Chapter 6 ~ The Golden Years III

The centuries passed in a blur of uneventful bliss.  If he were not always reminded in an official capacity, Thranduil would have long ceased to mark the passage of time.  Life was perfect.

He had turned his desk to face the westward window in his study, affording a view of the road below.  Legolas was expected to return soon from his second extended stay in Imladris.  The welcome peace throughout Middle-earth had made travel between the two Elvish cities safer and more routine, so Thranduil had gladly importuned Elrond to supplement his son’s education.  Legolas had enjoyed his first year there so much that he had insisted on returning for another some time later.

Greenwood was as vibrantly alive as it had ever been, the forest brimming with everything they could possibly need.  When one also considered the lively trade which existed between their realm and the neighboring Men, they were in a very comfortable position.  Thranduil reflected with some satisfaction that the coffers were nearly full for the first time since Oropher had equipped their army for the Last Alliance.  With that in mind, he wrote a note which Linhir would recast in more official language decreeing that the taxes be suspended that year. 

Laughter rang through the trees like music as children chased each other across the soft spring grass below.  Thranduil smiled, pleasantly distracted.  The population had been growing steadily for years, more than redeeming their losses from the last Age.  Legolas and his peers had grown to adulthood long ago, thriving beneath the branches of their woodland paradise.

Several of them rode across the sward behind Dorthaer, returning from yet another training exercise in the wood with the master of the King’s Guard.  Luinar and Anorrín, sons of Linhir and Anárion respectively, were at the forefront.  Two of their usual comrades were missing, Legolas and his cousin Calenmir, Galadhmir’s son, but it would not be long before they rejoined them as well.

As the afternoon wore on, Thranduil noticed he was not the only one waiting.  Lorivanneth, Linhir’s daughter, was seated in a patch of sun beneath a tree, looking up from her stitching every now and then to peer down the wooded lane.  Though they had always been friends, she and Legolas had grown much closer over the last few years.  It could well be that the royal family would gain a princess before long.  Thranduil often wondered whether his relationship with Lindóriel would have matured as smoothly as that if they had enjoyed a thousand years of peace as this generation had.  It seemed they were all soon to be extraordinarily happy. 

Just as the afternoon shadows lengthened into evening, he heard the sound of approaching horses.  Thranduil put down his quill and glanced outside, immensely gratified to see Legolas, Calenmir and their attendants riding onto the lawn and dismounting at the picket rail.  They all looked a bit travel worn, but none the worse for it.  Legolas swept Lorivanneth into his arms and swung her around happily.  Thranduil turned and descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, giving them a moment together.

Legolas looked up and smiled when he saw him coming across the grass.  “I told you I could bring them back alive!” he said.

“You have not disappointed me yet.”  Thranduil pulled his son into a fierce embrace, glad to have him home.  “Welcome back.  And you, Calenmir.  We hardly knew what to do with ourselves without you two.”

“I expect Lord Elrond may be saying the same thing now,” Calenmir said, smiling broadly.  He and Legolas could have been brothers, they looked so alike.  At first glance, Legolas had always resembled his mother’s family.

“I trust you did not try your host’s patience too much or too often,” Thranduil said, motioning for them to follow.  “I am sure I shall hear all about it later.  You have just enough time to make yourselves presentable for dinner.  Erelas can manage the horses, yes?”

“Yes, my lord.”  Erelas took the reins of the extra horses and led them away towards the stables with his fellows.  As Oropher’s personal manservant, Erelas had unfortunately found himself without a master after the war, but he seemed quite happy now looking after Legolas.

Calenmir hurried away in the direction of his father’s house.  Legolas took his brief leave of Lorivanneth; brief, because Thranduil was certain he would go looking for her later that evening.  Together they headed back across the lawn toward the King’s House.

“So, how was Imladris the second time?” Thranduil asked.

“Just as interesting as it was at first,” Legolas confessed.  “I am afraid Calenmir could not sit still enough to study for at least a week after we arrived.  Thank you for allowing us to go.”

“I am grateful you had the opportunity,” Thranduil said, quite honestly.  “Peace can be a very rare commodity, not that you or the rest of your fortunate young friends would realize that.” 

“We are not that young anymore, Father,” Legolas smiled.

“You know you will always seem young to me.  Go on and wash.  Your mother and I shall wait for you.”

Dinner that night was roast hare in a butter and herb sauce with chestnuts, dandelion salad, and a generous platter of honey biscuits.  Fortunately, the king and queen needed to wait only a few minutes before their son hurried in to join them.  The dogs leapt up to greet him.

“Good evening, Mother,” Legolas said pleasantly, pushing the dogs down and leaning across the table to kiss Lindóriel’s cheek.  “I am back again in one piece, as promised.”

“And we are all glad of it,” she assured him, “though I expect Elrond and his lady would have been happy to see you stay on longer.”

“How was the journey?” Thranduil asked, claiming his portion of meat.  “I trust the roads are in good repair.  Did you notice any sign of Orcs in the mountains?”

“Nothing fresh,” Legolas said, passing the salad.  “Just the old scoring I saw the last time.  If there are still Orcs in the mountains, they have gone well and truly underground.”

Thranduil nodded, satisfied with that answer though he knew Legolas had never actually seen fresh Orc sign.  Despite this handicap, his son had become an excellent hunter, and had been thoroughly trained to recognize an Orc’s trail if he saw it.

“And, yes,” Legolas added, “the roads are quite serviceable.”

“Good.”  Thranduil smiled, snatching two biscuits as they went by.  “Now, you obviously had a good time in Imladris, but what we would all like to know is whether you learned anything.”

“It would require several lifetimes to absorb everything in Lord Elrond’s archives,” Legolas said, “but I like to think we made some progress.”

“We should commission copies of the best manuscripts for our collection here,” Lindóriel suggested.

“Perhaps.”  Thranduil had been considering the same thing himself.  Their historical archives were still a bit scanty, reflecting the oral traditions of their subjects.  “It may well be that we would have to commission translations first.”

“Lord Elrond did try to teach us the rudiments of Quenya,” Legolas said, “though I fear we made little progress on that front.”

Thranduil twisted his mouth into a sort of smirk, spearing a forkful of food.  “All the Quenya I ever needed I learned at the shipyards,” he said.  “It was not the most elegant vocabulary, but certainly very useful.  I raised you to speak three languages already; what more could they want?”

“Did Calenmir enjoy himself?” Lindóriel asked.

“I have seldom seen him more excited.  He thinks we should leave the wood more often.”

“And go where?”

“Someday perhaps as far as Mithlond, if you will allow me,” Legolas said, passing the biscuits.  “I would like to see the sea, and the place where you lived for so many years.”

Thranduil frowned slightly.  “That is rather far,” he said, “and would involve passing through Arnor.  Has the situation there improved at all?”

“The kingdom is still divided, but there is no civil war at present.”

Thranduil grunted and took another biscuit.  “Wars should not be undertaken lightly, certainly for greater cause than a prince’s wounded pride.”  His words hung in the air for a moment, but the mood soon passed.  “I will consider it,” he decided.  “Remind me later, and we will discuss the possibility.”

“I will not be wanting to go any time soon,” Legolas assured him.  “I had hoped to be more agreeably occupied for some time.”  He put his fork down and became very serious, though he could not quite suppress a smile.  “Father, I would like your permission to marry.”

Thranduil did not answer at once, merely smiled and shared a significant glance with Lindóriel.  They had been expecting this, but it evoked a stirring of paternal pride nonetheless. 

“You have chosen Lady Linhiriel, I presume,” Thranduil said at last.  He could not have improved upon Legolas’ choice even had he been given the opportunity.  Lorivanneth was a perfect example of a strong and vivacious Sindarin lady, still untouched by grief or hardship.  The ruling families would be bound even closer than they were already, with four of the original Oropherionnath sharing the same grandchildren.  Life seemed to progress very quickly in times of peace.  “You are certainly old enough, though much younger than your mother and I were.  Are you certain you are ready?”

“I believe I am,” Legolas said.  Not even a hint of indecision clouded the confidence on his face.

“Then you know I could never refuse you, and nothing could make us happier.  You have my permission and my blessing.  We could have you betrothed within a month and wed by next spring if it suits you.”

“I certainly have no objection,” Legolas assured him, barely able to contain his growing excitement. 

“So be it,” Thranduil declared jovially, refilling his wine glass.  “Go on, you are excused.  I cannot imagine you are hungry now.  Go tell her the good news.”

“Thank you, Father!”  Legolas was up in an instant, kissed his mother good night and bounded back down the stairs. 

Thranduil sighed, though not unhappily.  “I suppose they cannot be children forever,” he said.

“Our son has not been a child for a very long time,” Lindóriel reminded him, moving the plate of biscuits beyond his reach.  “And you have had enough of those.”

When at last they also rose to leave, Thranduil pulled her close and kissed her gently, but with the same smoldering passion which had fed their love for centuries.  “Thank you,” he said sincerely, “for giving me such a good son.”

Lindóriel responded in kind, drawing him even closer against her, fanning those embers once again to flame.  “I would give you another if you but ask me,” she said, her voice deepening provocatively.

“I am sure you would,” Thranduil agreed, grabbing his wine and leading her upstairs. 

Surely even Thingol in the depths of his gleaming palace had never been so content as Elvenking Thranduil of Greenwood.

The day of Legolas’ formal betrothal could not have been more beautiful.  The summer sun shone down on the wood, warming the leaves and filling the air with the scent of green and growing things.  Every balcony in the tree-woven city was hung with the royal colors and crowded with smiling faces.  The ceremony itself took place on the grass below, surrounded by the king’s household and crowds of well-wishers.  Thranduil and Illuiniel presided, as they would at the wedding, closely attended by Lindóriel and Linhir.

Legolas looked every inch a woodland prince, his crown of white gold beech leaves glinting blindingly in the sun.  It was the same Thranduil had worn so many years ago at his own betrothal.  He could still remember that day in all its detail, even now as he felt Oropher’s crown on his brow.  Lorivanneth seemed every bit as happy as Lindóriel had been as she and her prince exchanged their silver rings and the fleeting vows which would hold until their wedding day.  They were obviously very much in love, with no misgivings whatsoever about the future.  For their sakes, Thranduil hoped the idyllic years could continue uninterrupted. 

The feasting and revelry which began afterwards were energetic enough to continue long into the night.  One thing the woodland Elves had always known how to do extremely well was celebrate.  They were merry and carefree people at heart, and an occasion like this was more than enough excuse.  The air was full of music and laughter, dances began and ended with hardly a cue, the whole place alive with the swirl of color and constant motion.

At long last the king and queen extricated themselves from one of those spontaneous dances and retreated to their places beneath the royal canopy for some refreshment.  The heat of the day was beginning to lighten as the afternoon wore on into evening, and that only seemed to breathe new life into the festivities.

“There will be very little work done tomorrow,” Thranduil predicted, filling two small bowls with fruit, and handing one to his wife.

“Least of all by you,” Lindóriel smiled.  “Let them dance as long as they like.  It gladdens my heart to see them enjoying themselves.”

Thranduil sat down beside her and playfully kissed her cheek.  “You make a very compassionate queen, Lin,” he said.

She returned his smile, truly looking the part in her practical woodland gown of subtle green and brown to match his tunic and mantle, every hem adorned with skillful embroidery.  “Our king deserves no less,” she said simply.

The forest continued to reverberate with music, so Thranduil took a bit of a start when Brilthor came upon him unnoticed and touched his shoulder.  “My lord,” he said in a low voice, just loud enough to be heard, “your presence is required in the eyrie.”

Thranduil frowned but did not object, recognizing the urgent tone in the silvan lord’s voice.  They would not call him to the lookout post at a time like this without reason.  Lindóriel looked concerned, but apparently had not quite heard what had been said.

“Stay here,” Thranduil told her.  “I shall return as soon as I can.”

She did not protest, though the shadow which passed across her face implied that she might have considered it.

They walked across the grounds to one of the tallest of the trees at the outskirts of the city.  Thranduil took hold of the rope ladder first, beginning the long climb to the flet nestled into the highest branches.  Dorthaer was already there with the two guards on duty, and they all came to attention when their king at last pulled himself up onto the platform.  Brilthor was not far behind.

“We would not have called you, my lord, but we suspect not all is well along the southern marches,” Dorthaer explained, passing him the glass which magnified even their Elven sight.  “Lord Brilthor thought it best to inform you at once.”

Thranduil took the glass and trained his eyes south, not without some foreboding.  On a very clear day, it was just possible to glimpse the farthest reaches of their wood from their position in the foothills of the mountains.  It was one of those days, and he saw what had concerned them.  It was like a shadow or stain around what should be Amon Lasgalen, a patch of inexplicable darkness as though the wood itself had withered.

“Could it be a blight on the land?” Brilthor asked.

Thranduil passed the glass to him, but declined to give a definite answer.  “It could be many things,” he said at last, a grim suspicion gnawing at his stomach.  Below them the festivities continued unabated.  It would be almost sacrilege to allow this to dampen their spirits today, though he expected there would eventually be no avoiding it.

“Let the celebration continue as planned,” he decided, “but I want an extra perimeter of guards on watch.  Loose the dogs and send scouts to our people in Amon Lasgalen immediately.  I must know what is going on down there.”