It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing.
Frodo, Return of the King

Chapter 3: Of pain

The elf shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on his high branch. He might be in for a long watch. It would happen tonight. That much information he had. But he did not have a precise hour, so he would have to sit and wait.

His eyes passed idly over the trees, leaves red and yellow and orange, and then turned to the moonless sky. Clouds covered the stars. That was good. Deep shadows were much more suitable for the work he had to do tonight. Of course, it would be unpleasant if he had to sit here through a cold rain.

Merrymaking was still in full swing in the clearing south of him, south of this little hill these elves called a mountain. He could hear flutes, singing voices, and hands clapping in rhythm to the music. From a slightly different direction came the sounds of arrows biting into targets and the cheers of the victorious.

It would not happen while these crowds were still gathered. It would require secrecy. So it would be later. Probably when it was raining, he thought, crossing his arms over his chest and hunkering down against the trunk of his tree.

He had chosen his place well.

Within a few moments, a pair of guards passed by, closer to the merrymakers than they were to him. They carefully peered down the paths they intersected, searched the trees from root to crown, but he was outside their range. That he knew well. He was well informed of the patterns of the city's patrols. They passed by, unseeing, and he remained in place, still waiting.

Hoo-hooo! Hoo-hooo! An owl, a large one from the sound of him, made him jump slightly. He glanced back at it, just in case. He thought he knew all the calls the guards used, but better to be sure this was not a new one.

His eyes widened and he froze against the trunk.

"Bother you, you cursed owl. Be off with you! I am in no mood for you tonight!"

The spy watched as the owl hopped from branch to branch, pestering an elf as he hurried along the foot of the mountain. The bird was so bold as to dive upon him, grasping at the fletchings of the arrows in his quiver.

"Off with you or I swear I will repair those arrows with your own feathers, old fool."

The owl was not deterred. It followed the elf until he disappeared from sight amongst the thick cover.

The spy watched silently until the elf reappeared in the clearing amongst the merrymakers, heading straight for the contests. Then he made a call--two croaks of a bullfrog. The answering call came from the trees nearer the clearing, so the spy relaxed slightly and looked a little more closely at the brush around him.

"Now where did he come from?" he whispered to himself.

Determining that could prove to be a very valuable pursuit to pass the time while he waited.

*~*~*

"Maintaining inventories of all manner of supplies--raw materials, finished materials, weapons, armor, foodstuffs, clothing for the household and warriors, utensils, horses and, of course, coin--everything the stronghold provides or distributes--that would be your responsibility. As items are withdrawn from inventory, that would be reported to you. You ensure no single item is depleted. With Golwon, you determine what items and in what quantities the stronghold adds into inventory from the villages."

"And together, you and I decide what items we must purchase or trade for with the Men," Lindomiel added.

Thranduil listened as Hallion and Lindomiel summarized the duties they were asking Berior to take on. He willed them to be succinct. It was late and had been another long day in a series of them. Thranduil regretted that his other business of the day had kept him from speaking with Berior sooner, but, this should be a fairly brief conversation. He was looking forward to a relaxing glass of wine when this meeting concluded and he knew Berior was anxious to join his cousins on the Green. Moments before, they had heard Legolas's voice in the antechamber. Thranduil could not make out what his son was saying, but he took his apparent excitement--Legolas would have to be very animated to make that much noise when it was obvious work was still proceeding in the Hall--as a good sign. Perhaps Thranduil would go to the Green himself this evening. It would do him good to see his son managing to take part in the merrymaking.

"Are you willing to take up your adar's responsibilities as we have discussed them, Berior?" Thranduil asked when Hallion and Lindomiel stopped speaking.

"I am, my lord. Thank you. I will not disappoint you," Berior responded. "Or adar," he added in a quieter voice.

"I do not doubt that, Berior. You may start tomorrow." He turned to Hallion. "Be sure to inform Isteth that she will be losing Berior's services as a scribe."

Hallion nodded, making a note to do so.

"I will expect you in morning council every day. In council, you will brief me on any matters related to finances or trade that I might need to know and be prepared for Golwon or Dolgailon to have questions regarding supplies. They almost always do. Your adar brought his ledger with him every morning to aid in that. After council, while I am hearing petitions, you should expect to meet with the queen, Golwon or Dolgailon," Thranduil continued, "Tomorrow, you can start by meeting Lindomiel in her office and she can introduce you to the household accounts and review the purchases she is about to make in Dale." He glanced at Lindomiel. "We need to speak about your trip. And who will be accompanying you. We need to have that conversation tonight." Then he turned back to Berior, who was frowning slightly. "Until you are more familiar with these duties, and until you come of age, I want you to work closely with your aunt. Once you you have a better idea what is involved, you will be able to plan more on your own and take charge of your own reports, but until then, pay attention and learn."

Head bowed, Berior avoided the queen's gaze. "Yes, my lord," he said quietly.

Thranduil frowned and looked at Lindomiel.

She shook her head once.

Hmm. They would discuss that--whatever it was--later too, Thranduil thought. But for now there was another topic he wished to address. Legolas had suggested that he speak to Berior about Glilavan. After Berior's behavior when he claimed Fuilin's sword, Thranduil thought he had a good idea why Legolas made that suggestion. "Berior, I will warn you of this, in private and only once: when you sit at my council table, I expect you to express your opinions on any matter we discuss, whether it pertains to this realm's finances or not. You are invited to disagree with me or anyone else on the council. As vociferously as you please. But, once I announce my decision on a topic, the discussion ends. From that point on, you support that decision whether you agree with it or not. Understood?"

Berior's posture stiffened and he could not meet the king's gaze. "Yes, my lord. I do understand that."

"In that case, I would like to discuss Fuilin and Mauril..."

Berior winced. "My lord, I apologize," he interrupted. "It is just that...well, I suppose I made clear my opinion of the best way to manage them, but I do regret...I am very angry about adar and what this has done to nana, but I know that is no excuse...I understand that I should not have spoken in the Hall as I did and I certainly should not have said what I did to Legolas...much less where I said it..." He trailed off. "I apologize and I give you my word it will not happen again."

"Be careful giving your word, Berior. It is likely to happen again," Thranduil said and he smiled when Berior drew a sharp breath to protest. "It does happen in my council that certain topics are so...volatile that some people want to continue debating them after the discussion has been ended. But I would caution you against being too much like your Uncle Engwe. Your adar had a much softer style that, in the end, won him more ground because everyone enjoyed working with him. I recommend emulating him in that regard."

Berior returned Thranduil's smile sheepishly in response to being likened to Engwe.

"And if Hallion, or I, say it must end, then that is truly the end of it. No matter how angry you are, you must control yourself at that point. Understood?"

Berior nodded. "I do apologize, my lord," he repeated, and then he added,  "I will do so in front of the council tomorrow, if you wish." Berior's brows drew together and he looked down again, continuing before Thranduil could respond. "But I honestly do not know how I will make amends for what I said to Legolas." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Or, more to the point, where I said it."

That made Thranduil look more closely at Berior. "As for the council," he began, "you need not say anything. I have not passed sentence on Fuilin or Mauril yet, so you and everyone else is free to speak on that topic as you will. You must remember, however, that most of the members of my council were victims of two kinslayings. It is very likely that you will speak alone in favor of their execution."

Thranduil intended to say more--to ask what Berior had meant about what he said to Legolas--but Berior interrupted him.

"My family--my adar," he said in clipped tones, "is also the victim of a kinslaying. That is why I speak in favor of executing them. To prevent more kinslayings. I am perfectly aware that I am asking you to take the life of an elf, my lord. Or volunteering to do it myself, in your stead."

Thranduil's eyes flew open wide.

That reaction did not slow Berior down. He was heating up to the argument again, so he kept speaking, voice rising. "But I think to do so is necessary to prevent still more kinslayings--to keep Fuilin and Mauril from killing more elves. And, while I recognize it is difficult...a weighty decision...I do think it is a lawful act. I looked it up. In the law books from Menegroth. The Doom of the North said the Noldor were punished for unrighteously spilling the blood of their kin. That implies there may be a reason that could be justified--for example, protecting others..."

Thranduil laid a hand over Berior's to cut off his defense. "Berior, at the risk of worrying others, allow me to put your mind at ease: when I recapture Fuilin and Mauril, I intend to execute them." From the corner of his eyes, he saw Lindomiel's mouth open slightly before she closed it promptly. Hallion turned his face away from the table. Apparently, he feared being able to control his reaction. "I am doing that because, as you say, there is no safe way that I can ensure they hurt no one else. I cannot exile them or imprison them..."

Berior leaned forward. "Then why will you not do the same with Glilavan? If he is sent to Mandos..."

"Because I can send him to Manwe, rather than Namo," Thranduil interrupted, speaking firmly. "I have that option with him. I do not have it with Fuilin and Mauril. They have told me, and I believe them, that they were barred from taking ship at the end of the War of Wrath for the evils they committed and refused to repent. Glilavan suffers no such ban..."

"But what if he escapes? What if, just as he helped free Fuilin and Mauril, killing my adar in the process, they help free him and kill someone else in the process? How many people must die for this?"

"We have anticipated that, obviously, Berior. We are sending him in the middle of the night to ensure as few people as possible witness his departure. We will not be following an established path to escort him from the forest. Only I and his escort know if he will be taken to Belfalast or the Grey Havens. He will be heavily guarded..."

"It is not hard to guess, since you sent nana, this morning, to the Havens, that you are taking Glilavan to Belfalast tonight. If I were one of Manadhien's servants, I would guess if one person set out west today, the other person would set out south soon. Tonight, tomorrow. I would be watching. And I spoke with Conuion. He told me that adar was sent with two guards. No sign of what happened to them has been found, but we all know they were killed. If I were hiding in ambush, I could shoot two or three elves before they could return my attack. Manadhien has at least four servants. That is a dozen guards needed to defend against attack. You could not possibly be sending dozen guards with one person. That is a quarter of a patrol. There are not that many people to send. This could not be safe."

"Berior," Thranduil said quietly, "this decision has been made."

Berior held Thranduil's gaze, mouth pressed closed, jaw tight. He nodded once, but defiance and anger still burned in his eyes.

Thranduil smiled sadly at him. "You are one of the injured parties, Berior," he said after a long moment. "I prefer for my judgments to satisfy those who they serve. Is there anything I can say to reconcile you to the decision I have made regarding Glilavan?" he asked.

Berior frowned. "I do not think so, my lord. I do not agree with it. I think it is a dangerous one. And an illogical one, because I see no point in recognizing Fuilin and Mauril are too dangerous to leave alive, but arguing Glilavan should be spared. But you have my word that I will respect your decision. And publicly support it." He looked down. "I will try not to privately argue with you about it for the remainder of the night until it is too late to stop it."

That last statement might have made Thranduil laugh, had Berior not been so deadly earnest. "You truly cannot understand why I would want to avoid killing Glilavan if I can? Your adar wanted the same--to spare Fuilin and Mauril. Think on that."

"So Legolas told me," Berior said. "He told me that adar believed that his choice...his death preserved his fea." He shook his head, snorting bitterly. "I am sorry, uncle, it may be that my adar's choice was very noble and even virtuous from one perspective, but from mine, it deprived me of my adar while I am still a child, and my naneth of her husband, in order to save the life of two murderers. To be perfectly honest, I am furious--absolutely furious--with the choice my adar made. If I could speak to him right now--if I only had a moment to say one last thing to him, I would probably waste it yelling at him for making such a stupid choice."

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, studying Berior's tense posture. He expected Lindomiel would say something to try to comfort the child, but she only looked at him sadly.

His own thoughts swirled so that he doubted he could offer comfort to anyone else.

Legolas--his own son, his child--had been forced to kill Demil. Thranduil had learned that this feud was caused by the kinslayings he, himself, participated in. Most difficult of all, he had spent the last week contemplating how he could bring himself execute five elves.

The last time Thranduil dreamt of Menegroth--dreamt of the bodies littering the halls of Menegroth--had been after the first battle in the war in Mordor. For the last few days, he had been dreaming about Menegroth again--about the fighting itself. He understood his Uncle Celonhael's preference to avoid executing these elves. Yes, he did.

He forced himself not to slip too far back into the past. Instead he focused on Berior, who was still glaring at him, awaiting a response. He was struggling to bring his expression under control, expecting a reprimand. The child did not need a reprimand. Maybe he did not need comforting. Maybe he needed understanding. Thranduil reached for Berior's hand and grasped it.

"Berior, your adar, my uncle--well, you know we are cousins, but he was so much older than I, that I always called him uncle, just as you call me that--he...was less like an uncle and more like a second father to me. I would like to tell you a story. One your adar would disapprove of, in the strongest of terms, but I think it might give you some insight into his decisions. For love I bear for him, I think it is my duty to help you to understand and respect his decisions. His choice. Will you hear my story?"

Berior nodded stiffly.

Thranduil released his grip on Berior's hand and patted it once as he turned to Hallion. "You may find this difficult to hear," he said quietly. "Leave whenever you wish." Then he looked at Lindomiel. "I would much prefer for you to leave right now, but I am not foolish enough to try to command it."

That caused both Lindomiel and Berior's brows to rise. Hallion appeared to brace himself. He knew what Thranduil intended to relate.

Thranduil turned back to Berior. "When Caranthir, Curufin and Celegorm attacked Menegroth," he began.

Lindomiel and Berior both looked sharply at Thranduil. He never spoke of the attacks on Menegroth. Even when asked to, he refused. So he knew he was shocking his family now.

"It was during a festival. The guard was minimal and everyone was in the Great Hall feasting. Almost no one was armed. My adar and uncles retreated with the king and the other warriors from the Hall to retrieve their weapons, and adar sent me with naneth, ostensibly to protect her, but I knew he did not want me in the fighting. I was not of age. I was your age, in fact. At any rate, Celegorm held the main gates. There was no escape from the caves that way, and we were not sure how large a force they had in the forest, so adar told me to take naneth to go hide in our rooms, since they were out of the way of anything that the Noldor should have wanted. I was to bar the door and stay there until he came for us. So, that is what I did.

"Nana, all four of her remaining brothers and most of their children, including Celonhael, were with me. A few other people, most of them nana's friends from their workshop, came with us. Crithad, for example. None of them could have fought. Everyone in nana's House--your House--were artists. Only our daeradar, Malthoron, went with my adar and fought. He died in the Great Hall. Celonhael saw his body when we finally fled the caves. But that was not the worst he saw. We barred ourselves in our suite as adar told us to do. I had my bow and sword and nana had her bow and the long knife she had inherited. Everyone else had knives, of course." He shook his head. "I could certainly defend myself with a knife against someone wielding a sword. Now. But not then and neither could my uncles do so. When the Noldor came...we heard them in the corridor, opening doors, searching...we knew they would break the door when they found it locked. We had heard them break others. Heard the screams when they did. As we waited and listened to them coming closer in the corridor, we tried to ready ourselves. When they broke the door, nana and I both had our bows drawn."

Thranduil's brows knit and he stared straight forward, as if he were facing a far off target on the range. He was seeing the Noldor breaking down that childhood door. He did not see Lindomiel's wide eyes or Berior's grip on the arms of his chair.

"It was amazingly difficult, even knowing they would attack us...kill us...to release that first arrow. I hesitated for so long that I only got two or three shots off before I was forced to draw my sword. I do not even know if any of my arrows struck anyone. For many, many years after that fight, I blamed myself. I thought if I had faced them with more courage. If I had not hesitated. If I had killed more of them before they got into the room. I realize now, it would have made little difference. We were outnumbered and simply did not have the skill the Noldor had. But before I knew enough about battle to understand that, it was hard for me to accept that failure.

Thranduil jumped slightly when Lindomiel laid a gentle hand on his forearm. He did not look at her. If he did, he would not be able to finish this story or make his point.

"They killed all my naneth's brothers and their wives and children and everyone else with us. We saw it happen. It did not matter that they called out that they were unarmed, that they surrendered or that they pleaded for their lives. They slaughtered them like beasts. Nana, Celonhael, Crithad and I were the only ones still standing when Conuion and his warriors arrived..."

"Conuion was your guard even then?" Berior whispered. He was looking over Thranduil's shoulder. That drove Thranduil glance behind him. Conuion had come forward to the table, from where he had been guarding the doors.

Thranduil shook his head. "I was supposed to be a warrior, not someone who was protected by warriors. He was one of Menegroth's guards and this was the second time he saved my life. The first was when the dwarves attacked Menegroth. He helped nana and I escape then too. When he found us this time, nana was badly wounded. I was trying to protect her, but I had been disarmed once. I never saw that sword again. I did not have time to look for it when we fled. But I had taken up nana's knife, since she could no longer fight. Celonhael and Crithad were wounded, but still trying to help me. We could have only lasted a few more moments. We had no chance of holding them all at bay. Conuion and his warriors were just in time. They saved our lives.

"We were forced to leave everyone's bodies there. We took a few things...a bit of clothing and whatever food was in the room...and we left. We left not even knowing if my adar was alive. It was a month before he found us in a camp of refugees, still trying to treat nana's wounds. For that month, nana and Celonhael and Crithad were all I had."

He reached and grasped Berior's forearm tightly. "I was your age, Berior. I had survived the dwarves' sack of Menegroth and then this. Do you understand the impact that had? Can you see how it is difficult for me to say, 'I will execute that elf' and then draw my sword and do it? Can you see why your adar recognized the evil of such an act and would not want to be party to it? Or even witness to it again?"

Berior nodded quickly.

"My naneth and your adar were the last of the House of Maleithil. The only survivors of that great House to escape Menegroth." He leaned forward. "I do not have to tell you that the House of Maleithil was one of the noblest in Doriath. It mixed the blood of the Sindar and Nandor and even, in the distant past, the Vanyar," he touched his hair. "Your adar was the oldest son of the oldest son of that House. You are his only heir in Middle Earth. The last of your House in Middle Earth. Your House will either survive or fail based entirely on your choices. I urge you to consider carefully what that means--to strive to honor what the House of Maleithil stood for, and that was not war and death. It was the exact opposite: artistry and creativity."

Tears welled in Berior's eyes. He looked torn. "But...that is why it failed. Because its people could not fight."

"Not true. It did not fail. It still survives, regardless of the efforts of overwhelming evil to destroy it. My naneth and your adar were not cowed by Menegroth or Sirion or the War in Mordor. Through their efforts, they kept many others alive too. Not by fighting or hunting, though they learned to do those things too. But what nana and Uncle Celonhael did was more important. In the shadow of grief and pain, in Sirion and here, they brought us hope by continuing to create beautiful things. It was your adar that truly taught me to paint--he made me help him in the workshop he established in Sirion, though I thought it a stupid waste of time. I did not realize until we reached this forest that his constant attempts to keep me distracted probably saved my sanity. And when I was forced to move to this stronghold--a decision that was tremendously difficult for me to make--he, along with nana, made it easier and brighter by making so many of the decorations that adorn these Halls."

He made a sweeping gesture to encompass the mural that covered the back wall, ceiling and pillars of the Hall.

"That is your adar's work, Berior. Crithad carved it and Celonhael painted it and everyone in this realm enjoys it. Your adar's fea is in Mandos now, but he is still all around you. These decorations have stood here for a thousand years and they will stand a thousand more. I owe your adar a great deal, Berior. The absolute least that I can do is ensure that his son realizes that nothing will come of avenging his death. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge: it will heal nothing. Indeed, such a mindset breeds the type of people that Manadhien has twisted to her service. Their lives are dedicated to revenge. Would you be like the very people who killed your adar?"

"Of course not," Berior said.

"Then be like your adar. Reject vengeance. Executing Fuilin and Mauril is not vengeance. It is justice, since that is the only way to ensure they cannot harm this realm. Executing Glilavan is vengeance. To protect this realm from him, we only need to send him from it, which I can do, since he is not barred from taking ship. I want you to try to understand that."

"I will think about it, uncle," Berior conceded.

Thranduil frowned. "That is all I can ask." He leaned heavily back in his chair. "I had not even discussed my decision to execute them with Hallion yet, Berior. I do not want you mentioning it to anyone. I will defend it when I must. I do not want to defend it for the months or years it will take us to arrest Manadhien and her servants."

Berior nodded immediately. "I will not discuss it with anyone. I promise." Then he hesitated. "If it helps at all, I think people will support that decision. Dollion said he would expect it. And, after some debate, even Crithad said he would understand it."

Thranduil's eyebrows shot up. "Speculation of what I will do with Manadhien and her servants is wide-spread, is it?"

"It came up when Legolas was describing...what happened," Berior replied, and he looked as if he were debating with himself if he should say something more.

Something to clarify what he meant by 'how he would make amends for what he said to Legolas,' no doubt. Thranduil realized he had let that explanation escape him. Never mind. He would ask Legolas. Later. For now, this was all he could bear of this topic. He ran his hand over his eyes. "I want you to go to the Green, Berior," he said, interrupting Berior's impending confession. "Find your cousins and try to do something you enjoy."

Berior shook his head and looked at Thranduil with deep concern.

Thranduil smiled at him. "You are indeed very much like your adar. I am fine and I have more work to do here before I can join you and your cousins on the Green, but you go ahead. Your adar would not want you to fade, and to be honest, Berior, you are frightening me."

Berior met Thranduil's gaze evenly. "I will not fade, uncle. I will serve this realm. As adar would expect me to."

"Your adar was the most merry person I ever knew, Berior. That is what he would have expected of his youngest son. Go try to be merry."

Berior nodded and stood. Then, bowing, he turned to leave the Hall.

Lindomiel waited until he passed through the doors and then she stood as well, bringing Thranduil to his feet, out of courtesy. He drew a breath to remind her that he still wanted to discuss her trip to Dale. Before he could speak, she stepped over to him and, without a word, gathered him into an embrace.

*~*~*

Another roar arose from that unruly crowd sheltered by the great branches of the Oak. Tureden swung his leg over the bench he was seated on to turn his back to the noise, fully facing the table instead. He bent over his wine and took another sip of it while staring fixedly across the Green at the stronghold. The idea that Legolas thought he should be allowed to go to the Oak! Good job that he had prevented it, especially tonight of all nights. They seemed even worse than usual, if that could be imagined.

"Wild night," Galion observed, drawing wine from the barrel balanced on the far end of the table and offering it to someone--a warrior from the looks of him--that had just ducked out from under the Oak.

"It always is whenever the king's family games," the warrior said with a broad smile. He raised his goblet to Galion in thanks for the wine.

"I thought Lord Dolgailon left the capital this morning," Galion replied while handing someone else a drink. "With some horses, I heard."

The warrior shrugged. "I do not know where the troop commander is. The king's sons are gaming."

Tureden's head snapped around. He was certain he heard the warrior say sons and not son. He would have words with Colloth, in Conuion's presence, if he allowed Galithil to go to the Oak after he specifically instructed him not to. If Colloth took Legolas there too.... Tureden would see to it that Colloth was dismissed from the king's service for that. At the very least.

"They are even more fun than Lord Aradunnon was, though harder to bet on," the warrior continued.

His use of the term 'they' seemed to confirm Legolas was there. Tureden stood, draining his goblet in one swallow.

"Lord Legolas! He improves on his own best score every time he shoots, it seems. You never know what to bet," the warrior was saying.

Tureden thudded his goblet down on the table and closed the distance between himself and the Oak in several long strides. Peering through its branches, he looked in the direction of the loudest shouting--a rhythmic cheering.

Sure enough, there he was. Legolas and one of the Sixth Years both standing in front of two targets. Speed shooting, it had to be. An infant could hit the target at that distance. Tureden's fists clenched and he looked down to climb through the tangle of old branches, intending to yank Legolas straight back to the stronghold. Where he was supposed to have stayed. Lanthir would be hearing about obedience, along with Legolas. Tureden was an officer in Thingol's guard and in Oropher's guard. He was still an officer, now in Thranduil's guard. It had been a long time since anyone had treated him with the complete disregard Legolas had shown him over the last few days--or the disregard Legolas had apparently incited in the King's Guard. If that child intended to be a warrior himself one day, he had better straighten up, but quickly!

*~*~*

Legolas's focus had narrowed to nothing more than the space between his quiver and his bowstring--to the repetitive motion required to nock and release arrows. He did not hear the crowd around him, nor did he see them jumping or pumping their fists. Seize an arrow, nock, draw, release. Over and over.

"Time! Stop!" Tirithion shouted.

Legolas let his arms fall to his side as his gaze darted from his own target to that of Torthil. He broke into a grin. Nine arrows protruded from the center of his target, only six from Torthil's. He had beaten him soundly! Again, Legolas thought to himself.

"You are never, never going to get that coin back," one of Torthil's fellow Sixth Years taunted him.

Even Tirithion, the archery master, was clapping Legolas on the back. His enthusiasm for Legolas's skill was a bit painful on his ribs, but Legolas did not care. He was having far too much fun.

Fun, despite the fact that something pricked at the edge of his senses. It had all night...the entire time he had been under the Oak. He almost felt eyes upon him.

"Pay up!" Dollion's voice cut into his thoughts. He stood just off to Legolas's left, holding out his hand, collecting his winnings.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. So was Galithil collecting his winnings. He and his cousin almost never bet on these contests themselves. That was their concession. Thranduil's concession was to turn a blind eye to them participating, provided that they did not gamble. Colloth handed Galithil an elaborately carved knife. Legolas's jaw fell open. His father would be furious to see them wagering for something of such high value. Then, as Galithil held it up, admiring it dramatically, Legolas got a better look at it. It was the same knife that Aradunnon, Colloth and Dollion used to win back and forth. Legolas wondered if Galithil had taken his father's place as their gambling partner. He laughed out loud. That would please the king!

Leaves rustled. There would be rainstorms tonight. Legolas could smell it in the air. He frowned. But there was no wind right now. He turned away from the knife Galithil and Colloth were arguing over and scanned the branches of the Oak. The ancient tree almost seemed to be whispering a warning to him. He laughed to himself. He was being a little over-anxious, the result, no doubt, of knowing he would be in at least a little trouble for going out without a guard. Even after his father heard how Tureden had behaved and even after hearing Legolas had felt it was impossible to be locked up, he would still be at least somewhat angry.

"I want another chance!" Torthil declared loudly, all but throwing the coins he had lost to Anastor.

Anastor laughed at him.

Legolas shook off the feeling that he was being watched and turned to Torthil with a smirk. "How many times did you want to lose tonight, Torthil? he asked.

The sound of a bow string twanging interrupted Torthil's response and caused everyone in the crowd to cease their respective gloating or groaning.

Legolas reflexively dropped to one knee to make himself a smaller target and turned in the direction of the sound. All present did the same. Only Legolas, Galithil and Colloth reached for an arrow. Everyone else only looked angrily towards the noise. Tirithion crouched over Legolas, placing himself between him and whoever had just released an arrow from out of bounds.

"Outside the box!" Tirithion shouted. So did Dollion, who, Legolas saw over Tirithion's shoulder, was also between him and the as yet unknown archer.

"Get the bow away from whatever idiot..." Colloth began. He was hunched over Galithil. His command faltered off and his expression registered alarm before becoming completely neutral.

Legolas put a hand on Tirithion's shoulder to move him aside.

Tureden stood ten paces away, hands on his hips, openly glaring at Legolas. His gaze bore into him more deeply than would a stray arrow. Legolas had to struggle not to glare back at him. This crowd was no place for a public confrontation he said to himself firmly, preparing to simply walk back into the stronghold rather than allow one.

Behind Tureden, Berior was just climbing through the outer branches of the Oak, smiling at him happily.

"We do not allow anyone to shoot unless they are standing inside one of the boxes," Legolas heard Tirithion saying angrily, while pointing at the square made of stones that Legolas occupied. "For obvious safety reasons."

"I will try to remember that," Tureden said, not taking his eyes off Legolas. His gaze did not so much as flicker when a few of the warriors who were apparently his friends called greetings to him.

"Now there would be a contest," someone--one of the Sixth Years, one of Torthil's friends--said. "Tureden and Legolas. I would like to see  how Legolas does against the King's Guard!" A few cheers arose in response to that. Berior's was one of them as he jogged over to join his cousins. His smile faded somewhat as he looked between Legolas and Tureden.

Legolas did not acknowledge him. He kept his gaze on Tureden, waiting for his next move.

Tureden closed the distance between them. "You need a lesson in obedience," he said.

At least he spoke quietly. No one else heard him and the analysis of Legolas's skills compared to Tureden's continued unabated.

"Legolas could win that," Dollion said. "I would bet Legolas could win by at least one arrow."

Legolas tried not to react to that challenge in any way. He was not ashamed of going to the Oak without Tureden. Tureden had no right to imprison him. But there was no need to provoke him by challenging his archery skills.

"Not possible," another of the warriors shouted. "Legolas is good, there is no doubt. But Tureden fought in the First Battle. He is the First Lieutenant of the King's Guard."

"Maybe, but Legolas is still the better archer," someone else shouted. "I say he wins by two arrows."

Legolas's jaw clenched and he turned around, intending to tell the warriors to be quiet. That they could expect no contest between he and Tureden.

"Do you have any practice swords?" Tureden intervened before Legolas could speak. "I would not mind finally seeing Legolas's skill with a sword."

Legolas turned back around to stare at him. Tureden would not escort him to the Oak earlier, but now he was challenging him?

Some of the Sixth Years laughed.

"Now, with a sword, Legolas can be easily beaten," Torthil said.

"Not by you," Colloth broke his silence to retort. "He still bests you with a sword consistently in training."

"Still, there is no possibility Legolas could best Tureden," another Sixth Year said.

"I think Legolas could hit him at least once," Dollion shouted, turning to the crowd and holding up a handful of coins. "I would be willing to wager on it."

"Not a chance," Torthil replied. "I will take that bet. Tureden will best Legolas in three of three rounds," he said, holding up an equal number of coins.

And everyone present, save for the king's household, started taking sides.

Legolas took a step back from Tureden, intending to refuse. To tell him that they should go into the stronghold.

"I do not think Legolas should spar," Galithil said.

Berior took another step towards his cousins. "I thought your ribs were still healing. You are not allowed to spar," he said.

But Tureden was not listening. He was thanking a Sixth Year that had handed him two practice swords from a rack by the trunk of the Oak. Tureden held one in his right hand and thrust the tip of the other into the ground between them, swirling it back and forth with one finger on its hilt. Then flicked it towards Legolas.

"Legolas is too much of a coward to publicly lose," Torthil taunted as Legolas reflexively caught the sword that fell against him. "He is happy enough to take part in the archery contests, but he is too much of a sore loser to do something he is not good at."

Legolas's heart began to race. How could he possibly extract himself from this? But he had to. He could not do it. He looked at Tureden, hoping he would recognize his discomfort.

"Three rounds, Legolas," Tureden said, his voice cold. "Raise the sword."

"Some other time, perhaps," Tirithion said.

Legolas glanced at him, but it was too late. Everyone else, save Berior and Galithil, had spread out, shouting and forming a circle around them to give them room. Two of the warriors grabbed Legolas's cousins and pulled them back as Tureden moved to the edge of the circle, raised his sword to a high guard and squared off with Legolas. Legolas still had not lifted the tip of the practice sword from the ground. He closed his right hand around its hilt and then tightened his grasp in an effort to stop his hand from shaking.

"Get him, Legolas," Dollion said, slapping him on the shoulder and then jumping back. "I stand to win quite a sum."

As Legolas raised his sword to a semblance of a mid guard, still struggling to master the nausea that churned his gut, his guard let his sword fall in a sweeping arch from high guard to a full frontal attack aimed at Legolas's head.

Legolas automatically stepped back. Stumbled back, in truth, but the movement was enough to void Tureden's attack. Legolas's vision blurred as he tried to track Tureden's sword. Instead of it, he saw a haze of red. Blood.

"No attacks above the shoulders without armor!" Tirithion shouted.

That familiar command, common in the training program, helped Legolas pull himself back from the plains east of the forest at least somewhat. Just in time too, because unlike the fight with Demil that he was reliving, Tureden was not interested in disarming him. He was interested in hitting him. Reaching the end of his downward swing, Tureden turned his sword in a low cut at Legolas's legs. Legolas had no choice but to block that blow. Their swords clashed together with a crack of wood instead of a clang of steel. This was a sparring match. Nothing more. Legolas drew a deep breath and tried to focus, stepping out of range. Tureden danced back as well, but charged again quickly enough to keep Legolas off guard. He aimed a thrust at Legolas's gut, but turned it sharply as Legolas side-stepped. His swing connected with Legolas's upper arm. At full force.

"You are disabled," he said into Legolas's ear as he stepped back.

"One hit for Tureden!" someone shouted.

Legolas took a deep, steadying breath and faced Tureden properly. Tureden came at him fast again, bringing his sword down to strike at Legolas's shoulder. Legolas took a half step to the side, voiding the attack, but staying within range and aiming a blow at Tureden's leg. Tureden twisted like an otter and drove down Legolas's sword. Then, with his return swing, he made his own swipe at Legolas's lower leg. Legolas leapt out of range, while striking at Tureden's exposed ribs. Tureden continued his upswing, turning it to knock Legolas's sword wide and then immediately reversed, driving his blade down hard onto Legolas's calf so fast that he could not back away. Legolas grimaced and struggled not to fall to one knee as his calf cramped.

"You are crippled," Tureden bent to whisper into his ear.

Legolas glared at him, straightening and hopping on and off his now sore leg in an effort to work out the cramp quickly.

"Two hits for Tureden!"

"Hit him, Legolas!" Dollion shouted. Galithil echoed him.

"One more hit and you lose, Legolas," Torthil called.
 
Legolas ignored him. Without bothering to adopt a proper guard, Legolas rushed Tureden. He was angry now. Even the First Years in the Training Program had enough control to pull their hits. Tureden had not bothered. Legolas swung upwards and extended his arm fully, bringing his sword within range much faster than Tureden expected. The attack drove Tureden back a step before he quickly compensated by taking a long step to the side and raising his sword to slap Legolas's down. Legolas allowed his sword to fall, feinting a blow at Tureden's leg. Off balance, Tureden lowered his sword to block that blow. Legolas stepped back, drawing back his arm and sword. Then he thrust it forward. Briefly, he considered driving it full force into Tureden's gut. At the last moment, he pulled it up short, touching him lightly instead.

"You are dead," Legolas said quietly.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his head began to swim and he swallowed hard. The crowd around him roared as those who had dared to bet that Legolas would manage at least one hit broke into thrilled cheers. He barely heard them.

Tureden made a face at him and stepped back, raising his sword to guard. He did not immediately attack. Instead, he studied Legolas with an odd expression, waiting for him to also return to a guarded position.

"It was a lucky hit," Torthil's voice sounded. It seemed to come from far away. "Tureden will finish this fight now."

"But Legolas still got the hit and you still lost," Galithil retorted. "Again."

Legolas shifted the sword to his left hand and wiped his right against his face and then his tunic. With a deep breath, he shifted the sword back to his right hand again and found himself hoping that Torthil was correct and that this would simply end.

Tureden charged forward, forcing Legolas fully on the defense with a series of swift attacks. He voided the first and was forced to block the next two. He saw his mistake as soon as he made it when he blocked Tureden's last attack with a hanging guard. The defense served to protect his right hip, but it left him in no position to react swiftly enough to Tureden's next attack. His sword swung full force into Legolas's side.

The crowd around him groaned loudly, in sympathy, for that hit. The noise served to cover the cry that was forced from Legolas. He pressed his left hand against his side and struggled to draw a breath as Tureden stepped closer to him.

"It is your turn to be dead," he said.

Legolas could not reply. He could not breath. Sharp pain stabbed into him when he tried, forcing him to gasp and then clamp his mouth shut. His barely healed ribs were obviously no match for a wooden sword. Legolas stood straighter, trying to take pressure off them, drawing a shallower, shorter breath and cutting it off at the first spike of pain. After managing a few such panting breaths, he realized Tureden was speaking to him in a low voice.

"We are going back to the stronghold. Now," he was saying.

Legolas did not intend to argue with him. He needed to get out of the public eye while he could still keep himself upright.

He put the tip of the practice sword still in his hand onto the ground and used it to support himself as he arched to the right, again trying to stretch away from the stabbing pain in his side. As he did, he saw...something. In one of the trees beside the Oak. Just a glimpse. But something that moved...shifted. Too big to be a squirrel or bird. And that was odd. No one climbed in the trees around the Oak for the same reason no one loitered near the training fields. No one wanted to be shot by a stray arrow. He scanned the trees.

After a moment, he caught motion again, this time something moving along a branch.

Definitely a person. It was a laced boot he saw moving in the shadows. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tureden searching the same tree he was looking at. He pointed. "There. Just above the bare branch in the nearest tree, but in the tree behind that one."

Tureden pulled down his arm. The sharp motion made Legolas's ribs scream again. "I see it," Tureden whispered, coming to stand in front of him.

Dollion, Colloth, Tirithion and some of the other warriors were also now looking into the trees.

There was the movement again. A dark-clad form, heading away from the Oak. Swiftly.

Legolas took a step after it, a gasp escaping him that was not caused by pain. Lantern-light from the Green had glinted off something silver. It could not be. The figure slipped behind a large trunk and Legolas could no longer see it. He held his breath, watching that tree and the ones immediately around it, waiting for another sign of movement. A fragment of a face peered out from behind the trunk and froze when he saw the group of warriors watching him.

Cold fear and shock clenched Legolas's heart. "Lagril!" he called. He was not certain. It was too dark and the elf's face was too well obscured by leaves. But when he called the name, the elf in the tree took off, fleeing, full speed, away from the Oak.

Tureden and Colloth recognized the name Lagril. They both pulled an arrow from their quivers, nocked their bows, drew and tried to find a shot. Anastor did the same.

Legolas also instinctively nocked an arrow, the motion causing him to gasp for breath. "Stop him. The king wants him for treason," he managed to choke out.

That brought Dollion and his warriors to a full draw. 

Anastor loosed his arrow first. Legolas's eyes flew open wide. Anastor had targeted Lagril's body. The shot drove Lagril to leap forward. Tureden's arrow embedded in a branch, slicing shirt sleeve, but not arm or shoulder, as Lagril crouched lower to dodge it. Colloth's shot just missed Lagril's calf as he leapt again to another branch. Dollion, the last to release, also aimed at Lagril's shoulder. His arrow flew through Lagril's hair, which streamed behind him as he fled.

Legolas looked at the other warriors as Tureden, Colloth and Dollion reached for another arrow. They hesitated, looking frightened. Too frightened to shoot an elf. Legolas understood that, but he also understood that Lagril was not going to escape. He raised his bow. He could feel bones grinding against one another as his muscles tightened to draw the arrow back. He clenched his jaw and ignored the pain.

"Get him in mid jump," Tureden ordered.

That made sense. Lagril could do much less to dodge in mid air. But there was no possibility Tureden, Colloth or Dollion could nock and draw again before Lagril jumped. He had to be stopped before he fled into the trees that held the telain of the citizens.

Legolas strained to hold his draw a moment longer.

Lagril leapt and Legolas released his arrow. It flew straight at its target and drove into his thigh. The impact knocked Lagril's legs out from under him. He caught the branch he was jumping to, but when he tried to right himself to stand on it and continue fleeing, his injured leg crumpled underneath him, he lost his footing entirely and slipped. For a moment he managed to hold on to the branch, but then his grip failed and he tumbled to the forest floor.

Even from this distance, Legolas heard him grunt as he landed.

Anastor immediately shouldered his bow and drew his knife. He ran straight towards where Lagril had landed.

"Stop him," Legolas called, pointing to Anastor.

One of the warriors darted forward, grabbed Anastor's arm and held him in place. Anastor shot him a furious look.

Dollion signaled for two others to come with him to subdue Lagril. They had not gone two steps when Lagril arose from the ground, standing in full view, favoring his injured leg. He had his bow in his hand, a silver arrowed nocked. He aimed it directly at Legolas's chest.

*~*~*

Adar/ada -- Father/dad
Naneth/nana -- Mother/mum
Daeradar -- grandfather
talan/telain -- flet/flets (the houses in the trees where Silvan elves live)