(A/N:  Yes.  I know.  At last.

Demon Hunter has a song called "One Thousand Apologies."  Even that seems insufficient for you, dear readers all.  I have reasonable explanations for my long silence, but unless you are truly curious, I will not inflict them on you here.  Simply trust that I am finally well, whole, sane, and happy; and that this chapter, and the following, will wrap up my tale sufficiently.

I love you all.

--Le Rouret)

Chapter 34.   

Of Elves and Men

Bard son of Girion, the uncrowned King of Dale, slunk shamefaced from the encampment, forswearing the dust and noise and camaraderie of the Elves and Dwarves for the quiet and uncaring woods.  There beneath the shady boughs and whispering pine fronds it was cool and quiet, and the fragrant grass and loam was heady with scent.  Chattering, clattering blackbirds with their speckled backs squabbled and squawked in the high branches, and Bard paused and looked up, watching the avian congress with puckered brow.  Just as he turned to press deeper into the wood, one of the birds let release its expulsion of filth, and it landed with a splat on his rather dirty epaulette; irritated and mortified, and ashamed of himself for feeling embarrassment before mere birds, he tried to wipe it off with a bunch of hastily plucked leaves; it but left a sticky smear on the fabric, and with a low heart he ducked beneath a low rock outcropping and pressed on.

Bard was supremely miserable.  He was, he determined rather gloomily, the miserablest person in Rhovanion, and possibly in all of Middle-Earth.  No one, he thought, could possibly be more miserable than he.  And did he not have adequate reason to be miserable, and to wallow in his misery?  His dear, loud, good-natured mother dead; his grim, silent, strong father betrayed and slowly poisoned; his beautiful and treacherous aunt sly and twisted, his most trusted servant a traitor to the throne of Dale.  And all these Dwarves angry at him for his family’s involvement with Esgaroth and Malbeach – it was not their fault!  They did not know! – and all those Elves, those horrible, beautiful, terrifying, dangerous Elves, sneering at him, looking down their noses at him, thinking he was naught but some inexperienced, ignorant, weak pup, thrown into a position of authority, and muffing it as soon as he tried to do something with it.

Meivel’s disdain lay heavy on his heart; he at once resented and feared it, and desired nothing more than to prove to that alarming fellow that he was every bit as capable of daring and bravery and quick thinking as the next man.  And Thorin Stonehelm – a daunting King Under the Mountain, with his black eyes and deep gravelly voice, and one could not tell what he was thinking, hidden behind all that black hair.  And Baranil – tall, forbidding, cold, dry, sarcastic Baranil, looking down upon one with such condescending pity.  And Thranduil, the Elvenking!  There were no words to describe Bard’s fear of the Elvenking.  Shrouded in the mysteries of the ages, immortal, immutable, magical, fierce and intractable; Bard had seen him but rarely, and had nightmares about that stubborn and uncompromising warrior.  It did not help that Bard had swooned in his presence – and before Meivel, too! – Bard was terribly ashamed of his weakness, and begrudged them the amusement they must take at his expense.  His cheeks burned with shame just thinking of it.

He stomped uphill, stumbling over stones and tripping on roots, reviewing in his mind’s eye a most satisfying scene, of his triumph upon a battlefield, and Meivel in disgrace; the Elvenking and Thorin Stonehelm watching him admiring as he sat upon a large white horse, his armor gleaming, swinging a sword covered with his enemy’s gore.  And upon the edge of battle – perhaps rescued by his own hand, though his imagination failed to concoct a reasonable excuse for her presence – the lovely, the unapproachable, the delightfully dimpled mercer of Dol Galenehtar, with her thick chestnut curls and dark eyes, so much lovelier than Aunt Renna’s had ever been, clasping her white hands together, her eyes starry, her mouth sighing with veneration, gazing longingly upon him … well, there Bard’s imagination failed him again; he was an honest enough boy to admit that battles might be won, enemies might be slain, and Elvenkings and Dwarven kings might be impressed, but no gangly, pale, awkward son of Men could woo the heart of so fair an Elven lady.

He stumped through the thicket, snagging his breeches on vines and thorns and grumbling as he tore his sleeves on grasping branches; he scarce noted the rabbits scattering as he approached, and the cautious sidelong stares of the birds in their brakes.  He was just muttering disapprobations to himself, his eyes downcast and unseeing of the tangled underbrush upon which he stumbled, when he realized with a start that there was someone standing next to a gnarled oak tree, watching him.

He arrested himself, his heart hammering; his vision seemed to recede from fear, and then through his swimming sight his eyes coalesced upon the form of a slim youth, crowned with brilliant gold and with starry grey eyes, face immutably fair and friendly, though his eyes were cautious.  He was clad in a neat, if somewhat undersized, tunic and hose, and seemed rather overthin; however the expression upon the lad’s face was composed and serious and, Bard thought, rather pig-headed.

Bard felt supremely graceless and uncomfortable.  The young man was an Elf, and a bright and fair and imposing Elf despite his youth; simply the look of knowledge and experience and serenity in that immortal face was enough to cause Bard to want to shrink back into the bushes and crawl under a rock.  The weight of those imperious, stubborn eyes rested upon his, calculating and thoughtful; then to Bard’s surprise, the youth carefully set down all his many packages, and throwing one leg forward, lowered himself into a deep and graceful bow.

“Your majesty,” said the lad soberly.

Bard gaped.  No one, not even his own subjects, had given to him such a bow; most were wont, when confronted with the heir to the throne of Dale, to simply nod and smile upon passing, or in court give but a precursory bob.  He stared open-mouthed at the lad, who straightened and regarded him with a critical eye.  After a long moment during which Bard racked his brain for something to say, and came up rather short, the lad cleared his throat and politely said, “Your majesty, it is customary amongst the mortal folk with whom I am the more readily acquainted to respond to such a courtesy with a nod or a phrase.  Are the formalities in Rhovanion so different from those to which I am habituated in the fair and sunny South?”

Bard gaped some more, then caught the light of irritation in the lad’s eye; he stammered quickly – “O no – not so different – I beg your pardon – “  and then as an afterthought he nodded.  The lad grimaced, and shook his head.

“Your majesty,” he said firmly.  “I am an esquire, and you a king.  I have just bowed to you.  Do you please respond as a monarch and not a mouse.  Nod to me, and display no contrition.”

“Oh, of course!” said Bard, very bewildered.  “Er – yes – “  he stared at the lad, who regarded him gravely; then nodded and added quickly, “I am so sorry, I do not – “

“No contrition!” snapped the lad, his face darkening.  “Goodness gracious!  You are the king of Dale!  Straighten your back!  Raise your head!  Shoulders back!  Chin up!  My word!  Are you bold or bland?”  Wordlessly Bard obeyed the boy’s commands, his eyes a little wild.  “Better!  Now!  Let us do this again.  I bow – “  The leg extended, the golden head stooped, its mass of yellow hair sweeping the moss.  “You nod – “  Bard, gaping, inclined his head; the lad made an angry huff.  “Close your mouth!  You are a king – regal – majestic!  Not some fly-catching, ill-mannered clout!  Again!”  The lad bowed, and Bard, feeling very wooly-headed, shut his mouth with a click, goggled at the boy, and inclined his head wordlessly.  “Ah!” said the lad, straightening and tucking several glossy golden strands behind one leaf-shaped ear.  “Much better!”  He paused, and both boys regarded each other carefully.  “Yes,” said the lad thoughtfully. “Much better.  Though some bird has shat on your shoulder.”

Bard scraped at it, embarrassed.  “Well – “

“O do not apologize again,” said the lad irritably.  “Where is your esquire? What!  You have no esquire?  Then bird shit on your shoulder is not so strange a thing; it is beneath a king’s dignity to wipe off bird shit, you know; it is not very regal, is it?  The first thing you ought to do, your majesty, when the disagreeableness in Dale is wound up, is to select for yourself a competent esquire, one that will wipe the bird shit off for you.”  He brushed briskly at the whitish stain; to Bard’s surprise it flaked off in a little grey cloud.  “There!” said the lad.  “Much improved.”  He paused, and Bard paused too, feeling a little better; then the boy said:  “I apologize, by the way, O King of Dale, for slaying your aunt.”

Bard gaped at him, realizing at last who the boy was, and whence he had come.  So this, he thought, was Tamin the esquire of the Green Knight; this was the boy who had with the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and the son of Glóin of Erebor slain the awful dragon Muhk.  He did not look much like a mighty warrior; but then, Bard mused, he himself did not resemble the boy who had rallied his father’s wavering troops and led them shouting to burn the town of Esgaroth to the ground.  He cocked his head and studied the esquire; the boy’s grey eyes were flinty and proud, and did not convey to him what he supposed ought to be a proper amount of contrition despite the apology.  “You do not seem sorry,” he said, a little resentfully.

The boy flushed then, and dropped his gaze.  “Well,” he said, a little shamefaced.  “I am not truly sorry.  Not really.”

“No?”  said Bard.  “Well, I am not truly sorry she is dead, so I suppose there is no existent need for an apology.”

The lad frowned.  “I have slain a member of your royal family,” he said stubbornly.  “An apology is the lowest form of my reparation.”

“She was a traitor,” insisted Bard, angry at the thought of this sunny fellow expressing contrition, no matter how false, for ridding Dale of Renna.  “A trafficker in evil; a conniver of iniquity.  She slew her own children, my cousins, the poor wee things; she conspired to murder mine own dear father!  I cannot say her loss shall lose me a moment’s respite!”

The lad’s face cleared, and he smiled; Bard suddenly felt as though storm clouds had parted, and the sun in its fulgence beamed down upon him in glory.  “Truly?” said the young Elf eagerly.  “Then it would please you to know she died in agony, the poison of Morgoth coursing through her veins?”

“Please me!” cried Bard happily.  “O I thought you slew her cleanly!  Nay, O esquire of the Elves;  if she suffered in her passage to Bannoth’s halls, then I am the more pleased with you, and I shall give unto you the courtesy, and forswear yours.”  He threw his leg forward, and bowing low said:  “Esquire of the Elves, come to me from the sunny south in Gondor, I thank you for your aid in vanquishing mine enemies, though they are of mine own blood.”

The lad clapped his hands, and gave a delightful laugh then, bubbling with all the joy of a baby’s first chuckle, and Bard’s spirits rose as though he had drained every goblet in his lord father’s halls.  He looked up; the boy was bowing too, and smiling happily.  “O I am so satisfied!” the esquire said, his voice full of happiness.  “How feared I of your disapprobation, for it should focus so detrimentally upon my master’s back, now that the other kings have decided to lift your arrest!  And how sorry I am for your bereavement,” he added, his face instantly dolorous.  “If you like I shall loan to you mine own Adar, for he is a jolly and clement man, and wise too after his own right, and my Nana a beauty as well; they are at a bit of a loss, with me being my Master’s esquire, and would probably like the challenge of a new boy to raise.  Though to be sure, you are doing fine on your own,” he added judiciously; “the burning of Esgaroth was quite nice.”

“Think you so?” asked Bard anxiously.  “I did wonder, you know, if I was laying it on a bit thick.”

“O not at all,” protested the boy.  “It was lovely.  The inn, the Master’s Hall, everything up in flames.  Very gratifying, I must say; mine only regret is that I did not get to see it from the start.  What a jolly conflagration it must have been!”

“It felt quite fine,” admitted Bard.  “But now I am wondering, you know, if I truly did the right thing.  I mean, the followers of Malbeach; I have no concern for them.  But all those women and children, you know – “

“Your concern behooves you, your Majesty,” said the lad solemnly.  “And I tell you, that kindliness speaks louder to me than the flames you sent aloft.  I have been assured, your majesty, that their welfare is a foremost concern; you are quite right I believe to ruminate upon their fate.  Here,” he added, handing Bard a couple of skins.  “Take this.  My leg is still a tad woddly, and I would not spill Meivel’s wine for anything.”

“Meivel!”  All Bard’s confidence fled and he went white, and a low pit of dread froze his belly.  “You go to the terrible Meivel!”

“Terrible be blowed!” said the boy disdainfully.  “Meivel, terrible?  He is only ill-tempered; ignore his rantings.  And if you think that he is bad, you have obviously not met his sister; Meivel runs hot, but brr!  Andunië is cold as ice.”  He threw the skin-straps over his shoulders and hiked a bag under one arm with a welcoming smile.  “Come!” he said.  “My Master is waiting, and he is anxious to make your acquaintance, your majesty, and to discuss with you the billeting of the refugees of Esgaroth.”  The lad limped away; when he realized Bard still stood frozen holding the wine skins he turned and said impatiently:  “Well, come on then!  You think Meivel terrible?  You have seen naught ‘til you have beheld my Master denied his red wine.  Step up, your Majesty!  And hold your head high!  You are the king of a proud and rich township; do you not let these Elvish upstarts make you feel denigrated.”  Bard hesitated, then remembered how the lad had bowed to him, and expected from him stately manners and not stammers; he took heart and followed, his mouth dry; he did not see how the lad smiled when his back was turned.

The Elvish esquire nattered away as they wove through brake and clearing, his voice bright and clear like the chiming of the bells of Bard’s city; he spoke easily, as though he and Bard had been acquainted for many years, and Bard was put strangely at ease, listening to him chatter on.  “I have nicked five skins of wine,” Tamin said cheerfully, “and a wheel of cheese and some dried sausage, and a nice sackful of nuts and desiccated fruits in crystallized honey.  The cups were a challenge,” he admitted, easily negotiating a rather treacherous series of stepping-stones across a brook, and extending a hand to help Bard.  “It seemed an insult to a wine of this vintage to serve it in aught but the finest crystal; but crystal and its poor cousin glass, though the proper vessels from which to drink red wine, are brittle and noisy when transported, and I had managed to escape notice, so it shall be, I fear, but wooden goblets for my lord and his friends.”  He cocked his head, his shining hair glistening in the slanting rays of the sun, and smiled sweetly.  “Yes,” he murmured under his breath.  “It will do, won’t it?”

It seemed to Bard then that the esquire did not speak to him at all, but to some unseen companion; so he said naught but only tramped by the boy’s side.  But after a moment the esquire stopped dead in his tracks, an astonished look on his face.  “Your majesty!” he exclaimed.

“What!” cried Bard, looking around a little wildly.

“I have not introduced myself!” cried the boy.  “Why, that is highly irregular of me!”

“You have no need to introduce yourself,” said Bard, surprised.  “You said you were an esquire, and that you slew my aunt.  I deduced therefore that you are Tamin son of Rúmil, esquire of Prince Legolas of Eryn Lasgalen.”

“How intelligent you are!” exclaimed the boy, his face brightening.  “Though you are only partway there.  I am Tamin son of Rúmil, esquire of Lord Legolas of Dol Galenehtar – a small difference, you might think, but a mighty important distinction to me.”

“Well, that is up to you and not I,” said Bard, mystified.  “Is Dol Galenehtar such a marvelous dwelling, then, that you disdain your lord’s birthplace for love of it?”

“It is, and I do!” sighed Tamin then, and setting his numerous packages down he sat, a little heavily, on an outflung tree root, rubbing his leg as though it pained him.  “A marvelous place, your majesty; a tremendous and beautiful demesne!  O how high and golden-white are its towers, which stretch with bounding grace to the heavens!  How the rooks wheel and cry round the campaniles when the bells sound and echo back their voices from the steppes!  How the green slopes bloom and burgeon with grapes and olives and herbs and peaches, and the cataracts and waterfalls sweep round the shining cliffs!  And the scents, O your majesty; O how delightful it smells – pine and almond-blossom, thyme and rosemary; fresh hay and cold water, and in the quadrangle the smell of the smithy, with Hwindiö hard at work near the bellows, and the straw in the stables, and the fresh crackling bread from the ovens, and roasted venison and ox from the kitchen, and the way puppies’ ears smell when they are only a few weeks old, the dear fat soft little things with their teeth like needles … “  He sighed then, his eyes very far away.  “It is marvelous – marvelous,” he said softly.  “And I want to return so badly – and yet … “  He trailed off, and a darkness seemed to cover his face.  Bard had been so caught up in the beauty of his words that this puzzled and alarmed him; he said anxiously:

“Yet – what?”

“Hm?”  Tamin turned to him, his eyes bright and present once more.  “Oh!  Well, it is a silly thing, your majesty, and I’m sure far beneath your interest.”  At Bard’s polite gesture Tamin blushed and said, “It – is concerning my dearest friend, Fastred – we quarreled right before I left, and I was not able to make it up to him.”

“I see,” said Bard gravely.  “So the remembrance of your lord’s demesne, and your desire to return there, is tainted by the unresolved issue between you and your friend Fastred, and causes you to at once long for and dread your return.”

“Yes, your majesty, that is it precisely,” said Tamin eagerly.  “How intelligent you are!   And it was a stupid quarrel, too,” he added, looking sad.  “How I wish I could go back and unsay things I have said!  Then perhaps we would not have parted so.  But still,” he added thoughtfully, “he said some pretty awful things to me, which he would have to unsay first, so I am not sure where that would leave me.”

“You would not wish to be puling, and let him abuse you,” insisted Bard.  “Betimes it is better to say what you think in a quarrel than to let someone walk all over you.”  He shook his head, his eyes owlish.  “Trust me,” he added darkly.  “I know.  O that I had inherited more of my mother’s outspoken ways!”

“You are plenty outspokenish now, your majesty,” Tamin pointed out.  “And I do not find it offensive in the slightest.  You are right, of course; when one is the recipient of some undeserved abuse, it is often better to fight back than let the wrongdoer think he is right; otherwise he will continue on in his idiocy, and one be thought to approve of it.”  Tamin huffed.  “And it was idiocy indeed!  Letting Halgond walk out with his girl,” he said scornfully.  “I ought to have hit both of them, and taken a switch to Léodwyn's backside.  Love,” he sniffed.  “What utter nonsense!  I hope I am wise enough to avoid it!”

Bard thought of Dúrfinwen then, and her dancing dark eyes and lovely curls, and sighed; Tamin regarded him thoughtfully and rose to his feet.  “Well!” he said.  “We had best be moving, else my lord and his friends will die of thirst out here.  And I would not have Princess Anóriel denied her corner of cheese and sup of wine.”

“Anóriel?  Dúrfinwen?” shouted Bard, leaping to his feet and upsetting all his packages.  “Here?  In the woods?  Near us?”  His hands went to his hair, trying in vain to plaster it down upon his head, and he brushed at his doublet.  “I, I have no offering for her,” he stammered, “and I must look a fright – “

“Pish!” scoffed Tamin.  “You look no worse than any of us do, who have been knocking round these woods without a bath or brush!  Come along, your majesty; I will bet you three pennies that she will appreciate a dram of wine more than any posey you might pick along the path.”

“Truly?” asked Bard anxiously, gathering up his packages with haste and stumbling after Tamin.  “A dram of wine more than a posey?’’  He followed along after the lad for a moment, then said worriedly:  “What about a gold brace?  Would she like a gold brace?”

“Hush!” said Tamin irritably.  “Why do you speak of posies and gold braces concerning the Princess Anóriel?  As though she had nothing else to think of but love-making!”

“But all maids love love-making,” protested Bard, crashing through the brakes and bobbling a skin of wine, catching it but barely with one hand.  “Flowers and songs and whatnot.  It is what they like.”

Tamin turned then, his face like a thunder-storm, eyes flashing as lightning; when he spoke his voice was low and threatening, and Bard stopped in his tracks.  “Not Anóriel,” Tamin said firmly.  “Not she.  Not anymore, if she did ever.  Great Elbereth above,” he added, frowning when Bard flinched back.  “Of us all had Belias the greatest chance, and he is gone – “  Tamin choked on the word then, and his eyes were tragic, and glassy with unshed tears.  He cleared his throat, and said more clearly:  “Gone.”  Then he turned on his heel, and limped away, Bard scrambling to keep up, his heart like lead.

They tramped on a little ways, Tamin saying nothing, though Bard noted he sniffed on occasion, and crossly wiped at his eyes when he thought Bard was not looking.  They came after some minutes upon a little dell filled with clover and slanting sunlight, and a magpie warbled on an oak branch; then with a suddenness that made Bard yelp an Elf dropped out of the tree in front of them, his flossy fair hair flying like snakes round his face; his eyes were sparkling with mischief.  “Got you!” he said, and despite Tamin’s protests he tackled both boys and brought them to the ground; Bard could feel the lean muscle and spare skeleton beneath the soft leather tunic.  Head spinning, and groping desperately for his packages, Bard sat up, panting a little; there was the crunch of leaves and the snapping of branches, and Tamin’s voice protesting:  “Master, Master, enough!  You are squashing the cheese!”

“Is it wrapped in wax, Little One?”

“No!  I stole it from Galion after he had opened it.  Now it will have dirt in it!”

 Bard wheeled round; Tamin sat there, gingerly unwrapping a broken wheel of cheese from a cloth; the bright-eyed, bright-haired Elf knelt before him, examining it closely.  “No harm done,” said the Elf cheerfully.  “It looks quite toothsome!  Where is the wine?  I am parched!”

“Goodness gracious me!” grumbled Tamin, struggling to his feet and brushing the leaves and dirt from his clothes.  “Could you not have waited until after I delivered the food?”

“My apologies, Little One; I am so filled with elation at your return that I could not help myself.”  The Elf rolled round to his feet, looked down at Bard, and cocked his head; his mouth slid into a grin.  “Well!  Hello there.”

It took a great effort on Bard’s part to not gape again when he realized he sat before the legendary truant Prince of Mirkwood, who had left the Elvenking’s demesne long ere Bard was born or thought of; he thought hectically to himself that gaping was really something he should be working on, and wondered if he could somehow untrain his gaping tendencies.  His heart hammering, he struggled upright, and wobbled into a crooked bow.  “Your highness,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Highness!  Faugh,” laughed the Green Knight, striding forward and clasping Bard by the hand.  “How pleased I am that Tamin found you and dragged you along!  I have been meaning to thank you, your majesty, for burning Esgaroth; but Gimli and I have issue with you, that you burnt the tilt also; we had hoped to reserve that especial pleasure for ourselves.”

“I, er,” said Bard, painfully aware he was being terribly inelegant.  “I apologize – “

“Enough of that,” said Tamin briskly.  “There are entirely too many apologies round here for my taste.  Here, Master!  Take these skins.  And that bag, it has the dried fruit in it.  The poor cheese,” he muttered, brushing it off.  “So pretty it was, too!  Well, I’ll pare it and make you eat the hard bits; Anóriel and Seimiel can have the soft stuff in the middle.”  The three of them turned, and headed up the dell to a clearing, light-speckled and filled with bright cheerful voices and song.  Bard stared, bemused; it seemed to him as though the sun lit up the green leaves until they glowed, and that the Elves’ voices drifting down to him mingled with the warbling of the magpie.  It was all very magical, and he wondered if he ought to be afraid.  But when they broke into the clearing and he saw the Princess Anóriel, Dúrfinwen of Dol Galenehtar, sitting in a pale green dress upon a snowy white rug, her shapely head swathed in fine silver-shot gauze, his entrails did a loop-the-loop, and melted like butter left in the summer sun overlong.  She turned her dark eyes upon him, red lips parted in a startled smile, and the blood rushed into Bard’s ears; his knees were filled with water, and he scarce heard the voices of the others greeting him, and introducing themselves.

“Vé son of Búri at your service,” a young Dwarf said, and another added, “And I am Nír – and here is Gimli son of Glóin; I am sure you are anxious to make his acquaintance – “

“I cannot imagine the sentiment is reciprocated,” said a low harsh voice then, and all Bard’s floating bliss burned away; he turned with dread to behold the terrible, the sarcastic, the short-tempered Meivel, glowering darkly at him beneath his untidy mop of hair.  That terrifying Elf frowned suspiciously at him, his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted firmly, impeding Bard’s progress; but then the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen laughed, a bright cheerful sound, and clapping his Captain upon the shoulder said merrily:

“Enough of that, Meivel my friend!  We all know you are cross with me; do you not take it out on poor Bard here, dear boy; it is not his fault your lord is such a silly fellow!  Father and Stonehelm have agreed to release him and his men for their acts upon the field of battle, and there is now no longer any reason for suspicion.  Give Anóriel her wine,” he said to Bard, eyes twinkling; Meivel stomped grumbling away, and Bard took a deep breath.  “Fill her goblet to the brim,” muttered Legolas, glancing sideways at the ladies on the blanket.   “Well does she deserve it, the dear little thing!”

Bard nearly fell to his knees at Anóriel’s side, his heart in his throat, and scarce noting the lady who sat beside her.  The princess smiled up at him, dark eyes twinkling, and took from Tamin a wooden cup; she held it up to Bard expectantly.  He worried the cork from the skin, and poured the dark wine into her cup; its rich heady scent filled the glade.

“By heaven!” exclaimed a Dwarf sitting nearby.  “That is a fine tipple!  Tamin, what did you steal?”

“Procure,” corrected Tamin primly.  “I did not steal it; I procured it, O Vé.  I procured five skins of the best vintage from Esgaroth that Galion had set aside for the Queen’s arrival.”  He glanced deprecatingly at Legolas.  “I hope your Lady Mother forgives me!”

“O she will,” Legolas assured her, holding out two cups; Bard filled them both, and Legolas handed one back to Gimli, and taking the skin from him gave Bard the full cup instead.  “She loves me, and will gainsay me naught, for I have brought her favorite girl back to her.”  He snatched another cup from Tamin, and filling it he smiled down at Dúrfinwen, who looked archly up at him over the rim of her own cup of wine.  “Drain the skins!  I wish to propose a toast!”

“A toast!” cried all the others; Bard looked round, and beheld the little party; Meivel stood, watching soberly as Tamin filled his cup; Gimli Lord of Aglarond was there, with the young Dwarf Vé, and another Dwarf was topping their cups with the rich dark wine, and laughing; with a great shout Legolas lifted his cup aloft, his face shining with joy.  “To the new Master of Esgaroth!” he cried, and saluted Bard, who choked on his wine; but all the others, Meivel excepted, called:  “The new Master!” and drank to him.  Meivel muttered under his breath, ill-temper seething round his head; Tamin however clipped him with his elbow as he passed, and made Meivel spill a little on his tunic.  The Captain glared, but Tamin said smoothly:

“O, hush!  You have overused your ill-temper, like a poorly made leather cuirass, and it is quite worn out!  Drink your wine and toast his majesty, and do stop acting like a billy-goat, Meivel!”

Legolas and Gimli shouted with laughter, and Meivel flushed; the fair-haired woman seated beside Anóriel however chided the esquire.  “O Tamin, you should not speak to your elders so.”

“My leg hurts, Seimiel,” said Tamin evenly.  “The pain makes me tetchy; I cannot help myself.  Meivel will forgive me for it.”  He turned to the captain, who had already drained his cup and glared at the esquire; Tamin but filled the cup again, and said sweetly:  “For his dear friend Liquíseleé will vouch for me; a broken limb is nothing to sneeze at, you know, and I have walked two miles on it just to bring him this noble vintage.”  Meivel glowered down at him but spoke not; the others all laughed, and Tamin smiled engagingly up at him.   “You will forgive me, won’t you, Meivel?” he said agreeably.  “For I am a poor young esquire, wounded and far from my home, and you would not hold a word spoken in haste against me!”

“Not if his sister has aught to say of it!” boomed Gimli, holding out his already empty cup for Legolas to fill.  Legolas obliged, grinning, and Meivel threw back his second cup, and held it out to his lord with the glint of challenge in his dark sullen eyes.  Legolas filled it for him, his face alight with mirth, and taking and filling a cup for himself he held it out to Meivel and said merrily:  “O my Meivel, my dear old friend, my brother-in-arms, my point-guard, my cold blade of logic neatly dissecting his lord’s nonsense!  To you, O my Captain, who disdaining Galás’ command hunted me swifter and fiercer than flies the falcon!  To Meivel, the Sober and Conscientious!”

“Sober and Conscientious!” cried all the others, Bard excepted; he was struggling to control his gaping again, and watched amazed as they cheered and toasted scowling Meivel, who nonetheless drank with them, grumpily conceding their accolades; Tamin and Gimli went round refilling goblets, and Meivel looked around at the little assembly, then said sourly:

“A toast.”

He held up his goblet, and all the others did so as well, looking at him with bright expectancy; Bard waited, wondering what lashing of sarcasm might be visited upon this merry group by the forbidding fellow.  But all Meivel said was:

“To Seimiel and Liquíseleé, who caught me up.”

Seimiel gave a delighted laugh, and all the rest cried:  “To Seimiel and Liquíseleé!”  Bard drained his cup, mightily puzzled; it had not occurred to him until that point to wonder how two ladies of the southern demesnes had managed to come all that way with Meivel.  That they had pursued and met up with him, and that Meivel had likewise pursued his lord without permission, surprised and enheartened him; he felt better knowing he had not been the only person doing mad things without proper authorization.  He turned to Seimiel and Anóriel, whose arms were wound with comfortable familiarity round each others’ waists; they seemed to him then like a random arrangement of wild flowers, all white and green and red and yellow, strewn haphazardly and charmingly upon a simple cloth.  “I am ignorant of the tale of your coming to my lands,” he said shyly.  “Please do you, O lady Seimiel, relate to me the account of your journey!”

“Be seated, your majesty, and I shall,” laughed Seimiel; her grey eyes twinkled.  Bard sat a little heavily upon a root; Tamin limped over and refilled his goblet silently, though his eyes looked satisfied.  “The tale begins with Meivel’s insubordination actually,” said Seimiel, throwing the captain an arch look; Meivel merely bowed his head politely for her to continue; she laughed again and added:  “My lord’s seneschal will have all our hides when we return to Dol Galenehtar I fear … and Galás though merry can show his temper like a maelstrom!”

“Galás frightens me not,” growled Meivel, and Gimli burst out laughing; when the captain gave him a curious look Gimli chuckled:  “He will be unsurprised by that declaration!  Poor Galás!”

“Do you not ‘poor Galás’ the seneschal,” sniffed Seimiel.  “What a stubborn, intractable, stiff-necked mule!  No one’s arguments, not Meivel’s nor mine nor even Lord Faramir’s, moved him to send out an assessing party; it was the army or naught – Nórin took him to task for it, poor fellow, and got an earful for his efforts.  In the end Himbaláth came to me under cover of night to tell me Galás and Meivel had quarreled – “

“Quarreled,” snorted Vé.  “I heard they were going at it hammer-and-tongs!”

“Who told you that?” asked Nír curiously.

“Liquíseleé,” said Vé.  “Mighty fine-looking woman she is; I always liked yellow hair in a maid.”

“Not much of a beard, though.”

“I shall forgive her that, I think!  Such juicy gossip she tells,” said Vé, grinning at Meivel.  “Quite a dust-up, from her account.”

Meivel shrugged.  “Yes,” he said indifferently.

“Did it come to blows, Meivel?” asked Legolas hopefully.

Meivel wordlessly pointed to his cheek-bone, and Legolas laughed.  “What a shame I missed it!  I have not seen you two scrap in over a century!”  Meivel but shrugged again, and Gimli said:

“Go on, Seimiel!  Tell us the rest of the tale!”

“There is little to tell, really,” said Seimiel.  “Himbaláth told me my husband had run off after his lord, and that Galás forbade Meivel to go in pursuit, despite the Prince of Emyn Arnen’s disquiet; Meivel in secret slipped out of the demesne unmarked during a patrol, and was two days gone ere Galás realized what he had done.  While the seneschal raged, Liquíseleé and I took stock of the situation; I missed my husband, and Liquíseleé knew her services would likely be required; so we took us to horse and chased him down.”  She turned to Meivel, likewise raising her own cup.  “You are a challenge!” she said; “I salute you, Meivel, O Sober-and-Conscientious!  My lord chose rightly in his appointment of captain!”

Meivel raised his cup to her wordlessly, and laughing Seimiel drained her own.  “More wine!” she cried, and Legolas refilled her cup, and against Dúrfinwen’s protests filled the mercer’s as well.  “And a toast to my Kaimelas!” cried Seimiel.  “For this afternoon he sat up and demanded a leg of lamb and a tankard of ale!”

“To Kaimelas!” cried all the others, and laughing drank deeply.

Bard sipped at his wine, looking round owlishly.  He wasn’t entirely positive if it were the libations, or the sight of Meivel looking mellow, or the Elves and Dwarves treating him as though he had every right to be there with them, but his apprehension faded, and his heart and stomach settled; he listened to the growly deep voices of the Dwarves, and the clear chiming Elvish tongue, and overall the whisper of the breeze in the pines and the hesitant chatter of birds in the branches, and felt his soul quicken: the grief was there, and the concern for his peoples’ future too; but his diffidence and deep trepidation faded, and with it diminished also the high hum of anxiety, which had played a hectic and confused solo in the front of his mind for months.  He stretched out his long gangly legs, noticing bemusedly that his boots were no dirtier than Meivel’s or Legolas’; he sipped from a plain wooden cup, just as Gimli and the other Dwarves did; he watched the Princess Anóriel lay her head upon her dear friend’s shoulder, and receive a tender kiss for the effort; warmth spread through his chest, and he began to wonder if perhaps he could be a good king like his father, and ensure hope revisit his beleaguered Dale at last.

They ate all Tamin’s procured comestibles, including the maligned cheese, and drained all five skins of wine, and by the time the clearing fell into cool blue shadows, the swallows came out, and swooped round the trees snapping up the little clouds of gnats; owls hooted, and the breeze died.  Legolas danced round the clearing, laughing and singing, telling terrible and sometimes improper jokes; Bard found himself laughing, and speaking with comfort to the two ladies, and to the Dwarves; though he was content to let Meivel stand silent in the shadows, merely watching.  In fact Bard did not notice when Meivel slipped away at first; he only realized, when Vé and Nír began arguing about the right way to make a pitchless torch, that the captain was gone.  The sky purpled and stars twinkled faintly in the lavender dome, and then Legolas gave a great leap, and cried aloud:

“My Lady Mother; my Lady Mother!  The great Queen Edlothiel comes at last!”  He laughed and clapped his hands together and said:  “On your feet, my dear friends and companions!  Let us follow Meivel again, to where my sovereign lady approaches!”

Far from apprehension Bard felt within himself the stirrings of excitement; he had seen Queen Edlothiel a bare handful of times, and never spoken with her; however he had spent long hours staring at his bedroom ceiling contemplating that benevolent and lovely face, and mulling over the tender wisdom she was purported to have.  He rose and dusted himself off, handing his cup to Tamin, and found himself offering his hand to aid Princess Anóriel and then pretty Seimiel to their feet; the ladies thanked him for his gentility and both took his arms, so that he walked between them, his head spinning with their light chiming voices and bright eyes.  Legolas began to sing, a lighthearted walking song that did not sound in the least bit Elvish; Gimli joined him with a laugh, and they hooked their elbows together and marched along in a jolly fashion together.  In thus way they came up out of the woods into the deepening twilight, leaving branch and leaf behind to welcome the blazon of stars across the heavens, and the torchlight that mimicked it in the field below them.  There was a great company assembled, and the buzz of excited voices; then two heralds with torches approached and bowed.

“The Queen of Eryn Lasgalen, Edlothiel of Cardolan, bids her son, Prince Legolas of Dol Galenehtar, to come forth to her assembly, so that they greet and inform each other concerning the recent events,” said one herald formally, though Bard noted he was grinning; he wondered if such insubordination ran rampant in all Elvish kingdoms.

“Iyavas!” cried Legolas happily.  “What a pleasure to see you again!  Of course I shall meet with Mother; she is in all likelihood going to fuss at me for not writing ahead.”  He and Gimli strode into the assembly towards the mass of torches at the center; there standing beside her husband, the great and terrible Elvenking, stood Edlothiel of Cardolan, gleaming in a spotless haubergeon with a sword bound round her waist; her head was crowned with a shining helm that was eclipsed by the burnished silver of her hair.  She gazed upon her son and his companions with a gentle smile, and held out her hands; Legolas dropped to his knees to kiss them, and she raised him to his feet and embraced him.

“My beloved son,” she said, and turning to Gimli she kissed him.  “And his faithful companion!  How pleased am I to hear of your mighty deeds!”

“Thank you, O Lady Mother!” said Legolas cheerfully.  “We have drunk up your wine, I fear.  Did you bring any extra?”

The Elves and Dwarves standing round all laughed, including the Elvenking, who said, “O my son, it is not wine we bring you; it is aught to make you a little more sober than you are at the moment!”   And standing aside he gestured to a Man who had stood quietly behind him in the shadows.  The Man stepped forward and threw back his hood; his dark hair was flecked with gray, and though Bard saw no jewel nor circlet nor outward sign of royalty, the Man proved the weight of his command in his very carriage.  Legolas started back, eyes wide; he said something incomprehensible, which sounded to Bard very much like, “Erk,” which, he supposed, was not really Elvish at all.  Gimli stepped forward, looking very surprised, and exclaimed:

“Aragorn!”

The Man regarded Elf and Dwarf gravely; at last Legolas swallowed and said hesitantly:  “Er … how much trouble am I in?”

The Man looked down at his fingernails thoughtfully.  “From me?  Not much at all, barring your unwillingness to let me in on your secrets, old friend, precluding me from any of the fun.  From your royal cousin, the seneschal of Dol Galenehtar?  Quite a bit – you and Meivel both.”

“Hm,” said Gimli, his eyes narrowing; and Legolas grimaced; however Tamin pushed forward boldly, his chin held high, and giving a precursory bow – nothing at all like the elaborate courtesy he had given Bard – he piped up firmly, “Begging your pardon, your majesty, if it is any consolation,  we did not have any fun to speak of – not one scrap, really, so you missed very little.” 

“Indeed!” said the King of Gondor, smiling down at Tamin.  “Well then, your Master is forgiven, Tamin son of Rúmil; and I shall forgive you too, for you aided in taking down one of the spawn of Morgoth, and his misguided servants, and so restored order and peace to Rhovanion.”

“It was more of a committee effort,” said Tamin gravely.  He stepped aside and gestured to Bard, with a look on his face that brooked no hesitance; Dúrfinwen and Seimiel released Bard and gave him a little push forward.  Feeling very gawky and unschooled indeed Bard approached King Elessar of Gondor, hoping he didn’t gape at all; Tamin propelled him up to the king and said:   “Your majesty, may I present his majesty, King Bard of Dale, who wrested command of his Lord Father’s troops from a traitor, and so turned the tide of the battle for Esgaroth, and subsequently burnt it to the ground, which I thought a nice touch.  Bard, this is his majesty, King Elessar of Gondor and several other places too, and he’s also got other names, which is rather confusion-making so I will not bother to recite them, and anyway I have forgotten half of them already.  But he is less stern than he looks, and has a lovely wife, and quite a nice kingdom, and he sings rather well when he’s had a glass or two of wine.”  He turned to Elessar then and said, a little deprecatingly:  “I’m sorry to say that I killed his aunt, your majesty, which I understand is a misfeance of some great proportion, and my Master was going to take the guilt of it upon his own head; but King Bard has very kindly said she was a bad sort, and the perpetrator of all the trouble round here, so apparently we are quits now.”  He paused, then realizing the assembly’s attention was focused on him, he said tentatively:  “Erm … might I fetch a jorum of wine for anyone?”

“Enough wine, Little One!” said Legolas, laughing in relief; and then it seemed to Bard as though the assembly exploded in laughter and song:  Legolas was embraced in turn by Elessar and by his Lady Mother; then the Elven Queen descended upon Seimiel and Dúrfinwen with a vengeance, spiriting them away; the Elvenking, much to Bard’s surprise, clapped him on the shoulder and shouted:  “Well done, lad!” and then everyone was swallowed up in the grand throng of Elves and Dwarves alike.  Another goblet of wine was pressed into his hand, and as he was carried off by the happy crowd, Bard could only think that he had been right to pursue hope for his people, for it very well might have finally come to pass.