Many thanks to Redheredh for her kind help. 

A brief summary: By Midsummer 3019, Legolas’ wife received a letter from her husband where he said that he would be back home by narbeleth –Sindarin for autumn- before the old beech lost all her leaves. At Missumer Eve's festival, Thrnaduil's people struggle to recover from the effects of the Battle under the Trees and Legolas ponders the effects of his sea longing away in Minas Tirith.

A brief “who’s who”:  

Bôrgalas is Legolas’ eldest brother and Chief Commander of Thranduil’s army  

Mallereg is Bôrgalas’ eldest son.  

Borgil is Bôrgalas’ younger son. He was killed in the Battle beneath the Trees.  

Sûlgalen is Legolas and Laerîniel’s daughter. She lives in a settlement north from the stronghold.

Warning: Long chapter ahead

Chapter 4: Narbeleth

“Who goes there?”

The sun hid behind the eaves of Eryn Lasgalen turned orange by the first signs of Narbeleth, as an exhausted patrol made its way to the foresters’ camp beyond the line of King Thranduil’s army.

“Laerîniel! Good to have you home!” The elf on guard duty relaxed his stance and greeted them as soon as he recognized the call of their chief forester. 

“And it is even better to be back!” the princess answered back, leading the tired and bedraggled group into camp. “Is everybody else returned?” she inquired as they dismounted and stretched their numb limbs.

“All patrols are accounted for and ready to be tucked in, yours included!” the guard joked softly. “How did it go?”

“Bad enough,” one of the foresters complained. “It’s a shame the dwarves didn’t kill all when they burst out of their mountain, for they managed to ravage the forest as they fled, accursed orcs!”

“And what’s worst, the damage seems recent,” another informed. “I fear that there is a small band hiding in the Mountains and attacking from there. I don’t believe Mallereg’s patrols have reached this area yet!”

“You can go and ask them, Cûrion,” the guard smiled wryly. “The Prince stormed the camp and has closeted himself in Laerîniel’s tent short before your arrival, but his merry company is still at hand,” he said softly, pointing at the group of seven heavily armed and dangerous-looking warriors who usually escorted the prince standing by one of the closest fires, well apart from the rest of the encamped foresters. 

A chorus of groans arose from the tired foresters at the news. They noticed for the first time the unusual number of horses grazing in the small clearing by the river as they led their patient steeds to their well-earned rest.

“How did he find us? Has he said anything?” One of Laerîniel’s companions asked with concern.

“Not to me,” the guard answered with a wide grin. “Let me,” he offered, taking care of the princess’ horse.

“At least he cannot claim that we’re unprotected now!” another forester snorted, pointing at the stern warriors.

Laerîniel exhaled resignedly, patting her mare’s neck. The group of foresters under her command had been recurrently pushing the limits set by the crown prince for their activities. They were just returned from a four-day’s ride into a yet unsafe part of the forest and, in all truth, even their camp was so beyond the line that there was no way of explaining it. Other than deliberate disobedience, Laerîniel thought in dismay.

“I’ll go and inform him now,” she said unenthusiastically, putting her pack over her shoulder and waving to her fellow foresters.

“Good luck!” her companions joked as she shrugged tiredly and walked into the unusually quiet camp. She nodded briefly at her nephew’s escort and could not help the shiver down her spine as she considered their dour, bleak countenances. Mallereg and his troops had been fighting incessantly since March, she had to remind herself, and that was a grim occupation for an elf.

A string of curses in a muffled voice greeted her even before she pulled the flap of her tent open. She sighed and braced for the predictable argument, and stepped in with resolve. She left her pack on the makeshift table and walked to the sleeping area.

“Good to see you, Mallereg, please make yourself comfortable, don’t let me interrupt you,” she offered amusedly as she pulled back the woollen curtain that gave some privacy to that part of the tent.

Three faces turned to look up at her while she took in the stained bandages scattered on the ground among discarded clothing and weapons. Her nephew was half-sitting upon her cot, supported - or rather restrained - by Thalaûr, his guard and one of Bôrgalas’ best friends, while Maegolf, the most qualified healer in camp, tried to clean one of the many cuts on Mallereg’s chest.

“I apologize for invading your tent Laerîniel.” The prince offered her one of his charming smiles, pretending a lightness betrayed by his pale face, the dark circles around his eyes and the painful appearance of a nasty, dirty gash that ran along the outer side of his left thigh. His chest and arms were covered in bruises and half-healed wounds and his golden mane was matted and bloodstained. “I’ll clear out as soon as your apprentice healer here finishes torturing me without purpose,” he weakly joked while struggling to free himself from his guard’s firm grasp.

“This gash needs being disinfected and re-stitched, my lady,” the foresters’ healer informed in a slightly annoyed voice, pointing at the prince’s leg.

“It is healing well...”

“Mallereg…” Her voice held a tinge of warning.

“My healer -and he is a true healer- stitched it and said it would heal soon!”

Laerîniel caught Thalaûr’s silent plea and shook her head in annoyance. Crouching beside the healer, she probed the reddened, warm skin, heedless of her nephew’s exasperated groans.

“Well, it is clear to me that this is infected and needs treatment,” she pronounced with cynical humour, “so you better lie down and allow Maegolf do his job while I go find some hot water so you can get rid of all that grime.”

“Laerîniel…”

“Do not “Laerîniel” me, Mallereg!” she straightened up, her hands on her hips, glaring at the stubborn elf. “This is my tent, this is my camp and you are my nephew, so you better do as I tell you, do I make myself clear?” She held his grey, pained gaze until he gave in and relaxed, allowing his guard to lay him back on the cot.

“I’ll be deeply indebted with you, Aunt, if you actually managed to provide me with something resembling a warm bath,” the tired elf mumbled, eyes closed. “This is your camp, after all…”

“I’ll go and see what I can do,” she smiled, pressing comfortingly on her nephew’s shoulder and nodding silently at Thalaûr’s grateful, relieved look.

***

“Maegolf stitched the wound and we got him cleaned up. He’s running a mild fever, but Maegolf says it is of little importance. We managed to pour some broth inside the mulish elf and now he’s resting peacefully under Maegolf’s vigilance. The three of us are heavily indebted with you, Laerîniel.” Thalaûr had just joined her by one of the fires, once he was completely sure that his charge was properly cared for.

“You look better too,” she observed seriously, handing him a bowl of stew. She then pointed at a more private area of the camp, away from curious ears, and the guard the guard followed her expectantly.

“What happened?” she demanded brusquely, even before he could sit on a heavy log and try his meal.

“What happened? We are at war, Laerîniel!”

She glowered at him. “He’s exhausted and covered in wounds, Thalaûr. How did you let him come to such a pitiful condition?”

The sudden, feral gleam that blazed in the guard’s eyes belied his name*, yet he took the time to savour a spoonful of stew before answering such a provoking question.

“Forgive me, Thalaûr; I know that you care deeply for him.” She sat down on another log opposite the elder elf, looking at him worriedly. “But I was shaken to see him in such bad shape…”

“Most are old injuries, Laerîniel, yet he won’t allow them to heal properly. Believe me,” he complained exasperatedly, “everyday I fight the urge to knock him senseless and carry him home!”

“Bôrgalas and Luinil would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

“And he would never forgive me. He’s the Field Commander, and if he decides that his injuries are not incapacitating then I will remain by his side!”

“Until he falls from his mount and breaks his neck?”

“Or until his aunt gives him a proper scolding.” He laughed loudly at her scowl and went back to eating hungrily. “Tell me, how are things at home? How’s Bôrgalas recovering?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“Oh… well, you know how he is. He isn’t grieving openly, yet he’s not been himself of late. He has had a couple of loud arguments with the King –I believe that he needed some time away,” she explained at Thalaûr’s quizzical glance, “but Thranduil insisted he remain by Luinil’s side. They argued fiercely past Midsummer because Bôrgalas wanted to go to Dale and Erebor with Lord Celeborn’s messenger, to start negotiating the hunting and timbering rates for this winter, and the King would not allow it.”

“But I heard that he’s presently busy in the northern marches...”

“Yes, he’s in charge, after all, but I haven’t seen him lately. Last time I was on leave I went to visit Sûlgalen and was told that he was in the stronghold. When did you last see him?” she asked with curiosity.  

“Oh,” Thalaûr made a vague gesture with his head while eagerly scrapping the bottom of the bowl. “After the New Year, when we escorted Thranduil back. We haven’t been home since then, Laerîniel,” he explained in turn, “didn’t you know?”

“I assumed that our leaves were never at the same time!” She was aghast at the news. “Why?”

“We have been busy enough,” the guard shrugged, putting down the bowl with a satisfied sigh. “Besides, Mallereg has been avoiding his adar. Both of them have been hiding from each other, I suppose.” Laerîniel nodded in understanding.

“Does Mallereg blame himself?” she asked softly. The battle that had claimed Borgil and about two thirds of the Home Guard’s lives was a painful memory and she feared that the sorrow was still too raw to allow healing.

“He will not speak of it and I do not press him. There was no one at fault there, but that doesn’t help ease the pain,” Thalaûr explained thoughtfully. “Yet I am afraid that he’s carrying this too far. Bôrgalas has asked him twice to report to him personally and he has managed to evade it until now. He’s bordering open insubordination, and I don’t know what may happen when a direct summons arrives…”

“And that’s why you brought him here in such a wretched state, so that his aunt would scold him back home?” Laerîniel could not help feeling slightly amused by the thought.

“He brought us here out of panic for your safety, despite the excruciating pain in his leg,” was the sharp answer -and Laerîniel froze at the harsh tone in the guard’s voice. “As far as I know, Bôrgalas ordered you to remain “behind Mallereg’s line”, Laerîniel, which is quite vague, I’ll give you that, but this has gone too far!” he reproached her sternly. “Three days south-west from here we ran into an organized party of orcs coming from this side of the forest! I need not tell you how fast and hard we’ve been riding since we dispatched them and Mallereg was barely able to hold himself upon his horse! You are risking your foresters’ lives needlessly!”

“This is not a military unit, Thalaûr.” His last statement offended her. “We all discuss our options and make choices together, and I assume the responsibility when the Crown Prince’s commands are not carried on, yet I answer only to the Warden, as you well know!” She stood up angrily, glaring at the guard. “We are the only foresters left to care for this forest while the rest are busy protecting the wildlife and providing food for our people! Rest assured that we will not sit back in fear behind your line while the trees die!”

“I know,” Thalaûr raised his hands, trying to appease the outraged princess. “And Mallereg knows, too, and that’s another cause for contention between him and his father; for he has knowingly let you and your foresters wander off limits while detaching a number of warriors from our patrols to keep an eye on you! You must be more careful, Laerîniel, for the troops’ safety as much as for your foresters’!” he reminded her softly.

“I wondered how you managed to find us here,” she mused. She had never thought that her nephew would be aware of her exact movements.

“We always keep track of your position; you did not believe that he would let you out here alone, did you? Think of him, Laerîniel, how he would feel if something happened to you while you were supposed to be under his protection, safely behind his line!”

“I didn’t know that I was endangering his troops with my recklessness,” she admitted softly, her voice laden with remorse. She moved to sit on the log beside the elder elf.

“Well, now you do. We all do what we can and he’s very cautious not to put his warriors in unnecessary peril, but he needs your help in that,” Thalaûr said gently, placing a reassuring arm across her slumped shoulders. “I heard that your adar agreed to return to the King’s service...” He changed the subject tactfully, seeing that his lecture had met its intended target.

“Yes,” she smiled weakly. “Although it took the King’s personal encouragement.”

“Did Thranduil go to visit him?”

“Not exactly,” she snorted at the very idea. “He travelled north to oversee the temporary settlements and my father happened to be there helping Sûlgalen...”

“It would be a welcome surprise if the King visited us, too,” the guard pondered, letting his gaze wander over the camp. “We are slowly turning into the enemy, it would seem.”

“Do not say such things!” she protested, following his stare. Her foresters were huddled together around fires, joking, telling tales, singing softly and sharing their meals. Mallereg’s guards, though, kept to themselves at a separate fire, silent, stern, alert and alone. “We all know what we owe you.”

“It would help to be reminded of it from time to time,” Thalaûr observed, standing up and tiredly stretching his long limbs. “At times even I fear that there’s no other, brighter life waiting for me.”

“Oh, but there is, Thalaûr, your wife and your daughters and your grandchildren are waiting for you. Oh! And your son-in-law!” she added playfully.

“Now you make me wish that this was my only life!” he bemoaned. Much to the amusement of Thalaûr’s friends, his eldest daughter had married a healer whose views on life were blatantly opposite to his father–in-law’s.

“Come, I’ve had another cot placed in my tent. You can sleep there and Maegolf shall awake you if Mallereg becomes too restless.” She bossily pushed the exhausted elf before her and towards her own tent.

“I’ll go and tell them to find some rest, first…”

“I’ll take care of your warriors, Thalaûr, this is my camp…

“I’d love to see their faces,” he laughed, holding her briefly. “Thanks, Laerîniel, for everything,” he whispered, opening the flap and entering her tent quietly. She walked then to the most distant -and subdued- fire in camp.

“Lord Mallereg is sleeping peacefully and Thalaûr shall soon be.” Laerîniel waved the prince’s guards to remain seated while she spoke. “I have ordered a tent readied for you and our guards are on their posts,” she said. “Will you allow the foresters to keep the Prince’s warriors for just one night?”

The guards exchanged wary looks among themselves, surprise and anticipation showing on some of their fatigued faces.

“With pleasure, Lady Laerîniel.” Brûnech, the captain of the prince’s guard, stood and bowed before her. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

“It is the least we can do for those who are protecting us, my friends. Go find your rest and let the trees sing you into untroubled sleep tonight,” she smiled, returning the bow and pointing to the only other tent in camp.

After that, she walked to the place where her pack had been placed beside a young birch and with a drained sigh, she took away her cloak and stretched comfortably under the woollen cover, allowing the weak yet comforting voice of the recovering tree lull her into a much needed sleep.

***

“Laerîniel, wake up!”

“What’s the matter?”

“A messenger has arrived!”

She sat up quickly at that and looked around, fully alert. A cold, misty morning was spreading around the camp and one of her fellow foresters crouched by her side with a warm infusion in his hand.

“He’s busy now,” he said with an amused smile, pointing at a several foresters harassing a somewhat bewildered-looking elf wearing the king’s device.

“He’s Geldoron, isn’t he?” she asked in wonder, leaning on the tree that had sheltered her that night while accepting the drink and wondering what was one of the camath-en-aran, the king’s special envoys, doing there, delivering messages to the foresters.

“Himself,” the forester confirmed. “And he seemed a bit put off. He said he had been tracking us for many days!” The forester winked at her, apparently more pleased than worried by the fact.

“Let him fume!” Laerîniel laughed, finishing her drink and patting the birch’s slender trunk gratefully before walking down to the river. She took her time to put on a respectable appearance while considering the presence of such envoy in her camp. The King’s camath were a small group of Thranduil’s most trusted friends, - proven warriors and knowledgeable elves who carried out different missions in the King’s name and reported only to him. Having one of them around always meant that important matters were in motion, Laerîniel mused as she returned to camp at a composed pace.

“Morning, Geldoron, and welcome to our humble encampment!” she offered courteously but with a mischievous glint in her eyes at the disapproving frown on the messenger’s face.

“I’ve been tracking you for almost a week, Laerîniel; you have that rare ability of never being found where you’re expected,” he began without preamble. “This was supposed to be somewhat urgent,” he added, plainly annoyed that his errand had not been fulfilled with the customary efficiency.

“Well, we’re doing our job… ”

“I wouldn’t say that this is what Bôrgalas meant when he ordered you to remain behind Mallereg’s lines, though,” the royal messenger retorted sternly, handing her a folded parchment that bore the seal of the crown prince.

“Oh, but that’s just exactly where we are now,” she teased him merrily, tearing the seal open and letting escape a soft cry of deep joy as a reddish beech leaf fell upon her hand. “Come home” the parchment read in Bôrgalas’ neat, firm handwriting. “A week, now?” she wondered aloud, caressing the leaf distractedly.

“More or less. But the Prince knows his duty, Laerîniel, he sent it as soon as the old beech lost her first leaves, you still have plenty of time,” Geldoron told her with an understanding smile. “Now, tell me; what is Mallereg doing here?” he asked, nodding towards some of the prince’s guards who were helping the busy foresters with their morning chores.

She looked up at him and her eyes narrowed slightly in a conniving way.

“Come,” she said. “And I’ll explain it all to you…”

****

“Morning Laerîniel, you’re just in the nick of time, he’s already pestering Maegolf –Geldoron! What are you doing here?” Thalaûr raised his brows in surprise at the sight of one of the camath-en-aran following the princess inside the tent.

“Morning, Thalaûr,” the messenger answered brusquely, “I understand that Mallereg is here.”

“He is, but…”

“I’ve already told him, Thalaûr, but he won’t listen!” Laerîniel declared.

“Laerîniel…”

“I don’t care if it is the King who summons him,” she raised her voice in an outraged cry. “Lord Mallereg is wounded and he won’t be travelling anytime soon, Geldoron, you can tell the King that!”

“Peace, Laerîniel…” 

“Geldoron! It is good to see you… so far from home.” A faint voice interrupted them and they all turned to see Mallereg limping out of the sleeping area, supported by a resigned-looking Maegolf.

“Good day, my lord,” the king’s envoy bowed curtly. “And a nice surprise to see that you’re still in one piece. My congratulations, Thalaûr,” he added with an ironic nod.

“To the point, Geldoron, what business brings you here?” Mistaking the looks that passed between the messenger and Laerîniel, Mallereg groaned impatiently. “I’ve already heard you all.” He glanced from one to another. ”The King is summoning me,” he stated, and there was the slightest undertone of trepidation in his weakened voice.

“I’ve explained to him that you are wounded,” Laerîniel stated firmly, looking pointedly at Geldoron.

“I appreciate your concern, Aunt,” the stubborn prince smiled briefly at her, “but I do not intend to defy the King’s orders.”

“Mallereg, you’re in no condition to travel and...”  She said, turning to the prince.

“Well, I travelled here, didn’t I?” he retorted with dry humour. “And I was in worse condition, if I am to believe your healer here.” Mallereg turned then to the King’s messenger. “Tell the King that I shall be attending his summons, Geldoron,” he said, ignoring Thalaûr’s exasperated groan. “I’ll be departing tomorrow, by midday?” He cast a cautious, questioning glance to his aunt, who gave in with showy reluctance.

“It is your decision, my lord,” Laerîniel shrugged as she exhaled a suffering sigh.

“You can rest here while Laerîniel finds you a fresh horse, Geldoron. It is her camp, didn’t you know?” the irrepressible elf could not help joking. “Or you can travel back with us tomorrow.”

“I’ll rather depart as soon as I may. By your leave, my lord, and have a safe return.” The cam-en-aran bowed before the prince and nodded to the rest.

“You go back to bed and make sure that you do not put weight upon that leg!” Laerîniel pointed a menacing finger towards her unruly nephew before following the messenger outside.

“Geldoron, wait!  He turned to meet her with a questioning glance.

“I want to talk to Mallereg’s guard,” he informed her, “and instruct them about the safest route. Then I shall accept that fresh horse.”

“I’ll arrange that. Join me when you’re ready,” she nodded. “But first I wanted to thank you for going along with this,” she said with a shy smile.

“His naneth longs to see him,” the cam-en-aran nodded towards the tent with a concerned look on his face, “and because of that I was ready to drag him home by his braid as soon as I learned that he was here. But I’m glad that you thought of this little trick instead, Laerîniel,” he said gratefully.

Reassured that she had done the right thing, Laerîniel parted with the king’s envoy and went in search of the forester in charge of their horses, allowing anticipation to fill her as she considered the number of things that she needed to oversee before departing next day.

She met then with the leaders of the rest of the patrols under a relatively unscathed oak, to discuss the state of the areas each had searched the previous days and to plan their course of action in her absence.

“Stop fretting about our safety, Laerîniel, we can always ask the Prince for support, now that he knows where we are,” one joked and the rest snorted as they concluded their reports. “What did he have to say about our location?”

“Not much,” she winced slightly recalling her conversation with Thalaûr the previous night. “The King has summoned Mallereg, so I suppose that his escort will ride back with us,” she told them.

“I won’t say that we’re going to miss them,” they all laughed at that.

“The south-east is charred but not too seriously damaged,” Laerîniel concluded the conversation as she saw Geldoron striding towards the clearing where they kept their horses. “Meet with Cúrion and show him your draft of the western area. We’ll make decisions over it later,” she suggested, leaving hurriedly to catch up with the king’s messenger.

“We’re only a three or four days’ ride from the stronghold, Laerîniel, two in my case, so I won’t need this,” Geldoron offered her a parcel containing some supplies. “I’ve informed Brûnech that you are travelling tomorrow, and I suggested that you take the north-eastern way from here,” he stopped her protests with a raised hand. “You’ll need to travel slowly due to Mallereg’s wound, but the outposts of the Home Guard are about two days from here in that direction and I’ll send word of your journey  – what? You thought you were the only one who was stretching the limits set by the Crown Prince?” he asked with an amused smile at the surprised look in her face.

“Why in such hurry to leave us, Geldoron?” Thalaûr’s voice could not hide a touch of suspicion as he joined them.

“I’ve completed my task and delivered my message to the lady, so I see no reason to remain in this bleak place for longer than needed,” the messenger joked, patting the neck of the chestnut mare a forester had just brought. “Besides,” he kept on with a twisted grin, mounting the fresh steed, “I must inform Thranduil that he has just summoned his Field Commander home. It was her idea, but I agreed,” he added hurriedly, seeing the frown and the glare in the guard’s face directed towards the princess. “You know that I have the authority to proceed thusly,” the cam-en-aran stated severely, “so do not force me to command you, Thalaûr." They locked eyes for a brief moment.

“You’ll pay for this, Geldoron,” Thalaûr grunted in a not wholly unfriendly manner. “And I would not like to be in your hide,” he turned then to include the princess in his warning, “if Mallereg ever hears of this…” he said menacingly.

“Carry the boy home safely and I’ll take care of the rest, my friend,” Geldoron leaned down to pat Thalaûr’s shoulder. “You, too, need a well-earned respite.”  With a brief, encouraging smile towards Laerîniel he urged his horse and rode away.

“I suppose that you have many things to arrange before departing,” Thalaûr said in a neutral tone, pointing at the parchment that she held open in her hand, while they watched Geldoron disappear amidst the scrubby foliage.

“Thalaûr let me explain…”

“I understand, Laerîniel,” the guard cut off her explanation with a wave of his hand. “But do not ask me to agree. I’ll take it as an aunt’s privilege.” He offered peace with a soft smile and she returned the gesture gladly, nodding to the faithful, understanding guard before returning to where her foresters debated their next steps.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. The western patrol had identified an area where the surviving trees seemed to have been infected by an aggressive fungus that was spreading quickly among the weakened flora and they spent some time discussing the appropriate measures. Food was also a problem, as their provisions were dwindling at an alarming speed, and there was little chance of finding a stable source of supplies in that devastated area, Laerîniel had to recognize, as she and two other foresters returned to camp at sunset, after a short, unsuccessful foray.

“The Prince wanted to see you, Laerîniel,” Maegolf approached her as she warmed her hands in one of the fires. “He’s not worse,” he said, anticipating her question. “The wound is painful, but he won’t let it show,” he added resignedly.

Why doesn’t that surprise me? She wondered. “Have some of that broth sent to him, Maegolf, please,” she begged, nodding towards where that night’s stew was exhaling a tempting aroma. “I’m sure that the Prince could do with a warm meal for a change,” she added, before walking to her tent.

“Laerîniel! Please, come in!” Mallereg’s voice sounded firmer as he greeted her. He was sitting upon a tree stump at her makeshift desk, his long legs uncomfortably spread under the unstable board. Before him, Thalaûr and Brûnech studied a sheaf of crumpled, stained parchments with a worried look on their stern faces.

“Make yourself comfortable, Aunt,” the prince waved at her gracefully. “I apologize for this mess –we were discussing tomorrow’s route. I understand that you’re coming, too.”

“Yes, I am!” She could not conceal the eagerness in her voice. “Legolas promised to be back by Narbeleth…”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the prince nodded coldly. “It is up to you, Brûnech,” he addressed then the captain, disregarding the astonished, infuriated look on her face at his apparent lack of interest.

“It is settled then; we shall follow Geldoron’s advice.” The captain bowed briefly and quietly took his leave.

“Now, Laerîniel let us talk about your foresters...” The prince turned his grey gaze to her. “I could have summoned your second in command, yet I did not want to undermine your authority,” he began sternly. 

“This is not a …” she began, annoyed by his condescending tone.

“…military unit, I know,” he interrupted her firmly. “Yet bear with me, since I’m apparently unable to understand that there are other things apart from war and slaughtering.” He cast a bitter smile towards his guard and shrugged briefly. “Besides, I saved your hide today, as I allowed you to be found “behind my line,” so bear with me, Aunt,” he insisted in a slightly exasperated voice.

One look at the drained face before her helped Laerîniel rein in her temper and hold back an angry retort. Mallereg was bordering on sheer exhaustion. She noticed the way he squirmed and winced, changing position almost constantly in a vain effort to ease the pain in his injured thigh.

“I am listening,” she answered evenly, casting a worried look towards Thalaûr.

“My thanks. Look. The bulk of my troops are covering this area, as the Chief Commander ordered.” She leaned forth to study the wrinkled map. “These are the places where we have killed orcs or spiders lately,” he continued resignedly, pointing at places she had deemed safe, “and this is the area that can be considered secured. Not a great achievement,” he conceded with a sour smile, “but let the King be the judge of it,” he added in an apparently unconcerned voice. “Now,” he rummaged in the pile of parchments upon the desk and brought out a particularly stained map. “This is where we are, close to the eastern edge of Lasgalen. And this is where we ran into this roving, organized orc-hoth about six days ago.” He pointed west, close to the area where Laerîniel’s patrols had reported that disease affecting the weakened trees.

“What are these?” Laerîniel gestured at the dots scattered in a regular pattern heading south.

“Those are my patrols and scouts,” he answered honestly, studying her reaction.

“But you are close to the Mountains?” She was stunned at this blatant disobedience.

“Well, this way you can tell the Chief Commander that you actually were behind my line, as he ordered you,” the prince joked briefly, offering her a friendly wink. “We’ve been tracking and harassing the fleeing orcs to their dens in the Mountains and I have proof that they are gathering there, strengthening their numbers, raiding our lands and ready to seize any opportunity to attack in force…” He straightened the parchment and lowered his voice, pointing at the southernmost edge of the map. “And there’s something else,” he said grimly. “My scouts have reported seeing forest men in many of the orc patrols…” Laerîniel found herself suddenly wondering whether the darker spots in the map were bloodstains, refusing take in what this news meant. If the forest men were in fact allying with the surviving orcs, then the war was far from over!

“There must be a mistake,” she tried to convince herself. “The King shall know what to do...” she straightened up, diverting her gaze from the stained map.

“I’m not finished yet.” Mallereg’s voice had a tone of command that she had never before heard directed towards her, and she looked at him in surprise. “I’m not telling you this to inform you, Laerîniel,” he kept on sharply, “but to make sure that you understand why I want your foresters back to where they are supposed to be, well behind my lines. Four of my guards will escort them to this place,” he pointed at an area too close to the Elf Path for her preference.

“I don’t think...” she looked briefly at Thalaûr’s impassive face, but could see that no help would come from him.

“This is a direct command, Chief Forester,” the prince interrupted her sternly, but with a pleading look in his wan face. “They shall pack and clear this encampment in two days and they shall remain where you and I have just agreed until new orders arrive,” He looked at her expectantly.

She fought the instinct to rebel against such a harsh order. “…Where you and I have just agreed.”  On the other hand, she had to acknowledge the generosity of his offer and she finally acquiesced with a nod.

“As you command, my lord,” she conceded meekly. “May I make a suggestion, though?” she added in the most objective voice she could manage.

He tilted his head, eyeing her intensely, and Laerîniel knew that he was pondering her strategy. Suddenly, she was reminded of the stubborn child who would not be swayed once he had made up his mind unless a sound reason or a more interesting option was presented to him. She had always been very good at manoeuvring around the difficult, self-willed elfling, and she wondered if she could still trust that ability.

“One of my patrols reported a serious disease affecting the trees in an area here,” she began at his encouraging nod, pointing at the place in the stained map. “They could reach your lines from the south and it would only mean a slight detour…”

“…through an area I have just told you that is not safe,” he interrupted her. “Yet I understand your point. I can send word to my commander to have a patrol ready to escort some of your foresters there, once the whole group is safe. Does that suit you?”

“Most appropriately, my lord. My thanks.” She stood up and bowed briefly before the worn-out elf. “By your leave, I shall go and inform Cúrion, who shall be in charge during my absence, of your instructions.”

* * *

Somewhere a week south from Laketown

“I cannot believe that we never noticed how much a forest resembles an arched vault….

“Perhaps you did not look up often enough, Master Dwarf?

“Up? What do you mean exactly with up? It is seldom that we’re under, so that we should be looking up…

“Oh, one would be tempted to think differently, given the average size...”

“Don’t say it! You know perfectly what I’m talking about. We’re not found under trees if we can avoid it, least of all under your father’s trees….”

“The trees belong to themselves; they’re not my father’s…”

“You’d do well reminding him of it, then.”

A clear laugh put an end to the exchange, as Dwarf and Elf rode along the eastern side of Eryn Lasgalen on a cold autumn evening. The wild lands of Rhovanion still showed signs of the recent war, yet the landscape was less depressing here. The Sight of the burnt and suffering trees of Lasgalen was more unbearable for the two companions, even at this distance, as the extraordinary experience of crossing the living forest of Fangorn was still fresh in their minds. The damage in the golden eaves of Lórien had not seemed that terrible when they skirted the beautiful forest on their way north, and Legolas had allowed his displeasure to be known when they met Celeborn’s guards in the barren lands around Amon Lanc. Harsh words had been exchanged then, much to Gimli’s secret delight, concerning who had withstood the greatest destruction in the war. They had grudgingly accepted the Lórien elves’ help that night before continuing their trip.

They were now about a week from Laketown, and the first signs of Narbeleth were visible upon the reddish leaves on the trees that flanked them on their left.

As the sun went down, they found cover for the night the base of a small mound surrounded by dense bushes by the side of the road and decided to set camp there.

“I’m glad that you insisted on taking this road, Gimli.” Legolas told his friend while he relieved Arod of the saddle and packs and allowed him to graze freely. Gimli handed him a water skin just refilled in the stream that sang not far from them.

“Well, the fact that I agreed to cross Fangorn with you doesn’t mean that I’m ready to spend the rest of my life watching trees. I was tired of greenery...” the Dwarf complained as he put down his own water skin and turned his attention to kindling their fire. “Besides, we only spent a day in Aglarond, it wasn’t fair that you forced me through all those unending forests,” he added, rummaging in his pack. “We could do with Samwise’s cooking lore here...” he grumbled. Apart from lembas, kindly provided by the Lórien elves, their provisions were paltry and the dwarf knew that there was little point in trying to hunt anything in that silent and deserted area.

“You’ll have to move then,” Legolas observed as he took seat beside the fire and watched his friend put some dried meat and some roots to boil. “There isn’t much else to see than trees from Erebor, if I remember well, and as you seem to have had enough of them…” he joked.

If Legolas had been wordless after their visit to the Glittering Caves, Gimli had been reduced to a mumbling, awed dwarf at the sight of the mighty, strong trees of Fangorn; the endless arcades of knotted branches and the ever-present breath of a forest that was more alive than anything Gimli had ever known. He had been amazed by the delicacy with which the mighty trees reached for the skies, and how the tallest branches supported each other in a graceful tracery, entwined in their restless dance. He had marvelled at how the forest resembled a neat, well carved vault of stone and had rejoiced in the echo of his own voice mingling with the welcoming rustle of the leaves in that great living hall. Legolas’ patient attempts at teaching him how to listen to the trees’ voices had been useless, but Gimli had been able to feel the heartbeat of a young elm under his heavy, calloused palm, and that was a feeling that the Dwarf would treasure to his death.

“Yet, you forget that it is not the same thing, looking from above than from below, my friend,” Gimli observed sagely. “I have never minded overlooking your forest and knowing that I could pat Thranduil’s kingly head from up there…” he added with a mischievous wink, stirring their dinner and offering the Elf his fill.

Legolas’ mood had become darker as they reached the southern borders of Lasgalen, and his unusual show of temper in Amon Lanc had been a warning sign of his restlessness. Even the most cold-hearted dwarf would have been distressed by the sight of the blackened soil, uprooted trees and devastated lands, and Gimli had been relieved when Legolas accepted to travel round Lasgalen northwards instead of crossing it, after the Dwarf complained that he had had enough trees to last him for a lifetime or two.

“You’re worried because of what your wife is going to tell you, aren’t you?” The Dwarf had taken to provoking his friend out of the long silences he usually fell into those nights.

“I told her that I‘d be home by Narbeleth.” Legolas smiled softly. “Yet I cannot help worrying. The forest is in a worse state than what I had anticipated by Celeborn’s account,” he explained. “You should worry, too. What do you think your King is going to tell you?” he retorted with a mischievous grin.

“Well…I expect him to name me ambassador to Aragorn’s court, what else?” the Dwarf answered matter-of-factly, scowling at the tasteless stew.

“How do you know that he’s not ready to put you in chains? Haldir has been there, after all, who knows what tales he may have told...”

“I should have known that Celeborn would make me pay for daring to court his lady wife...” the Dwarf mumbled. “I only hope that the guards felt the need to bind the Marchwarden’s eyes and to make him bump his way to Thorin’s Great Hall,” he grumbled, remembering the irritating welcome in Lórien, and then smiling at the amused chortle that escaped his friend’s lips.

“I’ll take the first guard,” Legolas offered, putting aside his bowl and climbing the small mound that protected their sheltered spot. The Dwarf shrugged and lit his pipe. It had been the same for the past number of days. The Elf would stand up the whole night gazing west, to the not so distant boundaries of his forest, straining to hear a familiar song that still evaded his ears.

“Maybe the trees are recovering, or maybe they have forgotten you...” Gimli had tried to uplift his friend’s mood some days ago, when Legolas had first spoken of that unnerving silence from the so familiar trees.

“The memory of the trees is long as that of the Firstborn, Gimli,” the Elf had instructed him then seriously. “Yet, as much as I try I cannot hear their voices. I mean, it is as if I heard voices but could not recognize the language…”

Gimli knew nothing of sea-longing and its effects, yet that day he had noticed that his friend was seriously disturbed by this sudden inability to perceive the welcoming voice of his beloved forest.

“Let me know, if they say something I should be aware of...” he joked out loud now, as he settled down comfortably for the night, and was rewarded with a snort.

“Go to sleep, Master Dwarf, or tomorrow you won’t be able to hold your seat upon Arod...”

Tall and straight as a young tree, Legolas stood the night away, singing softly to himself and trying to find comfort in the closeness of the disturbingly silent forest.

“I’m coming, can't you hear me?” he sighed as Anor stretched her golden fingers over them for the first time in many days, announcing the new morning.

TBC

*Thalaûr: (steady fire). Mallereg’s guard

Camath-en-aran: the king’s “hands,” as a team or selected group. Cam-en-aran: king’s hand. Thanks to Redheredh for kindly supplying the translation

Orc hoth: Orc host

Thorin III Stonehelm succeeded Dain Ironfoot as King Under the Mountain, after the War of the Ring.