A small boy sat by the fire, unconcerned by the sound of wolves nearby. He sipped the tea his brother had made and calmly waited for his return. Estel was used to being left all by himself for an hour or so. Even at such a tender age, he had learned to sit still and quiet, while his brothers went hunting. Their trips were usually brief, ending in the return with something succulent to eat. Estel wondered what it would be today; salmon, rabbit, deer?

The forest was quiet save for a hart that bellowed somewhere in the late autumn mists, birds of all types chatted to each other in the fruit-laden trees and the calm bicker of a pair of wolves. The wolves were harmless, unless provoked, and would avoid the fire.

Estel shifted a little closer to the warm flames, although he could tell that the wolves were moving away. Wargs, on the other hand, were far more dangerous, and feared nothing. He had heard of the terrifying beasts, but had yet to see one.

Estel frowned, looking around him at the trees and thickets. Birds sang in anticipation of winter, squirrels scampered about collecting nuts and the last of the autumn insects were out to drink their last fill of nectar before finding a warm sheltered spot in which to sleep until spring.

Nothing was amiss, so why was he nervous? Elrohir and Elladan had never been this long before, and he was beginning to worry. The woodland around him was unfamiliar territory, and the land was under the rule of a rival elven king. Even elves fought over minor matters, his ada told him. Rivalries were rare, but when they occurred, they were often serious.

Estel had never met any elves of the forest. Wood elves who lived in trees fascinated him, but they lived further to the south. His adar had spoken of elves who lived in these parts, and they lived in caves. That was way too fascinating for words. He wondered what they looked like. Were they dirty and covered in dust? Were they dwarves in disguise?

Estel looked up and gasped. There, before him, stood an elf . . .a stranger. Where he had come from and how he had appeared so swiftly and silently eluded him. The elf stood perfectly still, only his eyes moved, inspecting him with a curious interest that Estel wondered if he should like or not.

“You are no hobbit,” the elf suddenly spoke in Sindarin, not expecting to be understood.

“Of course not,” Estel replied in like manner, since he knew no other language.

The elf was most surprised. “Then you must be a child of the men of Long Lake,” the elf spoke in the common tongue. Estel stared at him strangely.

When there was no response, the elf repeated it in Sindarin, believing the child insolent and ill raised. “What are you doing so far from the river?”

“Long Lake? I have never heard of a long lake,” Estel replied. “I come from Imladris.”

The elf snorted sarcastically. “You are no more elf than you are hobbit! Your parents should wash your mouth out with soup for telling lies, or perhaps your impudent father is the reason for your bad behaviour.”

The boy’s chin quivered. “Lord Elrond is my father!” he cried out loudly. “And you should be quiet, or I will get my brothers on to you!”

“I am not scared, boy,” the elf retorted. “In fact, since you have intruded on my realm, I could get my father, the king, but I cannot be bothered. Instead I shall take you back to Long Lake myself.” With that, he snatched the boy up from his warm spot by the fire, tucked him under his arm and started to walk in the direction of the river.

Estel instantly began to scream, kick and punch, but to the elf’s surprise he fell silent all too quickly. A second later the elf drew to a sudden halt, an arrow pointed in his face.

“Release my brother, Legolas Thranduilion!”

Legolas sucked in a breath, he had not seen the elf approach.

“Or your king will lose his heir!” another voice to the other side of him warned.

Legolas gasped again and dropped the boy unceremoniously to the ground.

Estel was on his feet in a second, pushing the stranger onto his back and giving him a good thrashing. The elf was too shocked to do more than try to guard his face against the vicious assault. Twin chuckles rose from above them and hands gripped the little body and lifted him free, little fists still flailing at the downed elf’s head.

“Hold, Estel. What grieves you?”

“He insulted ada!” Estel spat angrily. “He said ada was a liar.”

“He did, did he?” Elrohir asked, and suddenly punched Legolas himself.

“I am an elf, aren’t I, Elladan?” Estel asked softly.

“Of course you are, little brother. Do not let this peasant’s words trouble you. We shall take him captive to Imladris and demand wergild of his father. Ada will punish him severely.”

Legolas had the good sense to turn pale and gulp.

Elrohir grinned. “We will demand the king’s head and make you lord and king of Rhovanion.”

Estel frowned. “I do not think I would like to be king,” he said. “Not if my son turns out like him,” he added, tipping his head at Legolas.

Legolas glared at him, lip swollen and blooded, but said nothing.

“Perhaps I can ask for something else?”

“Name it, little brother, and it shall be yours,” Elladan said, always happy to spoil the small boy.

“I shall have him as a servant,” Estel decided.

Legolas’ eyes shrank into his head. “Ai! Anything but that,” he wailed. “Restore my honour!”

“Silence!” Estel told him sternly. “I did not give you permission to speak.” Legolas closed his mouth. “I demand my ada’s honour restored, and to do that you will follow me wherever I go for the rest of my life, on the condition that you fulfil your duties to your father, and do my bidding in between. If I order you to die, you will die.”

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, a little worriedly. They had never seen his spiteful side before and silently vowed never to do so again.

Abruptly Legolas was angry. “What! Does a prince and heir to the throne take orders from a common boy?”

Suddenly, Elrohir stepped over him and grabbed his collar with both hands, drawing him up towards his nose, looking him straight in the eye. “This is no common boy, cave rat!” he hissed softly, but menacingly. “But the king of Numenor!" Elrohir snarled. Another punch sent Legolas reeling into the grass.

Legolas groaned a little and blinked up at him. He had better capitulate or he would have no face left, he thought. It would give him time to think of something, at the very least. “Wergild is given,” he said hoarsely.

“Smart Wood Elf,” Elladan retorted.

Fourteen years later, Legolas was still thinking of a way to end his wergild, since he had not seen nor heard more of the small boy. He had expected him to have died during one of the numerous orc attacks. Until one eventful day, a figure rushed past his hiding place, face blooded and an arrow sticking out of his thigh. Behind him was a group of orcs were chasing him.

Legolas notched his bow and fired in quick succession, and before any of them had the slightest idea that he had been there they were all dispatched into whatever hell their kind went to after death.

The figure finally stopped and leaned, panting, against a tree. His sweat-dampened hair clung to his face as the man closed his grey eyes waiting for the orcs to fire upon him and put an end to his pain.

Legolas caught up with him and eyed the arrow. “Let me tend your wounds, man of Rohan.”

The man lifted his head in surprise and looked into his face. He groaned pitifully. “Not you again,” he puffed. “For an elf, you are slow to learn your lesson.”

El Fin