranduil thought, watching the three tall, strong figures disappear.

Thranduil glanced to his left again to see Mithrandir smiling at him. “Thranduil, have I told ever told you that you are sometimes a comfort to me?” Mithrandir asked.

Thranduil could not help laughing. “No, Mithrandir, I do not believe you have.” He offered the wizard more wine, which Mithrandir accepted, and then settled back to listen to the music.

***

Ithilden poured wine for Elladan and Elrohir, took some for himself, and settled into a chair in front of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated and then said, “My adar told me that your naneth had sailed. I am sorry.” It was easier to offer sympathy for Celebrían’s sailing than for what had happened to cause it.

Elladan’s jaw tightened and he continued to gaze into the fire, but Elrohir licked his lips and then bravely said, “Thank you. We are sorry about your naneth too, Ithilden.” He drew a deep breath. “Orcs are multiplying like cockroaches in the mountains,” he said bitterly, “and I know you have been battling them here since the Peace ended. We may not ever be able to wipe them out, but I assure you that Elladan, and I will be doing what we can.”

Ithilden glanced at him and inhaled sharply, for in this dark-headed figure before him, he suddenly saw Eilian in the months after their mother’s death. He remembered the heedless drive for vengeance that had made Eilian a deadly warrior who had come so near to getting himself killed that his captain had sent him home for Ithilden to deal with. “Battling the enemy is necessary,” he said slowly, “but I think that battling one’s guilt and grief is the more difficult thing.” Elrohir lowered his gaze to his wine. “If I had not had the support of my family,” Ithilden went on, “I do not know how I would ever have survived.”

The twins looked at one another, and the same faint smile appeared simultaneously on both handsome faces. “We are fortunate to have one another,” Elladan said.

Ithilden felt a sudden chill. He was not at all sure that these two identical, grieving warriors were wise supporters for one another just now. He tried to picture Eilian relying on someone like himself and had to swallow hard. “Your adar and sister will be looking for you,” he said.

“We cannot go home just yet,” Elrohir said. “Glorfindel has changed the way he deploys the patrols since you were in Imladris,” he said, firmly changing the subject to one that Ithilden had been interested in when he had gone to the White Council meeting with Thranduil.

Ithilden sighed and gave in, and they talked for a while about Imladris and then about the war between the Men of Gondor and the Balchoth, and the timely arrival of the Éothéod. Ithilden concentrated on learning what he could before Elladan rose, apologized, and took himself and his brother off to bed. Ithilden sat for a while longer, thinking about the past, and then shook himself and sought his own rest.

***

Eilian looked ahead to see the members of Legolas’s woodcraft class waiting in one corner of the training fields with their packs strewn on the ground around them. “Waiting” might be the wrong word, of course, given that two of them were slapping good-naturedly at one another’s hair, evidently trying to loosen each other’s braids, while the rest of the little group laughed and cheered. He glanced at Legolas. “Do you want me to leave you here?” he asked. When he had found his little brother this morning, Ithilden and Thranduil had both been hovering over him, intending to walk to the training fields with him.

“I do not need anyone to walk with me,” Legolas had finally protested. “I am not an elfling. And Adar, I do not want to hurt your feelings, but everyone gets all peculiar when you come.” Eilian had had to repress a grin. He remembered when he had first become self-conscious about his father being around his friends.

Thranduil must have remembered his experiences with his older sons too, because he had looked at Legolas resignedly and immediately yielded. “Very well, iôn-nín. I will say good-bye now then.” And he had pulled a grimacing Legolas into an embrace and kissed his forehead. “I would like to speak to you before you leave for your office, Ithilden,” Thranduil had said, turning determinedly from his youngest son to his oldest. “We need decide how to respond to the Men’s proposal that our troops guard the entire length of the river.”

For some reason that Eilian did not understand, Ithilden had, for a moment, looked vexed, but then he had recovered himself, bid good-bye to Legolas, and followed Thranduil into his office. “Do you mind if I walk with you, brat?” Eilian had asked tentatively. “I am going that way.”

“No,” Legolas had sighed. “Nobody is afraid of you.” Eilian had laughed and sauntered out into the glorious autumn morning at his little brother’s side.

Now, however, Eilian felt that he had to make the offer to let Legolas approach his friends alone. Eilian might not be the king or the troop commander, but he also did not want it to look as if Legolas’s family thought of him as an elfling. Legolas looked at him sidelong. “You do not have to leave. My friends like you, Eilian.”

Feeling absurdly warmed by the news that he was popular among the younglings, Eilian continued along the path until he and Legolas reached the little group at just about the same time that Sondil, the woodcraft master, did. As Legolas ran to join his friends, Eilian greeted Sondil.

“Are you the only one going with that lot?” Eilian asked, jerking his head toward the younglings, who, at the sight of Sondil, were shouldering their packs in preparation for setting off.

“Yes,” Sondil grinned. “We are staying close to the stronghold, and surely I can manage a half-dozen of them.”

Eilian laughed. “Better you than me,” he said. “Have a good time.” Sondil laughed too, having no trouble recognizing sarcasm when he heard it. Then he started toward the little group of younglings, who looked decidedly pleased to be setting off into the woods.

Eilian waved to Legolas and walked on toward the field where he planned to spend several hours engaged in sword work today. His leg was healing nicely, but he needed to work it if he expected the muscles to grow strong again. As he approached the field, he could see a small group of spectators watching a pair of warriors whom he did not recognize, dancing back and forth across the field, their swords flashing in the morning sun. As he looked from one of the combatants to the other, it suddenly dawned on him: These must be the twin sons of Elrond.

With his interest quickening, he leaned against the fence to watch as the sons of Elrond parried and struck at one another in what seemed to Eilian to be a controlled, graceful fury. The spectators occasionally cheered a particularly well-placed movement, but the brothers seemed not to notice, as all of their concentration was aimed at one another. As Eilian watched, one of them touched the other on the ribs with the tip of his sword, and they each pulled back for a second, but then, rather than stopping, they saluted one another and immediately began another bout.

“They waste movement,” said the warrior standing next to Eilian.

Eilian eyed the two battling warriors. He saw what the other warrior meant; the sons of Elrond tended to parry first and attack only when their defenses were assured. In contrast, most Wood-elves leapt to the attack, defending only when they had to and relying on quick, sure, powerful moves to finish off their foe rapidly and move on to the next one. Eilian’s own style was typical. It was decisive, sometimes bordering on impulsive according to the blade masters and captains whom he had occasionally exasperated over the years.

“They assume a more intelligent opponent than we usually have,” he answered the critical warrior. Eilian tingled with excitement as he suddenly guessed at who might have trained these two elegant, deadly-looking warriors. What if they had been trained by Glorfindel himself? Now there was someone who had fought enemies of every known kind! Perhaps Eilian was looking at the result of thousands of years of Noldor wit put to use in battle.

One of the brothers again touched the other with his sword, and by some unspoken understanding, this time they broke apart, stood panting for a moment, and then turned as one to seek the water bucket.

Eilian swung over the fence and walked toward them. In the act of passing the water dipper from one to the other, they looked up as he approached. He bowed with his hand over his heart. “I am Eilian Thranduilion,” he introduced himself and then grinned. “Is this a private party or may others participate?”

The two serious-faced warriors in front of him exchanged glance, and then the one on the left inclined his head slightly. “I am Elladan Elrondion, this is my brother, Elrohir. If you will allow us a few moments’ rest, perhaps we can try a bout.”

“I should not allow you too much rest,” Eilian said honestly. “You will beat me even without it. I can defeat any Orc I have ever met, as long as he does not have a dozen of his friends and relatives at his beck and call. But Orcs do not usually fight as well as you do.”

They eyed him thoughtfully. “Your brother tells us you captain the patrol in the southern part of these woods,” Elrohir said.

“I do.”

Elladan smiled wolfishly. “Then perhaps we have things to teach one another.” He tossed the dipper back into the bucket with a small splash. “Come,” he said and led Eilian back out onto the training field.