(A/N:  I hear you all say, "At last!"  At least, the few of you who haven't given up on me say so ... the rest of you are probably thinking, "Gee, I don't remember this story ... "

My apologies; I'm hoping to get this wrapped up fairly soon.  We're on the downward slope; all I require is time, patience, and motivation!  Many thanks to both Nieriel Raina and Sheraiah, who helped with this chapter; exposition can be tedious, can't it?

-- Le Rouret)

31. Fathers and Sons

The Dwarves felt it would be untidy to leave Renna’s body to the elements, and digging a shallow grave they cast her into it, dumping dirt and rocks upon it, and when they had supped, leaving it behind them.  Dori, mindful of Dúrfinwen’s tears and her shaken demeanor, took it upon himself to escort her to their camp personally, walking by her mare’s side with quiet and courtly word, and when they arrived at the Dwarves’ main camp, tucked deep in a green valley, giving to her for her privacy his own tent.  His aids, anxious to please the princess, scrambled round their baggage for the softest and best tunics and breeches and kerchiefs and scarves, offering them to her with a basin of warm water and a cake of fresh soap.  Rallying her decorum, Dúrfinwen thanked them with profuse politesse, bestowing mantled cheek and lowered eye with all the skill of an accomplished mummer, demurely ducking within the tent to attend to her ablutions with promises that she would enjoy whatever dinner they might concoct for her.  Dori stepped away from the tent-flap shaking his head.

“Do you know the difference between a garnet and a ruby, Legolas?” he asked the Green Knight, who had stood by anxiously at first, though his mercer’s subtle courtliness amused him.

“They are both red,” said Legolas, shrugging.  “One is darker than the other.”

“Garnets are pretty,” said Dori, strolling back to the main fire, Legolas beside him.  “So are rubies.  They both have a lovely color, and can be used with equal discernible effect in decoration.  However, the ruby is to be prized above the garnet, because its color is clearer, and therefore purer, and – “ he gave Legolas a keen look.  “A ruby is much harder than a garnet, and cannot be as easily crushed.  It is for that reason the ruby is far more valuable than a garnet.”

“And what do you say, Son of Bori?” asked Legolas, pausing and turning his gaze back to the tent wherein rested his wounded mercer.  “Do you say the Princess Anóriel is a ruby or a garnet?”

“A ruby for a certainty,” said Dori firmly.  “Do you not let her out of your demesne at any cost, Legolas.”

“And do you seek to marry us off as well?” asked Legolas with a small smile.  Dori grinned, and clapped him on the back.

“Not a bit of it!” he said.  “That would take all the fun out of flirting with her.  Nay, Legolas; keep her as your mercer if you can – she will be an invaluable asset to your rule.”

“Thank you,” said Legolas dryly.  “I shall do my best.”

“See that you do!  Though you do not seem to have much luck controlling your vassals.”  Dori pointed then to a lone figure sitting upon a tussock, turning round and round in his thin hands the dragon’s fang; Tamin’s head drooped so that his face was obscured by his sunshiny hair, and his shoulders slumped.  The high blue dome of the sky soared over him, and the bright white clouds rushed by; far above them wheeled rooks and swallows.  The wind captured Tamin’s yellow hair and spun it round his head like a dust devil, and Legolas and Dori saw the look of loathing and doubt etched into his furrowed brow and downturned mouth.  Legolas sighed, and Dori added, “Now that we know ‘twere Renna of Dale we captured, it shall be a tricky thing, keeping your esquire’s hands clean of the matter.  Despite her vile acts of depredation, she was of royal blood in the reckoning of the House of Dale, and the Master’s Lady; it might be best to not bring Tamin to Dale, for his actions were precipitate and unjust.”

“I shall bear the iniquity of his deeds, for so I swore as his lord,” said Legolas, turning his face to the brilliant sky; the wind likewise tore at his hair, and he brushed it impatiently aside.  “And you know, Dori, he did not truly disobey me; I never told him to not kill Renna.”

Dori shook his head, but smiled nonetheless, his brown eyes thoughtful.  “Sophistry!” he said absently, though there was no accusation in his tone.  “Let us see what Bard says about it.  Though if he has heard that she and Malbeach conspired to slay him, he might reward Tamin and not remonstrate.”

“We shall see,” said Legolas darkly.

Dori sighed.  “I ought to have known her, of course,” he said slowly, running his fingers through his beard.  “But I am not often in court; Dwalin fatigues me.”  Legolas laughed, and smiling Dori said:  “I had met Malbeach before, and took an instant dislike to the man; so when I heard the Master and Lady of Esgaroth had gone to Erebor, I volunteered to take out a phalanx on extended maneuvers, and missed her acquaintance.”

“You missed little,” said Legolas, smile fading.  “Even now I am unsure whether I loathed or pitied her more.”

“The two may walk hand in hand,” said Dori sagely.  “You ought to have met my wife’s mother … Now let us see this sword with which you slew the dragon!”

Legolas took him to their horses, standing tethered in a low grassy dingle.  The herd was happy, for the Dwarves had grain in abundance, and sugar-cubes too; Burnt Toast and Spark bickered half-heartedly over a flake of hay, and Dúrfinwen’s mare happily crunched upon some leathery carrots.  “Ho, my beauties!” murmured Legolas, and the herd swiveled their ears and eyes to him, but continued to eat; even Hammer but nickered half-heartedly at his master, for he was deeply engrossed in a bucket of grain, which occupied the majority of his attention.  Legolas but smiled, and ran his hands down Hammer’s withers.  “My poor Hammer!” he said, pressing his face into the stallion’s shoulder.  “Such privation!  But you are a brave and loyal beast; eat all you like, but founder not.”

Vé was sitting amongst the pack horses, showing various items from their baggage to his father and several other Dwarves, which he had pilfered from Muhk’s stores; they were clustered about him, and speaking in serious and businesslike voices about the treasures, and the logistics of returning to the cavern to retrieve them all.  “We’ll need a mort o’ waggons,” Vé was saying solemnly.  “And a couple of block-and-tackles for the bigger stuff.  And lads with strong stomachs … a right mess it is down there, you know.”  Smiling at the Dwarvish rescue-mission, Legolas dug round the baggage ‘til he found and unwrapped the strange sword, and when he had turned with it Dori leapt forward with an exclamation of delight:

“Orcrist!” he cried.  “Biter, the Goblin-Cleaver!  Elrond said this blade was of Gondolin, and very ancient and deadly; O how its makers would rejoice to know it pierced the vile flesh of one of Morgoth’s snaky brood!”

“Orcrist!” cried the other Dwarves, abandoning Vé and surging over.  “Let us see!”

They all crowded round, murmuring to each other and touching the sword with reverent fingers.  “Taken from Thorin Oakenshield’s very breast!” said Dori, shaking his head.  “With the Arkenstone, a terrible loss to Erebor.”

“Oh, we found that too,” said Vé offhandedly, and going to his bags removed a rag-wrapped bundle.  “Here it is, and you’re welcome to it!” he said.  “Never has a pretty trinket brought me so much ill-luck.”  He plunked it carelessly in Dori’s trembling arms.  “I think all the luck the Arkenstone possesses turns into bad luck once it leaves the Lonely Mountain,” he said.  “Put it back quick!”

“I concur,” said Dori, his voice reverent; he unwrapped the bundle and let the starry globe illuminate his face.  “Ah,” he whispered, smiling.  “The Arkenstone!  What a treasure for the restoration of Erebor!  You and Gimli shall return it yourselves, Legolas; ‘tis only fitting, and shall be a sign to our peoples that through the united efforts of Dwarf and Elf was the dragon vanquished.”

“If you wish,” said Legolas, and caressed the faceted surface of the stone; it gleamed and glittered round his fingers.  His father’s pale ring flashed as though answering the Arkenstone’s glory, and as Dori and the other Dwarves crowded round the stone and the sword he withdrew, turning the ring round his finger pensively.

“My father!” he thought, his heart heavy.  “Did you resist her, as did I?  O I hope you did, Adar; I hope that the weight of her desire rested upon me and not you!”  He sighed then, feeling very melancholy; then sensing someone’s eyes upon him he turned.  Sure enough, he descried Tamin watching him from round his golden mane, grey eyes red-rimmed and haunted, and with a sense of defeat, Legolas knew it was time to deal with his esquire.  “How I miss Bandobras!” thought Legolas, and the twist of grief tore at his heart anew; however he heard in his head the Hobbit’s sensible voice telling him to stop being a cowardly idiot and deal with the consequences of his spoiling his esquire to the point the boy was insufferably presumptuous, and with a jaded sigh he agreed with Bandobras’ assessment, and trudged disconsolately to the little grassy tussock where the boy had seated himself.

Tamin lurched to his feet when his Master approached, hastily tucking the fang back inside his tunic and standing with his hands behind his back, staring at his feet.  Legolas was reminded then of Tamin’s ignominy in Osgiliath, when he had thrashed Halgond for kissing Léodwyn; how long ago that seemed!  And how Tamin’s temper had increased with the offenses against others!  But to break a boy’s nose for his role in a love-triangle was one thing; to stab to death a royal member of the neighboring kingdom of one’s Master’s father’s was a much weightier matter.

“Little One,” began Legolas, stepping up to the boy; then he started, surprised; when had Tamin grown so tall?  The top of the lad’s head was to his collar-bone!  Shaking his head in resignation Legolas said, “Little One, seat yourself; your leg is not yet healed, nor shall be for some weeks.”

“I am well, Master,” said Tamin, and though his eyes still stared at the grass between his feet, Legolas heard the steel in his esquire’s voice.  Legolas wondered if perhaps he ought to rein the boy in; but the thin wrists dangling from the too-short tunic sleeves cut at him, and brought him to mind of the horrors visited upon his little esquire:  hunger and fear and pain and blood and poison; besides which had not Bandobras been equally mutinous?  But the rag-wrapped leg rebuked him, and with a frown Legolas lifted the boy’s chin, so that Tamin must meet his Master’s gaze; he looked sulky and ashamed.

“Do not contradict me, Tamin; it behooves you not,” said Legolas, firm but kind enough.  “Be seated, or your Master will break your other leg and constrain you to obedience.”

Tamin’s eyes widened a little in alarm, and he sat quickly and rather clumsily back upon the tussock, looking with apprehension up at his Master.  The Green Knight sighed and looked down upon his esquire in exasperation, wondering how to begin.  The seconds stretched to minutes, and Tamin wriggled uncomfortably upon his prickly seat, watching Legolas with haunted eyes.

“Master,” Tamin burst out, when he could hold it in no longer; his voice was small and hesitant.  “I – may I speak?”

“I have failed hitherto restraining you in so doing,” said Legolas resignedly.  “Speak, then, Tamin; I am thus far wordless.”

Tamin gulped, and looked back down at his feet.  He bit his lip, and shifted round nervously, and cleared his throat a couple of times; at last he gathered his courage and said:  “I – have shamed you, Master.”  He swallowed again, peeped at Legolas from beneath his tousled hair, and continued as though he were memorizing a homily:  “I have done that which I ought not, and in my vanity presumed the role of executioner ere a fair trial could be given.  I know that you will legally bear my misdeed, Master, but if you would recognize my disobedience and transgression, and release me from my oaths to you and therefore your oaths to me – “  His voice wobbled then, and near broke; he swallowed hard, and Legolas to his dismay saw two tears fall from the boy’s eyes to land upon the grass at their feet.  “ – then I will gladly assume blame for Renna of Dale’s death.”  He sniffled and wiped quickly at his face, and Legolas’ mouth twitched.

“Goodness!” he said mildly.  “Is this the sad decision upon which you have been so long ruminating here in the grass?”

Tamin lifted his head, aggrieved and a little angry.  “This is no mean thing I offer you, Master,” he said, affronted.  “The murder of a royal personage by the esquire of a visiting lord is a serious offense, and you as my Master will be constrained to take upon yourself the retribution for this crime - “

“Save the speeches for the banquet-halls and council-chambers,” said Legolas, waving Tamin’s expostulation aside with one hand.  He shook his head and looked up at the sun; the breeze caught at his pale hair and twined it round his throat and shoulders, and he brushed it aside impatiently.  “I do not make oaths lightly, my Tamin; you ought to know that by now.  And do you really think I will deprive myself of your aid and comfort, after everything we have endured together?  Nay, Little One; you are become a strong and tenacious young fellow, and I am right pleased to own you as my servant; and when at last you achieve your spurs – should you live so long, and not throw yourself into peril quite so much! – I hope that we will be friends as well as lord and vassal, for I love you; you are very worth knowing, and quite precious to me.”

Tamin’s eyes filled once again with tears, and his shoulders drooped; the stubborn stiffness in his face melted away.  “O Master!” he said, his lower lip trembling.

Legolas knelt, and took the boy in his arms.  “None of that, now,” he said gently, and when Tamin’s trembling turned into sobs, he pressed the boy’s face into his neck; Tamin’s tears wet his tunic.  “How obtuse you are!  Did you not know by now that I love you, Tamin?  I would as soon cut off my hand as let you suffer the retribution of the House of Dale.  Nay, do not concern yourself with this; Bard is too afeard of my Lord Father to set the offense against me; I shall but pay equal recompense, and the matter will drop.  And if Bard’s council attempts to rise up against me, I shall but enquire into the nature of their accords with Esgaroth; that ought to silence them!”  He set Tamin back and held him at arm’s length, looking soberly into the boy’s teary eyes.  “I will not release you ere you have earned your accolades,” said Legolas, shaking him a little.  “Remember that!”

“I will, Master,” promised Tamin, wiping his tears away and giving Legolas a shaky smile.  “I – am sorry, Master – but in the heat of my anger I – “

“You sought to break Halgond’s nose again,” said Legolas dryly, and Tamin closed his eyes, pursing his lips.

“Nay, Master,” he said in a low voice.  “O my anger was greater than that – so much greater!  I have never felt such rage within me – and now I am even more confused about Nwalmä than before.”

“When we regain Dol Galenehtar, I shall charge you to speak with him about that,” said Legolas, kissing the boy’s forehead.  “Now, up with you!  Do you not smell that, my Tamin?  Rabbit and oat-dumplings!  Thanks to our friends the Dwarves, we will dine well this eve, and be strengthened; and tomorrow morn shall we resume our journey to Esgaroth, to see what my Lord Father and the King Under the Mountain have wrought in that terrible place.”  Tamin let his Master help him to his feet, and leant upon the Green Knight’s strong arm.  “And do you return Théodred’s fang to your luggage; the boy would be desolate if it were lost.”

“He would,” agreed Tamin, looking to the south with a sad sigh.  “O Master, how I miss our home!  I miss my friends and my room and my bed, and I miss my mother and father too.  And I miss the sound of the bells in our campaniles, and I miss the noisy courtyard, and the smell of olive blossoms, and seeing the river through the trees from the tower balcony.”

“I miss those, too,” smiled Legolas, leading his esquire back to the horses and luggage, where the Dwarves clustered round Vé and Glóin.  “I want nothing more than to sit behind my desk and sign papers and go to dinner and go to bed afterwards.  O for a dull day!”

“You say that now, Master,” said Tamin gravely.  “But I will bet twelve pennies that in six months’ time will you be cursing the blisters on your fingers from the sealing-wax, and hiding in the broom-closet from Hirilcúllas when she comes round with more parchment!”

“Dear Tamin!  You know me far too well!” laughed Legolas, and together they returned to their friends.

*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*

Baranil stood with Thorin and Dwalin at the crest of the hill, and looked down upon Esgaroth.  His fair face was placid, and his eyes hooded and unreadable; his jet hair was smoothed back into a neat plait, not one out of place, and his armor, though it had been well-used, yet gleamed pristinely in the dim light.  His arms in their intaglioed paldrons were crossed over his chest, and he stood in silence, chin lowered and mouth set.  Dwalin betimes glanced up at him apprehensively; it had been long ere one of the Elvenking’s retainers made him pause, but the Captain was such a fair and forbidding fellow that Dwalin was not entirely certain whether to like Baranil or not.  Stonehelm for his part did not seem to mind, being of dour and secretive temperament himself; he too glared down at the city with his arms folded across his chest, and frowned into his black beard.

Esgaroth was burnt nearly to the ground.  The fire had started the night before, engulfing the Master’s Hall in the middle of the city, and spreading quickly to the stables and surrounding buildings; the inn had been next to go, and after that the rest of the houses and palisades went up like straw.  Men had run from the flames, fighting with Thranduil’s and Thorin’s men alike; some seeing they were surrounded by such fierce folk threw themselves on their swords, or returned to the fire to perish in torment.  The remainder of Malbeach’s troops was being mopped up very efficiently under Methlon’s command; they could hear the cries and the clang of metal upon metal from far below in the valley and under the trees.  Like small insects did the combatants seem from there, and the docks even as they burned set up a great stink of steam and smoke, lying heavy upon the wet and slimy earth; up further upon the banks of the river knelt Bard’s men, stripped of their weapons and armor and guarded by Elves and Dwarves alike, awaiting a time less fraught with danger and chaos for a reasonable decision regarding their fates.  It was all the stranger to the Elves and Dwarves that the Men of Dale had started the fire in the first place.

Baranil heard voices behind them; recognizing them as those of Bard of Dale, and of his former subordinate, he looked over his shoulder.  Though Baranil could not determine what exactly Meivel said to Bard, it was apparent the Green Knight’s Captain was giving the boy a piece of his mind, and that the prince was taking it meekly enough; the gangly youth’s head hung down, and he scraped at the earth with the toe of his boot.  Baranil watched as Meivel expostulated at length, waving his arms and glaring and pointing up the hill toward the city, then with disgust, Meivel threw his hands in the air, and turning on his heel stalked up the hill.  Bard made to follow, creeping after him like a whipped pup, but Meivel swung on him, delivering blistering yet incomprehensible invective, making the poor boy cringe back and stand, wringing his hands rather plaintively, and watching Meivel storm up to Baranil and the two Dwarves in a seething cloud of fury.

“Meivel looks as though he has got what he wanted out of that pimply-faced ratsbane,” rumbled Stonehelm at Baranil’s elbow; the Captain looked down and saw that Thorin had also observed this display, and stood frowning down at Bard.

“Where I fail, Meivel succeeds,” said Baranil with a small smile.  “I am betimes too urbane.  Bard needed rougher treatment.”

“He has got it for certain!” growled Stonehelm.  “Idiot.  What was he thinking?”

“We shall learn anon,” said Baranil, gazing coolly down at Meivel as he stalked, muttering and gnashing his teeth, up to them.  When the Green Knight’s captain came within hearing distance Baranil said calmly:  “Meivel, you have hardly slept or eaten, and look like an unmade bolster.  Do you please partake of a bit of waybread and a tussock, and plait your hair.”

“Plaiting be damned,” snarled Meivel, glowering up at his erstwhile superior resentfully.  “Think you your pretty tresses better equipped you to extract the truth from that bloody beet down there?  Men,” he grumbled.  “I should rather put them all to the sword, and be done with it.”  He went up to the edge of the ridge, and looked with satisfaction down at Esgaroth.  “Best thing to happen to that pile of sticks since Smaug rained down fire upon them!  The only reason I did not hang that half-grown wart upon a gibbet is because he did our work for us.”

“O come, Meivel,” remonstrated Baranil mildly.  “That is hardly fair.  Esgaroth has traded fairly and peacefully with our lord for centuries.”

“With your lord, perhaps,” growled Meivel, shooting Baranil an affronted glare.  “Listen, your Majesty, Dwalin:  Bard claims he discovered that Gith, his lord father’s seneschal, and Renna’s uncle of all things, has been conspiring against him with Malbeach and Renna, and that Gith was revealed to have poisoned Girion, sickening and at last killing him.  The attack upon your Dwarves, your Majesty, Dwalin, was Gith’s idea; and when Bard saw he could not stop Gith’s men, rallied several hundreds loyal to the true throne of Dale; ‘twas these men he led to Esgaroth, to put it to flame.”  He sniffed, disapproval evident on his surly face.  “Brood of cross-biting snakes!  Good riddance, I say.”

“Well, we got rid of Gith at any rate,” smiled Baranil.  “’Twas good of Nír to behead him and spare Methlon the effort.”

“Think you he tells the truth?” rumbled Thorin to Meivel, who was scowling down at the ruins of Lake Town.  “Men are men, after all; they are not Elves or Dwarves, and I have had my fill of their lies and misdeeds.”

“He is honest,” shrugged Meivel.  “Stupid, but honest.”

“It is so, your Majesty,” said Baranil.  “Whence came the gift I know not, but Meivel possesses the ability to perceive a lie.”  He smiled.  “A shame it did no good when his lord wandered off!”

Meivel turned to him, his face flushed with fury and his mouth working wordlessly; Dwalin actually stepped back, thinking the two Captains would come to blows; Baranil stood, smooth and calm and smiling; Meivel seemed almost to hiss steam from his ears.  At last after an effort Meivel said, his voice quiet but quivering with anger:  “I would not have let Kaimelas fight.  My lord will have aught to say to you about this … Captain.”  And with that he spun away, his cloak floating behind him, and he snapped over his shoulder:  “I am for his majesty’s tent, your majesty, Dwalin.  Come if you like. I care not.”  And he stomped down the hill, collecting Bard by the collar and dragging the youth along, who expostulated weakly as they went.  Baranil sighed, and Thorin smiled up at him, his black eyes twinkling like jet.

“I will wager he was a handful to keep in check.”

“A double handful,” said Baranil calmly.  “And his sister is worse.”

“Worse!” exclaimed Dwalin, going a little pale.  “I cannot imagine a more surly or ill-tempered type.”

“Go you then to Dol Galenehtar, and falcon with Prince Legolas’ huntsmistress,” said Baranil.  “It will be a veritable epoch in your life’s history, and you will not forget it for a hundred years.”

“Legolas is such a jolly fellow,” said Dwalin, bewildered.  “Why does he surround himself with vassals such as those?”

“Why indeed!” said Baranil.  “I love my lord’s son, but do confess me his motives remain inscrutable, and his tastes too.  But they grow on me, O Thorin Stonehelm your majesty, and noble Dwalin of Erebor … they grow on me.”

Thorin glowered up at the blandly smiling Baranil through his black beetling brows.  “Was that a compliment, Captain?” he growled.

“Perhaps,” chuckled Baranil.  “And let me tell you, your majesty, Meivel is of a temperament to prefer Dwarves to his fellows!  I am proud of him, you know, O Stonehelm,” he confessed, smiling at Meivel’s retreating back.  “I knew him far more capable than he ever guessed of himself, and my harsh treatment has cultivated him well.  He is a commendable Head of Militia, and far better than I – than my lord, even! – at keeping Prince Legolas in check.  And I also say, had it been Meivel and not Tathardil to intercept Kaimelas’ message, Legolas would have made it no further than the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, and been confined to quarters under guard ere Meivel could have divined the truth of all of this.”  He gestured with one armor-clad arm to the smoldering ruins of Esgaroth.  “I know not how that would have changed things ultimately,” he admitted.  “But at least we would know the whereabouts of Glóin’s son and his most aggravating companion.”

“Who can say?” growled Thorin.  “I do fear me it should have come to a head whether Legolas and Gimli had come up to Rhovanion, or stayed where they were in safety.  At any rate I shall be the better pleased when they resurface.”

“As shall I,” said Baranil, turning his gaze to the east.  “I have never liked being ignorant of his whereabouts.  It is … unsettling.”

O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O

“But, but Captain Meivel,” protested Bard as he was dragged along.  “I have told you – already I told you what I did and why – and I do not see – “

“O be quiet,” snarled Meivel, giving the boy an extra-hard twist with his hand fisted in Bard’s collar.  “Walk faster.  You’re too slow.”

“But – but – “  Bard’s protests fell on deaf ears; Meivel hauled him up to the draped and pennanted tent, where stood two of King Thranduil’s guards.  “Aderthad!  Orthelian!” Meivel roared, and the guards snapped to attention, showing the whites of their eyes.  “Where is his Majesty, King Thranduil?  Where is Glóin?”

“Within,” stammered Orthelian; he remembered Meivel of old.  “If you would allow me to announce you, Captain – “

“He knows who I am,” snarled Meivel, and throwing the tent-flap aside he hauled Bard inside.  The Elvenking, who had been filling Glóin’s wooden goblet with wine from a skin, raised his eyebrows but did not seem discommoded; he gave Meivel an inquisitive look, and the captain, shoving Bard forward, said:  “Your Majesty, Glóin, here is the idiot who set Esgaroth aflame.  Tell them why you did it, Bard.”  When the boy hesitated, eyes darting nervously back and forth between the Elvenking and a great Dwarvish lord, Meivel put his hand on his hilt suggestively and growled:  “Tell.  Them.”

Bard, completely overwhelmed, further frightened in the Elvenking’s presence and terrorized by Meivel’s brutality, nearly fell to his knocking knees; but the sight of Meivel’s white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his sword convinced him to speak, and he stammered out his story anew, his voice breaking and cracking as though he were still in the throes of adolescence.  Thranduil and Glóin listened with gratifying sobriety, fixing the trembling boy with grave and attentive eye; this however served only to flummox Bard completely, and when he had wound up was sweating like an unbroken filly first confronted with a saddle.  He stood, shaking and wiping the perspiration from his hands on his breeches, while Thranduil and Glóin considered his words; at last when the Elvenking spoke, Bard was so terrified he nearly fell over.

“Meivel, does he speak the truth?”

“He does,” said Meivel.  “Your majesty,” he added, as an afterthought.  Thranduil smiled.

“Well then,” said Thranduil.  “My condolences, Bard, on the death of your lord father.  And my thanks to you for uncovering more of this plot.  I suppose Gith had been promised by his niece a position of higher importance in Dale once she assumed power.  Have you any idea where Malbeach and Renna might be now?”

“Nuh- nuh-nuh no,” said Bard, going white.

“Perhaps they burned up in the fire,” suggested Glóin cheerfully.  “That would be handy.”

“But not very satisfying,” said Thranduil. “I want that man’s head on a spike.”  He filled another goblet, and handed it to Meivel.  “Aderthad!” he called.  “Escort Prince Bard back to the river, and put him under guard with the rest of his men.  When we find the Master of Esgaroth and his little slattern, we will try them all together.”

“Buh-buh-but I – I – I – “ said Bard, and then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor of the tent.  Meivel took a deep draught of wine, Thranduil sighed, and Glóin looked contemplatively at the boy; Aderthad scrambled in, then stood surprised and nonplussed by the pile of bones and skin to which his lord directed him.

“Not easy to escort that,” said Thranduil.  “My apologies, Aderthad.  Just get Orthelian and drag him along between the two of you.  I think I am safe enough without a bodyguard.”

“Yes, your majesty,” grinned Aderthad, and he and his companion took Bard gently by the arms and legs, and bore him away. 

“Silly little goose,” said Thranduil, filling himself a cup.  “Sit down, Meivel.  You certainly deserve it.  My congratulations for extracting his story of him.”

“It was not difficult,” muttered Meivel, though he dropped heavily in a low chair, and let the Elvenking refill his cup.  “I only threatened to geld him.”

“With what?”

Meivel shrugged and took another deep and satisfied drink.  “A sickle.”

Glóin snorted with laughter, and some of the prickles seemed to recede from the captain’s demeanor.  “Good for you!” said Glóin, eyes twinkling.  “I weary of all these concessions to men.  Let them fear us for a change!”

“I will most certainly drink to that,” said Thranduil dryly, touching the rim of his cup to Glóin’s.

“Any further news, Meivel?” asked Glóin, settling back in his chair comfortably.

Meivel shrugged.  “No.”

“What about Methlon?  Does he need further reinforcements?”

“No.”

“So the remainder of the battle goes well?”

“Yes.”

Glóin and Thranduil exchanged knowing looks.  “I am going to postulate that in your friendship with your lord, he provides the majority of the verbiage.”

Meivel gave the Dwarf an odd look.  “Well.  Yes.”

“Hm!” said Glóin, smiling behind his cup.  “I thought so.”

The three fell silent a moment; Thranduil let his head drop wearily to rest on the back of his chair. He was still very thin and pale, bearing the marks of his ensorcelment in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the languid hand that held his cup.  When Meivel had drained the rest of his wine, he rose restlessly to his feet, and fixing the Elvenking with a keen eye said, “Your majesty, do you sense your son?”

Thranduil looked up at his old lieutenant; Meivel’s dark and sullen face hid well the deep concern within.  “Not since many days hence, when I felt his presence move past me,” he said soberly.  “Almost I felt I could touch him, and that he with blind eyes sought some new darkness; but then a hand snatched him back, and he was gone from me.”

Glóin sighed and looked down into his cup; he thought the Elvenking’s vision of his son’s passing by unpropitious, and his heart was heavy on Thranduil’s behalf as well as on his own.  “For if Legolas be gone from us, and my son – O I pray it! – did not follow, will his heart be broken,” he thought, turning the cup round and round in his hands.  “And if my son did follow shall Fréra’s heart break, and mine, too!  O the weight of parenthood; it is a perversion of the worst kind to me for a father to lose his son.”  But steeling himself , and forcing his voice to sound bright and uncaring he said:  “Nothing further then?  You have felt naught since that incident?”

“Nothing yet,” admitted Thranduil.  “It is disappointing.  But since this morning there has been a tickle, the manifestation perhaps of a thought – “  He paused then, head cocked to one side like a dog listening; then he slowly put his cup on the floor.  “A thought of a – “ he began again, then arrested himself, and rose to his feet; Glóin jumped up, and Meivel said, his voice tight:

“What is it, your majesty?”  Then he too paused, and lifted his chin; he appeared to be sampling the air.  “There seems to be a – “

“Yes – “  Thranduil exited the tent, Glóin and Meivel at his heels.  The Elvenking stood upon the ridge, his face to the east; the sun occluded by the reek of Esgaroth’s ruin flickered uneasily on his fierce and ancient face, and his eyes glowed.  “Legolas,” he breathed, and like a lamp lit from within came his grin, presaging a delighted laugh.  “Legolas!” he exclaimed, and looking from side to side he said eagerly:  “My horse – where is my horse, Meivel?  Where is Thunder?”

“I will fetch him, your majesty,” said Meivel, his voice tight with excitement, and fled down the hill.  Glóin too stared at the far ridge, shading his eyes and squinting.

“I can see nothing,” he complained.  “Just grass and rocks.  Thranduil, are you sure – ?”

“Yes, yes!” said Thranduil eagerly, clapping Glóin on the shoulder.  “He is close, so close I can almost touch him!  Quickly, Meivel; quickly!”  Meivel came up the hill at a run, a great dun stallion clattering beside him; his eyes were bright, though his mouth was as sullen and unsmiling as ever.  “Get up, Glóin!” cried Thranduil delightedly, leaping upon his steed’s back.  “Let us go!  And do not tell Baranil, Meivel,” Thranduil added as Meivel aided Glóin upon Thunder’s back.  “I neither want nor need an escort of soldiers.  I know my son comes to me – at last, at last!”  And crying to his horse they cantered away.

Down through the smoky valley they went, Glóin hanging on for dear life; up the next ridge through the stink of debris, finally into clearing air and a freshening breeze.  The westering sun smiled down upon them, and when they surged up over the lip of the hill Glóin and Thranduil could see them at last.

Legolas and Gimli rode among a great company of Dwarves, and upon either side of them rode Tamin upon a little white horse, and Dúrfinwen on a roan mare, bundled and swaddled in cloths and scarves; Dori rode a pony by Dúrfinwen’s side, and there was a strange young Dwarf on a large palfrey.  The Dwarves running point started and exclaimed, but Legolas cried in a loud voice:  “You see!  It is he, it is my Lord Father!  Let the sky shine with diamonds; fathers and sons foregather in peace!”

With a glad cry Thranduil urged Thunder toward them, with Glóin protesting; Legolas and Gimli spurred their steeds on too, and they met in the middle of the grassy field, tumbling from their horses and embracing and laughing.  If Thranduil found his son too thin he did not speak of it, for he knew Legolas also could feel the bone beneath his skin; Glóin was scolding Gimli, and Gimli was laughing.

“You two!” Glóin spluttered.  “You two – you foolhardy, brave idiots!  O I am glad to see you both – “  And he abandoned his son and roughly embraced Legolas, thumping his back and making the Green Knight wince.  “Finally back – finally!  And you managed to find someone, at least.”  He stood back and grinned up at Dúrfinwen, who rode toward them with Tamin and Dori.  “By the heavens, little maid, it is good to see you alive and well!”

“Thank you, Glóin,” she said with a smile, inclining her head and dismounting; she courtesied to the Elvenking.  “Your majest – “

“Come here, silly girl,” growled Thranduil, and smothered her in his embrace.  “Running off like that – you could have gotten yourself killed, and what would my Lady Wife have said to me?”  He held her at arms’ length, and smiled down into her thin, pale face.  “I am very thankful you have returned, Little One.”

“As am I, your majesty,” she said.

“Well!” said Thranduil, grinning and rubbing his hands, and looking round himself.  “Look at all the Dwarves that had to rescue you, my son!  Did it take this many to extract you from your convoluted circumstances?  I will wager anything Bandobras has been very vocal in his disapproval!”  Legolas flinched, and Gimli grimaced; like a cold fist grasping his heart Thranduil looked round again and said with dread:  “Bandobras – my son – where is my little Bandobras?”

Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out; he looked into his father’s stunned face and seemed to wilt.  Then casting himself upon his father’s breast, he wept like a small boy.