Dark Leaf 14

Dark Leaf

by JastaElf

Dark Leaf Chapter 14: Seeing Through the Dark

"Just like a flower when winter begins

Just like a candle blown out in the wind

Just like a bird that can no longer fly

I'm feeling that way sometimes

But then as I'm falling weighed down by the load

I picture a light at the end of the road

And closing my eyes

I can see through the dark

The dream that is in my heart."

"A Little Peace"

sung by Nicole Flieg

<<Can that be sunlight? Can it? Blessed Lady, it is! I can see sunlight, and feel the breeze. I can smell grass! I remember these things. I'm outside!>>

Legolas wandered through dreams that were a thousand times more real, now that he was free of the Tower. Everything was brightness and warmth, sweetness and light; he moved quickly and silently through a massive assemblage of Elves, some dark-haired, some pale-haired, all of them working and singing and preparing for some great venture. He could see his uncle hovering watchfully over a badly frightened Aldor; saw Saeros and Tuilinal, and Lord Elrond, and Mithrandir. And he could see his father, proud Thranduil, kneeling on the ground beside a cloak-covered, still form. The King was sobbing his heart out, and Legolas suddenly had to know why.

He moved to stand beside him, gazing down in wondering sorrow at the grief that made Thranduil's shoulders heave, tore great and painful sobs from his throat, all the more terrible for their being muffled by the cloaks over which he was bent. Legolas reached out to touch him, but could not seem to make solid contact.

<<Ada? Ada, do not cry--I am right here! Everything is all right now! Ada?>>

<<He cannot hear you, child,>> said a deep, soft, compelling voice from very nearby. <<You but dream, and he cannot hear you.>>

Legolas turned to find the source of that voice. Behind him, radiating power and majesty, was a tall figure more inherently beautiful than any Elf, more centered and focussed than any Maia, and yet was both part and more than part of both, and was neither. Something deep within Legolas' being gave identity to the figure, and he dropped to his knees. <<My--Lord?>>

Mandos smiled fractionally upon the bowed figure before him, and placed one powerful hand caressingly atop the blond head.

<<Son of Thranduil and Luthiél, hear me. It is time for you to rest.>>

Legolas raised his eyes enough to see the hem of the dread Vala's garment, black embroidered in black, and he sighed. Glancing sidelong at the grief-stricken form of his father, he felt tears gather in his own eyes.

<<Must I? I do wish to see my Naneth again, but--Ada will not understand. He has suffered so!>>

<<And you have not?>>

Legolas pondered that and, having no reply that seemed pertinent, he lifted his shoulders in a confused shrug. <> he said at last. <<But--I have missed my Ada. May I not remain with him for a while?>>

<<It would be a long and painful struggle, pen-tithen, if you were to remain.>> Mandos raised his dark eyes to the brightness that was Elbereth, standing now behind the kneeling Elfling; her gaze was tender and terrible as she looked upon Legolas. <>

Legolas dared to look up, and saw that the Hand of Mandos was extended now to him, as if the Vala would assist him to his feet--would lead him away, away from the fear and the pain, away from the doubt. Would lead him to be reunited with his beloved Nana, who had been gone so awfully long, and whom he missed so much. He would meet at last the elder siblings he had never known, and would see again his dear Minuial, who had been part of his life for such a short time before being so mysteriously taken from him. It was so tempting.

<<Will you come, son of Thranduil?>>

Mandos glanced off to his left, and Legolas followed the motion. He gasped in stunned delight, for there, holding her arms out to him, was Luthiél; beside her was Minuial, and others who Legolas just knew had to be his lost brother and sister, for he recognized them from the funerary statues at home in the royal crypt: Ereinion, as tall as Ada and powerfully built; Rodwenil, lithe and lovely, but dark like her mother's ancient ancestors on one side of the family line. And surely, surely that masterfully handsome elder Elf had to be Oropher, fists resting on his hips as he regally surveyed the carnage of the battlefield all around them, his expression going curiously tender as he regarded the grieving form of his son, all unaware beside Legolas....

<<Oh, Nana!>> But more Legolas could not speak, for his heart was too full. Desperate with longing, he looked first at the beloved, smiling face of Luthiél, then at the heartbroken form of Thranduil, so near he could reach out and touch, save that the King would never feel him there. <>

He missed the ironic expression that flitted briefly across the majestic Vala's face as Mandos glanced at Elbereth. The Lady of Light laughed silently with delight and shook her head.

<<It is a cruel choice you offer to one so young, so fragile and fair, good my brother,>> she said then, her voice like the gentle chiming of silver bells on the summer air. <<He is right to ask of you that which lays in your power alone!>>

Elbereth moved them to embrace Legolas within her shining white arms and drew the young Elf to his feet. He stared at her in adoring worship as she brushed the long golden hair back from his face and cupped his chin in one long-fingered hand.

<<Come now, little one, and rest,>> she whispered kindly. <<It is not time for decisions, it is time to regain your strength. Mandos will give you rest of a different kind, and you may visit with your kin for a time; decisions can come later when your fate is made clearer. But for now, close your eyes and dream more deeply. Close your eyes and rest.>>

She enfolded Legolas in her arms; he pressed his face against her white breast and breathed in the scent of her, spring flowers and summer green-ness, and a quiet sob of relief welled up from within his weary soul. He drifted away into unconsciousness deeper than any he had known these long painful years, and so did not see the gentle touch of Mandos' hand upon him, bringing healing sleep; nor did he see a similar boon granted to Thranduil, so that he went from grief to rest there beside his sleeping son....

**********

It was over.

Dol Guldur had fallen, and Legolas Thranduilion was free, at long last. By the time noon arrived there was little to indicate the dark Tower had ever stood here: grass had already begun to grow, helped along by the presence of Elves, and the trees were beginning to show signs of green-ness and recovery. The young prince, though scarcely started down the long road to recovery and still in the throes of much pain and weakness, was back in the hands of his family and people. With Mithrandir and Elrond on duty it was generally felt the Elfling would stay that way: alive, eventually whole, and surrounded by love. Yes, the long nightmare was over.

Yet few they were who had the slightest delusion concerning the aftermath. Among the Mirkwood folk, whose families had suffered the most loss in the last Age, no one doubted there was still much healing to be done on Thranduil's son, both upon wounds that could be seen and upon wounds far less obvious. Among the others there was sufficient knowledge of lore to understand the same puzzle: how freedom could mean so much more potential for pain than captivity and torment might ever have hinted at beforehand. If one did not actually know someone who had recovered over long months from dreadful wounds, one had heard enough tales to guess at the difficulties involved. As the day wore on with preparations to depart by slower means to return to Lothlórien, many an eye turned toward the makeshift shelter erected to house a temporary place of healing, where those wounded in battle lay; and many a thought was spared, many a prayer sent winging to the Valar, on behalf of the tormented youngling whose rescue had been the heart of the enterprise. And who was to say such thoughts had little effect? Love had already accomplished much, been the impetus for deeds of valour and great courage. Perhaps much more would be accomplished in the hours and days to come.

Nearly the entirety of the long summer afternoon remaining went toward departure preparations from the once-cursed hill of Dol Guldur. With wounded to tend and a few dead among the Firstborn whose remains needed to be tenderly taken home, it was going to be a much more difficult endeavour to remove the combined forces of Elves from Southern Mirkwood than ever it was to bring them here in the first place--and that had been a massive undertaking all on its own.

Shortly before it was time to actually depart, Elrond Peredhil made his way back to the quiet place where Thranduil and Legolas had been left in peace and quiet. He had checked on them several times during the course of the afternoon, now that he himself was feeling somewhat restored by rest and food and meditation; it had been a relief to see that Thranduil had apparently wept himself into deep slumber, curled up on his side next to his son. Someone--Elrond suspected Saeros or Tuilinal--had covered the Elven-king with cloaks, and nearby there had been left some flasks of water and two cakes of fresh lembas.

Elrond sat cross-legged on the ground next to Thranduil and reached out gently to awaken him.

"It is nearly time to depart, Thranduil. Glorfindel has rigged a litter to move your son--are you awake?"

The eyes, closed from exhaustion, fluttered briefly then squeezed shut again. "I am, but I am not glad of it," Thranduil murmured, his voice well-laced with weariness and hoarse from weeping. "How is he?"

Elrond had been checking for pulse and other vital signs; he kept his face averted as he replied. "Stable. It is the best we can hope for, at least for now."

Thranduil recognized the words for the kind evasion they were, and did not press for more details. Truth be told, he was not certain he even wanted more details. He had his son back; Legolas was alive and free, the vile Tower and its minions were destroyed or scattered, and even now, a mere few hours since the furor had ceased, the air on the hill was already more wholesome than it had been for the whole of the Third Age so far. A big victory--with a rather large price attached.

"Many payments yet to be made though," Thranduil sighed. He started in surprise at Elrond's interrogative grunt, unaware he had spoken aloud. "Tell me, Lore-Master," he asked to cover the lapse, "have you ever heard of the Manling custom of exacting tribute from others in order to secure protection or cooperation, depending on from what side one views the circumstance?"

Not certain where Thranduil was going with this, Elrond nodded cautiously. "I believe it is something akin to their custom of weregild--the excuse Isildur used to justify keeping the One Ring. Why do you ask?"

"I rather feel like a victim of that," the son of Oropher murmured, levering up onto one elbow to stare at the still, expressionless face of his youngest child. "From the negative side."

Elrond decided he was still overly weary from battle and healing, and was not quite keeping stride with this esoteric conversation. But then he had had any number of conversations with Thranduil, over the last eighteen years of which he could easily have said the same thing. With a light sigh he settled in for another go. "In what way?"

Thranduil laughed mirthlessly. "Imagine that the Valar have asked weregild of us for the saving of my son and the destruction of the Tower. Then perhaps you shall understand my gist."

"Somehow," Elrond said, opting for complete honesty, "I sincerely doubt that."

"Which? That the Valar would demand weregild? Or that you would understand my gist?"

"Both. Either."

Drawing a deep breath, Thranduil made himself sit up. It appeared to require great effort. He turned and arranged himself so that he could watch his son sleep on one hand and keep track of Elrond on the other. "Well, one thing I have always prized about you, Peredhel--you are unfailingly honest."

Elrond quirked a faint smile. "You have now managed to tie my brain into a complete and rather intricate knot, son of Oropher. My congratulations."

"That is all right," Thranduil acknowledged with a nod. When he raised them to Elrond's face his blue eyes were puzzled and curiously amused. "I do not understand myself either. Except that I feel we will be paying for this day for some time to come--and in coin we cannot now begin to imagine." He frowned lightly then, his brow creasing in an expression of ironic confusion. "At least--I think that is what I was trying very hard to get at. But then I am only a simple Sindar, and cannot hope to compete with the lordly Noldor for obtuseness and poetic excellence."

The comment surprised a laugh out of Elrond, who clasped the Elven-king's shoulder in a comradely way. "Oh, I would not say that by any means. I think you have managed quite well at being obtuse."

Fortunately Thranduil was at least sufficiently awake that he recognized the humour and laughed in return. But the laughter turned into a weary sound that was very nearly a sob and he ran shaking hands over his face, trying to wake up just a bit more. When Elrond handed him a water flask he stared at it as if there were some effort involved in recognizing it for what it was. Finally he took it with a nod of thanks and drained fully half of it.

"Legolas will be paying quite a debt on this for some time to come, will he not."

It was said rather flatly, not really a question at all, and Elrond nodded. "I fear so, yes."

"Tell me."

Elrond handed a leaf-wrapped sheaf of lembas to Thranduil, buying a moment or two in which to consider. "Well."

"Start simply, O Noldor," Thranduil murmured archly. "Not only am I a simple Sindar, but I am also quite without a working mind at the moment. Trust me when I tell you that."

"And you assume I am much better off. Hmm. You are a simple Sindar." With a half-hearted chuckle, Elrond drank from the other water flask; dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve, he began the recitation. "Purely from a healing standpoint, he is going to be--how to put this--fragile for rather a long time. For instance someone has broken nearly all the bones in his hands, and I shall assume it was deliberate. Even for an Elf, that will take several days just to set. It may be weeks, perhaps even a month, before we will have any indication as to how the finer skills of movement will be affected."

Thranduil glanced sidelong at the splinted, bandaged arms and hands of his son and winced perceptibly. Scowling, he flexed his own hands--strong, long-fingered, the hands of an artist and a musician, in both of which Thranduil had talent. "One step at a time," he said evenly. "What else?"

"The gashes and cuts will have to be watched," Elrond said, choosing his words very carefully, trying for the least intrusive descriptions he could possibly muster. "Anywhere that ligaments were damaged we will need to be aware how it may impact on the child."

Thranduil slowly raised his head. He had mastered his facial expression, such that they might have been sitting off to one side at a picnic discussing the finer points of horse breeding, but the blue of his eyes was alive with barely-checked pain. "How so?"

Elrond shrugged, loathe to press deeper. "Various ways. Lifting. Holding. Bathing himself. Walking."

Thranduil winced at each word, and looked away. The blood on Legolas’ bandages seemed to be calling to him. "I--see."

"My greatest anxiety, however--" Elrond paused, tasting the words before they could escape. He had not had a chance to think this through much himself, as yet, and did not wish to raise more worry than absolutely could not be avoided in an already overburdened father. Thranduil's head came up again, though he looked more past than at Elrond, and his expression was one of dogged patience.

"Your greatest anxiety is--?" he prompted. Elrond sighed, feeling his shoulders come up in a shrug like an Elfling trying very hard to avoid interrogation by a teacher or parent.

"I worry that the length of time he went without--"

"Sire?"

It was Silinde, one of the Mirkwood captains, a tall, palely blond Sindarin Elf that Elrond thought he remembered from several past meetings of the White Council. Normally he wore a look of polite, distant disdain, but today he appeared much as the rest of them: weary, a little grubby and worse for wear, and at the moment rather apologetic at the intrusion. "I beg your pardon, aran brannon. I do not wish to interrupt, but Lord Celeborn suggested it might do both of you some good to eat solid food."

He glanced down at what he held in hand: a platter with roasted meat, two steaming cups of some kind of soup, a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a wedge of a mellow golden cheese. The scent of the bread reached Elrond's nostrils, making him viscerally aware of his hunger.

"Hot food for a hot day," Silinde said hopefully, quoting a truism most warriors learned as children. Elrond nodded his thanks, rising to take the platter; somehow he was neither surprised nor even amused when Silinde then reached into a pocket to bring forth two pristine napkins embroidered with Thranduil's sigil and decorated all along the edges with oak and holly leaves. The Elven-king stared in bemusement as Silinde crouched beside him and placed one of the large, civilized cloths across his lap.

"What--no cutlery? No table or candles?" he asked, striving to be puckish. He and Elrond both had to look away to prevent laughing when Silinde took him seriously, a crestfallen look of failure crossing his well-bred face.

"Forgive me, aran brannon. I did not think to check. Lord Tinuvîl may have brought along such things--shall I--?"

"If Tinuvîl brought such impedimenta I shall have him flogged," Thranduil broke in, laughing shortly. "Never mind, Silinde, I did but jest. This is fine, this is marvellous, thank you, now go away." He handed a napkin across to Elrond, and for just a moment there was actually a hint of ironic twinkle in his very blue eyes. "Do not look so appalled, son of Eärendil. It is only a second-best napkin."

Elrond stared at him in silence for several heartbeats; Thranduil tilted his head to one side, and shook the napkin. "It does not bite. Here, take it. You need to eat as well."

When Elrond burst out laughing, Silinde decided he had seen enough. Grief and travail had clearly pushed these two Elf-Lords over the brink. Sad, so sad, really... Silinde bowed.

"If you will excuse me, aran brannon."

"Oh yes, please, by all means." Thranduil then completely ignored him, and for the next minutes, he and Elrond concentrated on eating. Lembas was all very well and good, but combat and emotional difficulty called for something heartier; Elrond silently blessed whoever among Celeborn's folk had actually set himself to the task of preparing wholesome food, and tucked in right alongside the Elven-king. Neither had been aware of just how completely hungry they were, until now.

"Elrond."

"Hmm?"

"Your greatest anxiety is that the length of time Legolas went without--" Thranduil gestured with the leg of some small creature; he was fairly certain it was rabbit. "You never completed your thought."

Elrond took rather a large bite of cheese in a blatant effort to delay the inevitable, though he did nod. Thranduil chuckled darkly. "Nice try."

The Lord of Imladris took his time about swallowing, and had a drink of soup to wash down the cheese. "Thank you," he said, without even the faintest hint of a blush. "Pray forgive me, Thranduil. These are not easy things to say."

"Nor are they easy to hear, I assure you."

"Indeed." Elrond sighed heavily, glancing sidelong at Legolas. The Elfling lay there, all but completely covered by cloaks for warmth. The occasional shudders and twitches were only barely noticeable beneath the covers. To either side of Legolas’ fair head, now cleansed of any trace of blood, the upper lengths of the two great hooks stood forth starkly; Glorfindel had wrapped and packed them well, but they still looked darkly horrific and woefully out of place. Giving them a more thorough examination now that he was both conscious and not otherwise occupied, Elrond could see they were fashioned of iron about as long as a large being's forearm from the curve of the hook itself to the end of the shaft, and about an inch and a bit in diameter. The end of the hook was barbed and curved below the point, like a Goblin war-arrow. Doubtless it made a far worse wound coming out the back than it did going in the front, Elrond mused to himself. Did they just go in under the connecting bones of the shoulders? Or was that considered insufficient purchase, and did they drive the barbs through the plated bone in the upper back?

"I have never used a cheese knife as a weapon," Thranduil murmured in a pleasant conversational tone. "I suppose, however, there is a first time for everything."

Elrond startled. "I am sorry," he breathed, turning wide eyes on the Elven-king. Thranduil was eyeing the cheese knife speculatively, as if he might indeed be considering its use to force a continuation of the conversation; feeling the other's eyes upon him, he gave a cocked eyebrow and a disobliging smile.

"Your greatest anxiety is that the length of time Legolas went without," he repeated in tones of iron patience. "Without--what?"

"Blood," Elrond blurted, and this time did feel a blush creep over his face. "Without--sufficient blood. We so very nearly lost him, you see, for just that reason--had Mithrandir not created magic, all the Elven healing in Ennor would not have been enough."

"But we did not lose him," Thranduil said firmly. His whole tone and demeanour was that of a parent trying to reason away the unnecessary fears of an Elfling in the dead of night: there is nothing under your bed that was not there when you went to sleep, tithen emlin. Ai, Ada, that is what I fear!... "How then is this your greatest anxiety?"

"Because we have no way of knowing, until much more healing has been done and there is leisure to pursue the study of the problem, whether or not there has been any internal damage due to that dangerously low blood level." Falling back upon the most clinical language he could think of seemed to be the best--perhaps only--way Elrond could make himself contemplate, much less utter, such problematic concepts. He looked up to find Thranduil staring at him in mute dismay; apparently it had only just now occurred to him how one's heart and so on might be affected by a lack of the fluid that keeps them in motion.

"Eru my help," the son of Oropher breathed. "And--when shall we know, do you think?"

"Thranduil, forgive me," Elrond whispered, setting aside his food and dusting crumbs from his hands. "This is the saddest fact of all the sad things we must face now: much of what is wrong with Legolas--will be wrong with him--is simply not knowable right now. He has been through so much--suffered things we can only imagine, endured through things we would recognize all too well. If this had lasted but a year, and he were younger, who is to say but that it might have been easier? Or indeed, whether it would have been worse for his youth? He comes of good, strong stock--and he is Elven, a child of a pure and unbroken line of Firstborn. That has to count for something. We must believe--"

He realized he was rambling, and suddenly just cut off the flow of words. Thranduil was still staring at him, expression unreadable now, his mouth open as if he had been about to speak, one hand frozen in mid-motion of lifting the water flask. Elrond could feel palpable waves of confusion and anxiousness radiating from him, and bowed his head.

"We must believe the Valar are aware of all this and have Legolas’ future in hand already," he finished, trying to make it sound as a thought stemming from conviction rather than a mere platitude. "He has lived through eighteen years of horror, Thranduil--weeks of crushing boredom, nights and days of abuse and meanness. He has been starved, and then he has been force-fed upon things we would not foist on a dog. Everything we would never do to a child has been done to him. We cannot know the extent of the damage in any wise: physical or emotional. Not until Legolas himself can tell us."

"How exactly does one express such things?" Thranduil asked tonelessly, looking away at last, to gaze with loving pain upon the falsely peaceful face of his youngest child. "I cannot imagine that he will simply sit up in bed one day, look at me, and say 'well, Ada, about those Orcs and Goblins and Úlairi, now!' I mean, I just cannot--"

The words choked off into pained silence. Thinking back to the dark and painful days after his wife Celebrían was rescued from her own Orcish imprisonment and torture, Elrond patiently waited. None of this was going to be easy on Legolas, it was true--but none of it would be easy on Thranduil either, or Tinuvîl, or Brethilas worrying at home. In fact none of it would be easy on anyone who loved this poor Elfling, and Elrond made a silent vow not to allow anyone to forget that. Legolas would require gentle handling, unbelievable patience, and much love, but he was the obvious victim--for all that not every wound he bears will be obvious!--but there was much collateral damage from this dreadful episode. Having been in that position in the aftermath of Celebrían's torment, Elrond knew he was uniquely qualified to minister to those who would suffer similarly now that Legolas was a free Elf once more.

"I do beg your pardon," Thranduil said quietly after a long silence. He sounded remote and distant, as if he had somehow become disconnected from his world. Elrond had an unpleasant flash to Dagorlad: Thranduil, his armour bathed in the black blood of Orcs... kneeling on the mucky ground, sodden with the lives of Elf and Man and Shadows alike... Oropher dead in his arms, the king's winter-wheat hair in a long, disordered spill over his shoulder... no, really, I am fine, absolutely unhurt, and you? All is well, I just need the smallest little moment here... "Now then, what were we saying?"

"We were speaking of this and that," the Lord of Imladris said gently, shaking his head.

**********

<<Nana, will Ada be all right?>>

A bright, loving laugh: <>

Legolas lay back in his mother's arms, breathing slowly, smiling up at the brightness of the sky he could see beyond her shoulder. <>

<<Of course I was. As were many.>>

He laughed then, a high, bright sound. <<Many walked inside my head, Nana. It felt very funny!>>

She smiled, brushing back his hair. <>

<> Legolas predicted, pondering one of those who had walked abroad in his mind rather often. <<The Lore-Master Elrond is with Ada now. Are they great friends, Nana?>>

Luthiél gave a faint chuckle. <<They are, each of them in their own way, great,>> she told him. <<And they are, after a fashion, friends. But great friends, no. I have hopes... perhaps that is one of the good things that will arise from sorrow.>>

<> Legolas announced firmly. <<He tells fine stories.>>

<<Indeed. Of the best sort, as he lived through many of them.>>

<<Like Ada has?>>

<<Yes.>> Luthiél leaned down to kiss his brow. <<Rest now, my chattering little squirrel. You need rest. You must regain your strength.>>

He sighed, put-upon; it was an old bedtime game with them, and it fit like a well-worn pair of boots. Legolas gave a contented sigh and curled up in her arms, deeply inhaling the familiar, beloved scent of her. <>

<<In time, little squirrel. In time. Sleep now.>>

She began to sing, very softly; one slender hand came up to stroke his brow over and over, hypnotically brushing the hair back, soothing him into sleep. As he slept, Legolas dreamed....

**********

Eventually the Twins came to fetch them, as it was time to leave. For a while everything was pleasantly busy: Glorfindel was there, and Saeros and his folk, and off to one side, observing and sympathizing, were Celeborn and Mithrandir. Legolas, still deeply unconscious, was indeed loaded onto a sumpter wagon, as Mithrandir had said, "like so much baggage"; Glorfindel's supposedly jury-rigged litter turned out to be a rather well-made item of great practicality, capable of being folded down to something much smaller once the patient was safely aboard other transport and cocooned in blankets, cloaks, and the like. More than one healer or captain among the Firstborn who had gathered to help with the wounded pronounced him- or herself impressed with it, and at least Elrohir managed to tease the inventive Lord of Gondolin over his ability to create useful things out of nothing.

"One dares not toss away anything around you, Glorfindel--you always manage to turn it into something we end up saving for centuries!" he announced, as soon as he realized that the bolts used to secure the litter both open or closed were, in fact, recycled spear-tips from among the battlefield detritus. Glorfindel reached over to tie the younger Elf's sidelock braids in a loose knot under his chin, and pinched his cheek.

"The young say such clever things," he retorted, and handed him a pile of blankets. "Go now and make yourself useful. There is much to be done."

The concluding wink let Elrohir know the teasing was taken and returned in like spirit of great affection though. Laughing, the son of Elrond went away to do as bidden. Soon all those who were unable to sit a horse were similarly loaded onto supply carts, though to give them as much privacy as possible under the circumstances, Elrond and Legolas only shared their wagon with gathered-up weapons and healers' necessities.

Celeborn gave orders that certain of the warriors--those who were completely unhurt and the most rested--should ride swiftly ahead as harbingers, in order to secure a safe camping ground and see to it the camp was properly established before the wounded arrived. Led by his own captains from Lórien--the steadfast Eithelas and the irrepressible Nevalkarion--the majority of the fighting force headed off into the growing darkness of evening. Young Morilinde of the Silvan Elves came to take the reins of the wagon in which Legolas and Elrond rested, for she was quite good with horses; in the bargain, she was of the young Prince's own generation, though a good seventy winters and more older than he, and they had been friends before Legolas’ capture. Since the fighting had halted, she had been looking for something to keep her hands occupied, and this seemed as good a task as any--especially since it allowed her to serve her King and remain close to keep an eye on the Prince as well. Lord Tinuvîl's Mirkwood folk and Saeros' contingent of faithful Silvan Elves remained to guard the rest of the cavalcade, for none of Thranduil's subjects were willing to leave the side of their liege lord and his restored princeling.

It was not a matter of safety, for it seemed victory rode before them like sea-birds before a storm. Not even a full day before, most of them would have called either foolish or desperate any that were willing to be abroad alone in the darkness of Southern Mirkwood. Now, as the first evening fell gently over the once-captive forest, it was far more likely anyone insisting on taking a large force for protection would be named overly cautious or fearful. Mirkwood was beginning to look a lot like that for which it had originally been named when Oropher of Doriath was her ruler: Greenwood, a place of growing things and sweet, soft peace. Greenwood the Great, sang those trees old enough and courageous enough to believe the end of their travail had come. Greenwood, the jewel of the Rhovanion Wilderland....

Nay, the Mirkwood Elves simply and stubbornly would not leave their King's side, nor that of his son, out of love and need. They had stood by Thranduil through thick and thin, as he had done for them; it had been a difficult and dark road at times, true, but the Nandor were hallmarked for loyalty. They had not deserted their beloved forests even at the behest of the Valar; they had not deserted their young King when his father had caused the unwitting decimation of the Silvan armies at Dagorlad. They had lost sons and daughters to Shadow even as Thranduil had done; some of them had buried spouses and lovers, as he had done. So what that his veins carried only the smallest hint of true Silvan blood? So what that his mother had been Vanyar on both lines, his father Sindarin? He was their Prince, their King. He had come among them a very young Elfling, big-eyed and grieving for his lost Naneth; had grown, matured, become a premier warrior; married and raised a family; then ascended to rule them all, amalgamating Sindarin and Silvan, Nandor and Vanyar, and anyone in between that came to make a home in the greenwood with them. He had done it all with only his native wit and grit and the iron of his spine, with no Ring of Power to aid him, and they adored him for it.

Thranduil Oropherion was known throughout the Elven realms as a proud and difficult being. If one commented on how lovely the blue sky was of a morning, he was easily likely to pronounce that it was not so much blue as cerulean, and would happily argue gradations of meaning for each synonym of blueness. He bent rules until they squealed, but hove to tradition with a tenacity that made granite look limp and listless. Tradesmen and mercenaries quailed at the thought of bargaining with him for price or terms, and only the most dedicated scholars felt comfortable entering into discussions with one of such long memory and facile wit. Depending on his mood, it was not always possible to be certain if he would embrace you or spit in your eye--but withal, those who most despaired of spending an evening in his company would be the first to admit there were few other Elves they would want at their back in a pitched fight. On the way out of the forest that lovely summer evening, watching as he rode beside the wagon bearing his rescued child, his people loved him even more for the stalwart courage they saw in him. How straight his back, how proud the carriage of his form... Surely that is a King if any Elf ever was one!

The son of Oropher carried it off well, for few can discern from afar the state of another's fëa, and Thranduil was accustomed to riding alongside sorrow. Nor can even the eyes of the Firstborn detect a breaking heart, if well shielded.

"How is it with him now?" Thranduil asked, reining in his mount more closely alongside in order to continue his interrupted conversation with Elrond. The Lord of Imladris had been hovering between dream and waking, head tipped back to watch the stars slowly winking into the ever-deepening blue-black of the coming night; he briefly closed his eyes and smiled faintly.

"He is still unconscious, though it begins to feel more like natural sleep than stupor," he said quietly, and glanced down to make certain with his eyes what his healer's mind told him by reaching out. In the gentle starlit darkness Legolas did look strangely better than he had by sunlight, though smudges of pained exhaustion stained his face just under the eyes. Those eyes were no longer squeezed shut, but were more gently closed; the dark lashes, long and thick, rested easily, not scrunched like crumpled ribbons. "I do believe Mithrandir was correct: being out of the Tower environs and amid the growing things of the world is beginning to work a wonder on the child."

"Of course Mithrandir is correct," said a new voice behind them. "Mithrandir is always correct."

Elrond smiled faintly and closed his eyes. Thranduil glanced back over one shoulder to greet the Maia with an ironic chuckle. "Except when he is not?"

"On the contrary. Especially when he is not." Mithrandir tapped his booted heels gently against his mount's flanks; the brown mare hastened a bit to draw abreast of the wagon on the opposite side, across from the Elven-king, whose own mare was inclined to nip. Gazing down at the now-sleeping prince, he smiled paternally. "He does look better. And soon enough when those hooks are removed he will look even better."

Thranduil winced, but said nothing. For eighteen years, the health of Elrond had been tied in his mind to the health of Legolas; he stared critically at the sleepy face of the Lore-Master. "And how does Elrond look to you?" he asked.

Mithrandir gave Thranduil a piercing look, seeing on several levels at the merest glance.

"Better in some respects than you do, O King. Did you eat what Celeborn sent to you?"

"Yea, Naneth Mithrandir, I did indeed," Thranduil retorted, surprising a chuckle out of Elrond, who half-raised one hand to forestall the obvious:

"As did I. We both ate, and drank, and will bear witness for one another against all askers."

"So long as it is not false witness, I am pleased," the Maia said, smiling. He gestured down the way ahead of them, where the rearguard of Tinuvîl's force could just be seen rounding a stand of trees. "A rider has come back from those who went on ahead, to say the encampment is all established and ready for us along the western bank of the Anduin--and there is a reasonable ford at which even the carts and wagons may safely cross."

"That is good news indeed," Thranduil murmured, peering narrow-eyed into the darkness ahead. "And Tinuvîl has all in hand up there, does he?"

"If you mean the traitor from Dale, yes," Mithrandir replied tersely, looking for all the world as if he wished he might spit to rid his mouth of a foul taste. Thranduil heard the tone but did not turn to look back at him; a faint, unpleasant smile curved his mouth briefly. When he did look back, the Elven-king saw that Elrond was watching him closely, eyes slightly narrowed. He looked neither judgemental nor sympathetic, and Thranduil stared hard at him for several seconds before smiling slightly more widely.

"I do indeed mean Aldor."

Maia and Lore-Master waited, but Thranduil said no more. A look passed between Mithrandir and Elrond, and the son of Eärendil sighed, shaking his head.

"Thranduil, I beg you not to do something you may later regret."

"No intention of that, nîn iaur mellon."

Silence reigned for the next several minutes, punctuated only by the sound of creaking wagon boards, hoof-steps on soft ground, and those homey sounds horses make to one another or to their riders. The column was companionably quiet as it wove its way through the healing woods, and eventually out onto the broad Vale of Anduin.

"Son of Oropher, there is aught I needs must say to you," Mithrandir said gently, gazing ahead into the dimness. Thranduil grunted politely.

"Speak then, old one."

"How old was young Legolas, when first taken by the Orcs?"

Thranduil went curiously still, there on the back of his mount. "Twenty-three summers. Almost exactly. His conception, you may remember, was Midsummer's eve. Why do you ask?"

"That is young indeed." Mithrandir made a little ritual out of filling his pipe and lighting up, long years of practice enabling him to strike flint to tinder without the slightest fumble while still easily guiding his own mount. "And now he has reached his fortieth summer. Almost exactly."

Thranduil made a sound of irritated agreement. "Midsummer's eve was but a few nights past, yes. Mithrandir--"

"Haste makes waste," the Maia quoted gently, exhaling a wreath of smoke. The Elven-king turned slowly to stare at him across the wagon, and even in the dark, the watching Elrond could see a glint of steel in Thranduil's very blue eyes.

"Hoom, hoom, hoom," the son of Oropher growled. "Excuse me for not being of the Onodrim. Why this interrogation concerning my Elfling's age?"

Mithrandir quelled a grin, mercifully hidden within the tangle of his beard and moustache, for though he was tickled as always by the wryness of Thranduil's wit, this was not an easy subject to broach. "Eighteen years is a long time for the young. There are concerns I have for Legolas’ state of mind as he heals, which I would discuss with you--and with Elrond too, for that matter, as he has much experience with this sort of thing from a differing perspective."

"Such as?"

Elrond winced inwardly. Thranduil had always possessed a gift for putting a certain amount of menace into an otherwise polite and subtle remark.

"Well, it occurs to me that long memory may turn out to be helpful here," Mithrandir continued, undaunted. "You will of course remember intimately what he was like as a very little Elfling."

At the reins, Morilinde's straight young back stiffened and her shoulders twitched as if she had been struck. Thranduil's reaction was almost identical; then his eyes slid shut and his brow creased in pain. Remember? Oh decidedly, yes. Not a day had passed in all these eighteen years that he had not remembered such things. He had been sitting in his study staring out at the dappled sunlight filtering through the thick forest eaves, thinking of his youngest child's infancy and long, sweet childhood at the very sad hour when he was taken prisoner, for it had been the occasion of Legolas’ first hunt and his father was feeling nostalgic. With the persistence of memory he could recall every detail: how at some point clouds had scudded across the forest, dimming the light of Anar and sending a chill of warning up Thranduil's spine with the vague sense that something was very wrong somewhere; how Brethilas had come in from his daily ride along the northern perimeter of the realm and, with unaccustomed haste and foreboding, come slamming into the royal presence with nothing to report save a most insistent and embarrassing sense that something dreadful had happened. They had dined together privately at nightfall, not joining the court in the Great Hall, and it had been a tense, unhappy meal by even the kindest description. Then later that evening a messenger, Thalas of the Silvan hunters that regularly rode with Saeros the Tracker, was shown into Thranduil's presence. Wounded gravely, his tunic rent from left shoulder to waist, stained with his own blood and those of others, he had had two horses die beneath him in his urgency to reach home with the horrible, the unthinkable news....

Remember? Oh blessed Valar yes....

A thousand scenes like it flashed through his mind in a heartbeat, along with more painful, more lovely memories: the scent of the newborn child as he was first placed in Thranduil's arms; the confiding nature of the little one as he grew and learned; the joy and wonder in his eyes as he learned to sit up, to stand, to walk, to run; the sweet sound of his young voice raised in song or chatter; the focused silence and utter trust as he gave his hand into that of his father for the cut of Thranduil's knife at the beginning of his warrior training....

Thranduil bent double over the raised front of his saddle, unable to stop the low groan of anguish that bubbled up from deep within. By sheer will he had been holding back the greater violence of his emotions over the hours since leaving Lothlórien, and most especially since finding Legolas suspended over that horrific vat in the dungeons of the dark Tower. Pitched battle and the outpouring of grieving tears had helped, as had the small amount of sleep he had been granted--but it was not enough. Like an overwound spring on a Dwarven clockwork toy Thranduil could feel his control beginning to slip, could tell the teeth were losing their grip, could sense that soon, very soon, everything would let go with a nasty little ping and a great deal of something very, very bad in the aftermath.

"That," Thranduil ground out between his teeth, in a voice that did not sound at all like his own, "had better be a rhetorical question, wizard."

"It is," Mithrandir admitted kindly, his own voice soft and gently parental. "And I do not make the observation with the intent to cause you more pain. I only ask that you cling to those memories, and all the baggage they bring along with them--for I fear you will find your son has changed very little from those ways and days, Thranduil. And it could be a critical lynchpin on which will turn the whole of his inner healing."

There came a smothered gasp of deep pain--not from Thranduil, but from Elrond, who was now fully awake and staring with wide, anxious eyes at the Maia. His own thoughts had been running in exactly that rut for the last several hours, as over and over in his memory the recollections of his wife's suffering replayed themselves. He had long since decided that, especially for one captured so young and held for so long, Legolas might well prove to be emotionally suspended in time: matured, certainly, and yet still very much a child--a youngling in the body of a warrior, with an anger far, far older than his short span of years. Thranduil was too far gone in the attempt to control his own emotions at the moment, but Elrond received a long, considering look of shared pain from Mithrandir. The kindness in the wizard's eyes, the compassion and understanding, almost made Elrond himself weep.

"You--mean that he will--still think and react as a child would do?" Thranduil asked, his voice painful to listen to as he reined in his feelings turmoil by sheer force of will. Mithrandir tore his gaze from Elrond and nodded, though Thranduil was still bent over the saddle and did not see.

"Very likely. He has had very little that is Elvish against which to balance his behaviour, and Elflings always learn such things best by imitation of their elders--any child would," the Maia sighed. "True, Elrond and Galadriel both have been in his mind; he has kept his cradle tongue because of that, and learned Quenya, but--as an example--I doubt he recalls how to write either language. In fact, if he can write at all still--hate to think it though I do--he would know Westron at best, and the Black Speech at worst."

Thranduil straightened so precipitously in the saddle that his mare actually shied, dancing sidewise and coming within a hair's-breadth of bumping into the wagon side. Mithrandir sighed again but went on, knowing these things had to be spoken of lest Thranduil be caught unprepared by them--which would not be a good thing. Thranduil was never at his best when taken by surprise; it tended only to make him angry and difficult.

"From what I have seen, and what has been shared with me by Elrond and Galadriel, I have come to certain understandings about what the child has endured," Mithrandir continued gently. "Not every day of the entire eighteen years has been unremitting evil, Thranduil. Other things happened, maybe even some he will remember pleasantly, and much he will be able to put to good use. Too, there were long spates of sheer boredom, which has its own penalties attached when speaking of the young and intelligent--into which categories I am sure you will agree Legolas certainly falls."

"I cannot listen to this, Mithrandir," the Elven-king suddenly exclaimed, pounding one fist into the saddle before him. "We are speaking of my son. My son, do you hear me? Luthiél's son. Her lastborn. We are NOT discussing a rabid dog that can be put down, or a feral wild thing one can capture and tame. Sweet heart of Elbereth!" He reared back, eyes wide and haunted; his voice rose in anguish. "I will not sit here and listen while my child is dissected like some kind of--of--experiment of Morgoth!"

"You must, pen-neth," said a new voice out of the darkness. It was Celeborn, who looked almost ghostly on his grey horse, clad all in silver and grey and blue turned white by moonlight, his silver hair flowing freely about his shoulders now that he need no longer restrain it for battle. Thranduil stared at him, stunned. "At the very least, you must listen--although I would suggest you not descend thus into hyperbole. No one is dissecting your dear child."

The Lord of Lórien turned politely to Mithrandir. "Old friend, ride along with Elrond and our Elfling for a ways, would you? I wish to speak with my kinsman."

Relieved, Mithrandir nodded and spoke quietly to Morilinde. The young archer nodded, her green eyes filling with tears; she squeezed them shut and tutted to the horses, asking them gently for a little more speed so they could pull ahead and give the others their privacy. Mithrandir rode alongside, pausing only to look at Celeborn. Silent communication passed between them, then the Maia nodded once and trotted off to follow the wagon.

"Ride with me, son of Oropher."

He kneed his mount around; they walked away, the horse as elegantly unhurried as its rider. Thranduil watched them go, his jaw set in frustration, a scowl marring his fair features. When Celeborn did not look back, but simply kept going, Thranduil really had no choice but to follow and catch up.

"Words and more words," he growled as he drew abreast, riding almost stirrup to stirrup with the Lord of Lórien. "You have been too long among the Noldor, all you seem to do for the most part is ramble on and on!"

"Stop it," Celeborn commanded with gentle force. "Elrond may be loathe to draw lines in the sand with you, and Mithrandir is trying in his way to be as kind as he may be--but I am too old to coddle you."

"Coddle--!"

"Excellent. Your hearing, at least, does not seem to have suffered." He smiled with searing politeness. "And do you remember what the word is in Doriathrin?"

Thranduil wondered if it was possible for an Elf to have a stroke. His scowl deepened; eyes narrowed almost to the point of pain, he twisted his long fingers in the reins. His voice was pure dripping ice water as he said, "You would do well not to push me, pen-iaur. You are not my father."

"No, and may Varda be thanked for small favours."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You shall have it when you mend your tone, child." Celeborn drew rein then, reaching over to halt Thranduil's horse as well. His eyes were calm enough, but there was steel in his voice. "If I were your father, I would not now be here to instruct you and possibly save you some pain. Oropher taught you many a useful thing and good, Thranduil, but patient attention to the words of your equals was not among the skills he handed on to you. And no surprise there, the Valar know, as it was not a skill he possessed to hand on." The Lord of Lórien sighed angrily, shaking his head. "Had I fathered you, patience is decidedly a virtue I would have seen to it you received."

"And do you presume to tutor me now?" Thranduil growled, yanking his reins free. Celeborn smiled ironically, one dark eyebrow curving upward over piercing silver eyes.

"I have little patience when Elflings sneer," he retorted. "But because you are my kinsman, and despite your staunch beliefs to the contrary I do have a deep love for you, I do intend to attempt precisely that."

Thranduil stared at him in silence for several heartbeats. He was breathing rather rapidly, and his mind ran like a rat in a maze, looking for any of a thousand things to say that would not lead to swords clashing in the moonlight. It had been a very long time indeed since he had crossed blades with this particular Elf, and he did not relish the thought of a rematch.

"Why in the name of everything holy do you insist on either talking me to death or trying very hard to make me so angry I may burst?" he demanded at last, throwing up his hands in annoyance. "My son is desperately wounded and broken, Celeborn. I know that. It will take most of the rest of this Age to heal him completely, if that can even be accomplished. I know that as well. Why then must you and Elrond and Mithrandir all natter at me about it like prating squirrels? I am about to run mad from advice, kinsman!"

"I suspect we natter because we care!" Celeborn bit back at him. "Or could it be, do you think, because we have the distinct impression that you listen very nicely, but utterly fail to hear?"

Thranduil opened his mouth to reply, but no words were forthcoming. There was no point in arguing; it helped nothing, accomplished nothing. Sighing, the Elven-king allowed his head to droop downward until his chin touched his chest. Celeborn was, after all, his much-elder kinsman, a cousin of his father, and literally the last being in Ennor who had a claim--or a right--to instruct Thranduil on much of anything. The Valar knew (when Thranduil himself possessed the honesty to make the admission!) there were no other among the Firstborn remaining who possessed sufficient patience to try, over and over, to break through the native stubbornness of the son of Oropher!

"All right then," he murmured, conceding, but still sufficiently discomfited that he did so without too much grace. "Suppose I were to be silent and let you say whatever comes into your head. I know you do not speak idly--it is the length of your speechification that bedevils me."

"Impolite, but better," Celeborn said, and turned his horse to once again continue the ride. He glanced from side to side as if this were a leisurely journey through peaceful parklands; after a moment Thranduil joined him. Celeborn could sense the turmoil in his younger kinsman, could feel the waves of frustration and the iron effort to maintain an ever more tenuous control on his roiling emotions. For that reason, as well as for the sake of young Legolas, Celeborn was more than willing to be patient; some things just needed to be said, before those emotions within Thranduil caused him to let go. I think we can all agree that none of us wants to see what Thranduil is capable of calling forth in a grief enraged....

"I will expect you to be schooled by Elrond for much of this healing and recovery," the elder Elf-Lord said, when some moments of quiet had passed. "What he endured for Celebrían's sake will be of use and service to you--to all of us--as we seek to help Legolas find himself again."

That seems easy enough. I can agree to that. Thranduil nodded silently, biting the inside of his lower lip to still its trembling.

"The child will not be himself. You realize this."

"Yes." All right, that was better. No hint of a quaver in the voice, good....

"In many ways, the last two weeks of his imprisonment were the worst," Celeborn sighed, hearing Thranduil's inner dialogue and rolling his eyes. If that was how the other had to cope, then so be it. Oropher had been much the same way, and his father before him. "They knew something was about to transpire, after all--probably Angmar suspected from the start that we would not be able to go for long without a reaction once the child began to mature and they commenced their foul plans."

Thranduil's fingers knotted in the reins again, causing them to tighten against his mount's neck; the mare looked up and back, concerned, and whickered at him in a throaty, comforting murmur. Celeborn's stallion looked intrigued at the sound, and attempted to step closer; before his rider could react however, the mare laid back her ears and gave him a look sufficient to make him realize she had not been calling to him. Celeborn almost smiled, but controlled the quirk and glanced at Thranduil.

"Do you realize the importance of the last two weeks?" he asked. Thranduil stared at him as if it were a sincere effort just to understand what language he was speaking, much less comprehend and parse the meaning of the words themselves.

"Importance?"

Celeborn nodded. "Yes. I see you have not considered it."

"I have considered that my son came to physical maturity surrounded by rapacious Orc females," Thranduil ground out, trying desperately to maintain a civil tone. "Stripped naked and bound to a rude bed in a prison. Ravished and forced to father abominations. I understand that much, by the Valar!"

"All true," the Lord of Lórien sighed, shaking his head sadly. Thranduil swallowed hard.

"I do not wish to get into a debate concerning whether Legolas will ever be able to love and accept affection as a result," he said, the effort to speak with even a little politeness making his normally melodious voice rough and almost painful to hear. Celeborn's chin came up; he half-turned in the saddle and looked at his kinsman in surprise.

"Nor would I bring up such a matter at this time!" he exclaimed. "Thranduil, that would be at best rude, and at worst completely unloving. It is not my intention to hurt you or Legolas by these words!"

"Then what?" Thranduil begged him, the word breaking on a sob. "I do not have a mind capable of subtlety just now, Celeborn! Be plain, by all the Valar, or save it until I find my senses again!"

"I actually hope it may be possible to offer you some small ray of light," Celeborn said more gently, speaking slowly. "It is this: the last two weeks of his stay in the Tower seem to have been the worst. And while it is true this means such will be his most recent memory, therefore the most raw and painful, it also means that it was of shorter duration. That which is compacted becomes rather mundane through its very sameness--but it does not have time to get under the skin, or work its way insidiously into one's very being to break one down so that such horror seems normal." He paused, looked closely at Thranduil in the quiet moonlight. "Is this making any sense?"

Fighting a sense of his own horror, as if some creature were alive within his very veins and was crawling along inside him toward his living heart, Thranduil closed his eyes tightly and swallowed against a wave of nausea. He supposed the words made some sense. He had heard of beings who managed to survive great suffering and torment by deciding it was normal, rather than the gross exception such things truly were. No one spoke much of such things, but the occasional trickle of a philosophical discussion occasionally came out. As a warrior, too, Thranduil had endured longer campaigns during which it had been necessary to forget such civilizing influences as home, loved ones, afternoon tea and such, in order to concentrate the terrible things war required. That this could have happened to his sweet little son was a thing of unbelievable grossness, a perversion of everything he had fought all his life to preserve and protect.

Some part of him begged to be told this was not Legolas they were discussing so he could look at the whole problem in a more detached manner. Yet another part of him insisted he must remain viscerally aware that this was his child--conceived of the deep love of his life with a wife he had adored and lost, raised for the first twenty-two years of his existence in sheltered, joyful love--if Legolas was ever to regain even the smallest semblance of that safety, that joy. If he was ever again to be the sweet, fearless, song-filled little golden bird, his father had to take in this dark shadow and learn how to defeat it. Not only must he take it in, but acknowledge it and give it space in his mind and heart.

"Thranduil?"

He looked up slowly. Tears welled up, spilled over; he cursed very quietly under his breath. "Yes. It makes horrible sense."

"Good." Celeborn had a momentary sense of the world tipping away under his stallion's hooves, a very real sense of vertigo and disorientation. The notion of calling such a conversational conclusion as this "good" shot out of the sky most definitions of goodness that had ever shown themselves in all his long life. Yet had not Galadriel said similar things to him, and had they not both said such things to Elrond, while Celebrían wrestled with demons in the days following her rescue from torment and despair? Was this not, in fact, yet another "good" thing coming out of that sweet lady's ghastly experience--the means to peek ahead at what Legolas might endure, and perhaps in honour of Celebrían save him from some layers of the pain and fear?

Celeborn sighed and shook his head. Looking into Thranduil's eyes he could see that the younger Elf was wondering if his kinsman had taken leave of his senses. "Understand me, neth-gwanur," he pleaded, raising one finger in a gesture of gentle warning. "I do not mean to suggest anything more than that it is good you comprehend my meaning. What has happened here, to Legolas, to you, to Brethilas, to Tinuvîl, to all your people, is dreadful. That it has come to even this positive a conclusion stuns me with gratitude to the Valar. But it is not over yet."

"No, not hardly," Thranduil agreed, heavy-hearted. He turned his face away so that his tears could not be seen, but could clearly hear Celeborn's practical words spoken in tones of suffering acceptance:

"Ah well, we shall see what happens in the days to come. If the majority of these eighteen years have been mostly marked by simpler neglect, there is more hope than there would have been had the entire time of his captivity been unremitting anguish." Celeborn gave a mirthless chuckle and sadly shook his head. "There is something to be said for a certain compacting of time and torment."

They fell into a merciful silence then, and rode along in the darkness without words. The forest gave way to the flat river plain of the Vale of Anduin; it glittered in the brightness of the midsummer moon, which hung low on the horizon to the south-east. The great river was like a silver ribbon in the softer greys and greens of the Vale, while beyond to the west the fastness of Lothlórien could just be seen at the limit of Elvish sight. Closer in, a hundred campfires could be seen flickering in the night like stars come to ground, and tents of beautifully coloured canvas had been erected. As Celeborn and Thranduil splashed across the river at the ford and came into the broad camp, they could see the harbingers had done their work well. All was order and cheer, everywhere they looked. Neat picket lines had been established for the horses, which were already being groomed after a good cooling-down from their labours, and a meal worthy of Elven companions who had striven so mightily on their behalf in battle this day. Pleasant smells filled the air, of food being prepared for the Firstborn warriors as well.

They drew rein before a brace of guards watching the main entrance. Celeborn accepted their salutes, and leaned down from the saddle to inquire as to where they might find Elrond; he was directed to a healer's enclosure that had been erected at the end of the camp street, near the treeline at the edge of Lórien's outer perimeter.

"My thanks. Thranduil, I suspect that is where we will find the little one. Will you come?"

Not trusting himself to speak, the son of Oropher simply nodded and kneed his mare to follow. A Mirkwood Elf came to take their mounts; before they could enter the canvas building, however, Mithrandir stepped out of the pool of light that filled the doorway.

"All is well, my friends," the Maia said calmly, making a soothing gesture with one hand in answer to the anxiety he saw in Thranduil's eyes. "In fact it is almost better than all right. Elrond has determined that he can now safely sedate Legolas, and therefore it is possible to remove those hooks. He and Glorfindel are preparing to do this, and I intend to assist them."

"That is good news," Celeborn said mildly, placing one hand comfortingly on Thranduil's shoulder. "Do you wish to be there, child?"

Thranduil looked a bit taken aback at the epessë and lifted his shoulders in an uncomfortable shrug. "I must confess I have no great, pressing desire to watch anyone cut into my child's flesh," he breathed, and a shudder ran through his tall form. He looked almost beseechingly at Mithrandir. "Has Legolas awakened? If he needs me there I will of course come--"

"He roused once, but briefly, when we lifted him forth from the wagon," the Maia told him, shaking his head. "He was not quite in his right mind--he bade us rather forcefully to let him be or he would tear our lungs out. Then he seemed to recognize me, said hello, and passed out once more."

"I see," Thranduil murmured, and gave a short, mirthless chuckle. "My tithen maethor is in a fierce state of mind, then. That bodes well."

"I daresay." Mithrandir stuck his hands in his pockets and reminded himself this was no time for a smoke, dearly though he would like to have had one. "So no, the little one is not awake, and will not realize who is present and who not. I certainly would not condemn you for desiring to be elsewhere--let us minister to Legolas for now, Thranduil. We will send for you if need be, though I have a feeling all will be well."

There was something in the twinkling blue of his eyes, there beneath the shaggy brows, that led one to believing everything would indeed be quite all right. Thranduil allowed himself another shudder out of a kind of relief, and managed a rather competent-looking nod.

"That is good," he said, sounding almost normal. "Yes. Very good. Do--send for me--if need be." He turned then, eyes scanning the area as if searching for someone. Celeborn and Mithrandir shared a long, considering look, but did not comment.

"I will go speak with my captains then, and send those wounded who are able to continue on in to report to Galadriel," the Lord of Lórien said, turning to more practical matters. "Where shall you be, kinsman, should Mithrandir be required to summon you?"

"I have business with my marriage-brother," Thranduil grunted, gesturing toward the shadows beneath the trees. Saeros the Tracker came forth then, separating from the darkness as if by magic; he briefly bent the knee to Thranduil, touching his right hand to his heart, then rose and gave a polite bow of the head to Celeborn and Mithrandir in turn. He carried the sword Thranduil had used in battle, which had lately been strapped to his mount's saddle: Aikalerion's Gift, the ancient swordmaster's birth gift to the infant Legolas, now baptized in blood to gain his release. Thranduil smiled. "Where is Tinuvîl, nîn gwador?"

"I will take you to him, aran brannon," Saeros murmured with his customary economy. His face was impassive; feeling Mithrandir's gaze upon him, the Tracker merely looked at the Maia in a silence so deep it was itself a challenge.

"And where would that be, pen-iaur?" Mithrandir asked. Saeros allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch.

"At the edge of camp, nîn khîr. Just there." He pointed in a north-westerly direction, toward the jutting border of Lórien's Naith. Mithrandir nodded curtly.

"Thank you, Saeros. Let us not get ourselves into anything too deep for extraction, shall we?"

The Tracker smiled very faintly and cocked his head. Everything about his expression said in quiet volumes that there was very little into which Saeros might get himself that he could not also get himself out of. All he said though was "No."

He turned then and disappeared off in the indicated direction. Thranduil paused only to glance significantly at Celeborn. "It sounds inadequate, kinsman, but thank you. For the life of my son, for not saying all that you could have said--for everything--thank you."

"You brought him out of Dol Guldur, Thranduil, not I," Celeborn reminded him quietly. "As I said it would be. But nevertheless--you are welcome, of course."

The King bowed his fair head, then turned to smile faintly at Mithrandir. "You have my thanks as well, old friend. Likewise for all you have done. Call me if you need me."

Then he was gone, nearly as quietly as Saeros himself. They watched him go; Celeborn fetched a deep sigh and shook his head, pulling off his riding gloves and slapping them against one palm.

"I am sorely tempted to summon him even without need just to save him from himself," he murmured, though his heart was not in the rebuke. There were times when Celeborn felt just a little too Silvan himself for the good of breakable things. Mithrandir gave a short bark of laughter.

"One cannot say it is not going to be deserved," he pointed out. Celeborn smiled darkly.

"No," he whispered, and looked once more in the direction Thranduil had gone. "No, that I can not."

"You may need this then," Mithrandir chuckled, handing Celeborn a small flask. The Elf-Lord gazed at it in question, and raised his eyes to those of the Maia; Mithrandir laughed once more. "Elrond mixed it up a moment ago. It will doubtless be needed ere long."

"Yes," Celeborn sighed. "I daresay."

He pocketed the flask with a curt nod of thanks and moved off to follow Thranduil deeper into the camp.

**************

It was fairly quick work to find Tinuvîl, for he stood at the heart of a rather sizeable circle of Mirkwood folk, Silvan and Sindar alike. Saeros led his King right to that circle, which parted like leaves before a strong breeze; striding like vengeance incarnate, Thranduil entered the group and stopped before his marriage-brother. Tinuvîl had one hand fisted in the dark, silver-threaded hair of a kneeling figure, still bound and gagged after all these hours. He smiled faintly as Thranduil approached.

"So." Lip curled in disgust, eyes cold and narrowed, Thranduil stared down upon the traitor Man. Aldor flinched at the sound of that single disdainful word, frightened at how much feeling the Elf could put into such a little syllable. This was not the Elven-king he remembered from his years as a guardsman in Dale. This was not the suave, elegantly polite and diplomatic being he recalled from visits to Mirkwood in the company of the Master of Lake-town, nor the kindly, regal figure he had seen with the exquisite Queen, her lovely daughter and two beautiful sons. Surely that Thranduil had never been so chillingly majestic, so alight with power, as the fell creature who towered over him now?

Surely that Thranduil had never been so terrifying....

"All who dwelled within the Dark Tower are gone, save two," the Elven-king continued, the words dripping from his lips like ice, in a conversational tone that was belied by the look in his eyes. "The Úlairi have fled, leaving their minions bereft. The Orcs and Uruk-hai are slain, and the Goblins; and all those of the race of Men who adventured there in their insanity, they too are slain."

The son of Oropher crouched down before Aldor and gazed at him as one might upon an exotic insect, captured and placed in a jar. "My son is being healed at this very moment, saved from the agony of what you have done to him," the Elf purred, tilting his head to one side as he considered the prisoner. Aldor made incoherent sounds of protest behind his gag, and shook his head. The message was clear: he did not wish to take the brunt of punishment for Legolas’ captivity just because he was the last one left alive. Thranduil cocked one elegant eyebrow, and smiled thinly. "How odd. I cannot seem to understand your words--and I have always considered myself fluent in Westron."

He paused, shook his fair head, and rose smoothly to his full height. Aldor followed him with his eyes, wide and frightened above the leather buckled over his mouth. The bright eyes of the Elf hardened to azure glass. Aldor swayed in the grip of his captors, looking as if but for the gag he might be quite thoroughly sick to his stomach. He flinched violently when Thranduil spoke again.

"Only you are left of all the minions of Shadow. Of all the putrid vileness of Dol Guldur, only you survive. You live by my command, Aldor."

He smiled then, and if Aldor had had any coherence left in his terror, he might have been stunned to consider the terrible beauty of that smile. Thranduil had always been painfully handsome, a true son of two quite lovely parents; now, with eyes of great and fell fury and the smile of a craftsman considering his art, he looked unworldly beautiful.

He also looked utterly deadly, and the death in his gaze was for the Man kneeling before him. Aldor lost control of his bodily functions in that moment, and behind the gag began to keen and moan like a gutted horse. Thranduil's expression curdled to that of examination of the underside of a favourite boot after treading in filth. "You will die by my command as well, disloyal excrement," he murmured in a too-calm tone. "And by my hand as well, likely as not. But I am nothing if not just."

He glanced sidelong at Saeros, who followed him like a shadow. "Remove the gag. The prisoner has a right to any last words in his own defense."

Saeros looked a tad sceptical but did as commanded, removing the leather and wood from Aldor's mouth. The Man gagged reflexively; it took him some moments to recover, as he was still sobbing in hysteria.

"Y-you--cannot--just--cut me down!" he wept, wavering unpleasantly between terror and fury. His red eyes ran tears, his nose dripped like a weeping child's, as he stared up at Thranduil with wild eyes. "Have pity!"

"Pity!" Thranduil exclaimed, crouching down in front of the traitor. "Pity is for those who deserve it, minion of Shadow! Did you pity my child when he was your prisoner? Did you show him even the smallest mercy?"

"I taught him to shoot!" Aldor insisted, which gained him a round of disbelieving catcalls from the Elves, who were all well aware Legolas had been able to shoot quite well before his capture. "Aye, and I taught him to handle a sword as well!"

"And why would that have been?" Tinuvîl demanded. "The better to get him into the field with greater speed once the Dark Ones turned him?"

"No--no!" Aldor shouted, then bleated in alarm as Thranduil seized him by the front of his jerkin and shook him as a dog might worry a rabbit.

"Liar," the Elven-king ground out. "Liar and beast I name you. Misbegotten creature of the slimy places in Ennor's bowels!" He shook him again until Aldor's head lolled painfully. "I know what you did to my son and why, excrement. I know everything you did to him. Everything!"

Aldor goggled in panic, guilt written in every line of his face. Thranduil threw the Man to the ground then and straightened, turning to the hovering Saeros. "Give me the sword, pen-iaur."

Saeros extended Aikalerion's Gift, still sheathed within its handsome scabbard, hilt-first toward the King; Thranduil reached for it to draw the blade forth. In that half-second Aldor lurched up from where he had been thrown and, bound though he was, his legs near-useless from loss of feeling, he attempted to run. Whither he could not have said, but anywhere seemed far better than where he was. Elves lunged to prevent him, but Thranduil called them off.

"This creature is mine!"

He waved Saeros away as well and pounced, tackling the filthy, wriggling Man. Luck had long since ceased to companion Aldor; now it stood back and changed sides, as the dam burst that had been holding Thranduil's fell wrath in check. Exhaustion fled the King's being, and anxiety as well; all a father's frustrated fear and anger, forcibly banked for eighteen years and only barely stirred by battle that morning, came forth with a vengeance. Thranduil became the weapon of that vengeance; his body, trained for centuries by some of the finest battle-masters among the Firstborn in Ennor, was a vehicle of wrath well-honed to its task. With fist and foot he struck, time and time again. Mercy and pity were far from his mind. All he could see in the red haze before him were horrific scenes from the last several visits to Galadriel's Mirror: perversions and vileness visited upon his hapless son, first as a child, then as he inexorably grew and the meanness dealt out to him twisted into ever more inventive cruelty.

Before his mind's eye, too, was the image of his Legolas dangling over the vat, bleeding out his life by slow, sad droplets. Drip-drip-drip... the damp sound of a fist striking flesh, only now it was not his son's flesh at the mercy of Orcs, it was Aldor at the mercy of Thranduil. Drip-drip-drip... the slow track of tears down a pale young face, the sound of a child's voice begging over and over for pity....

"No--please, for the love of the Gods, no! Stop, don't, please!"

It was Aldor's voice, begging in Westron, but Thranduil heard only the voice of his son, his little golden bird, begging for mercy from his captors. One of those captors was Aldor--who many years past had dared put lusting hands on the Princess Minuial; who had made insinuating comments about the fair beauty of her brothers both; and all because he did not have the vile courage to attempt anything untoward with the true object of his lust: Queen Luthiél. For that he had been banished from Mirkwood; for that the Master of Lake-town had similarly banished Aldor from the Dale altogether, as well as stripped him of rank in the Master's guard troop.

For all that, Aldor had then presented himself to the Orc garrison at Dol Guldur, looking for someplace where he could lay his head and find employment, could saunter about like some kind of captain and lay in wait for his chance at revenge...

With a fierce, horrible joy Thranduil struck the Man again and again. Blood ran; bruises blossomed, flesh split, bone broke, and still Thranduil struck. "What kind of revenge seeks out an innocent child?" he demanded in a furious roar as his fists fell again and again. "What creature deserving pity can lay eyes upon a bound and battered child, and seek to slake lust upon it rather than give it aid? You are not Man! You are not beast! There are Orc-kind with more honour than you!"

Aldor did not answer beyond a gurgling jibber, for he was quite beyond speech at that moment. Thranduil had a mind to stop, for he wanted the Dale-Man to be able to feel every blow he received until death claimed him--but before he could regain sufficient coherence to make himself stop, something prevented his upraised fist from descending. Livid with outrage, Thranduil turned, mouth twisted into a snarl.

He reeled backward from the impact of an open hand across his face. He shook his head to clear his vision, and was stunned to feel a second powerful slap. Bleary-eyed, he stared up into the impassive face of the Lord Celeborn.

"I think we've had enough of this," the Elf-Lord said calmly. "Now is not the time for this, Thranduil. We must be rational."

"Rational!" Thranduil shook with rage. "Rational! By the Valar!"

He tried twisting out of the other's grasp, but Celeborn's hand held like iron. "No, Thranduil."

"Do not tell me no!" the Elven-king spat. "How dare you! I have a right to mete out justice!"

"No, Thranduil. Not now. This is not the time for it." Celeborn released him, but did not step back; he was almost nose-to-nose with the infuriated Elf. Thranduil growled like a very peeved wolf and seized the Lord of Lórien by both shoulders, shaking him.

"This is my affair" he grated. "This animal lusted after my wife then took out his perverted desires on my son. He deserves to die!"

"Not here," Celeborn said firmly. "Not now."

Thranduil laughed, just this side of sane. "Are you mad?"

Celeborn cocked one ironic eyebrow. "You ask that of me?"

Thranduil stared at him in stunned amazement. He stood in fraught silence for several swift heartbeats, breathing heavily from exertion. His eyes were decidedly not sane, and Celeborn felt a momentary stab of something that had been alien to him for a very long time: fear. But then the universe righted itself; Celeborn remembered who he was, and who this was, and what they had all been through over the last turn of the sun.

"No, Thranduil," he said, in a tone of firm kindness that would brook no argument, even from an infuriated Elven-king. "I will not allow this. I will not allow you to sully your hands further. I will not allow you to make death too easy for this--carrion." Then, because Thranduil was still looking at him as if sizing up whether he thought he might try to take him down as well, Celeborn added: "For the sake of your father's memory, Thranduil Oropherion, I will not allow this to continue."

No one standing there witness to this ever quite forgot, in all the long years to come, the sound that welled up from the depths of Thranduil's being at that utterance. It started as a sob of mingled anger and pain, then swiftly rose into a shouted scream of outrage and agony. Thranduil fell to his knees before his elder kinsman and bent double to the ground, fisting blood-stained hands at his temples; fueled by the adrenaline of vengeance and pent-up rage, with nowhere else to spend it, he began to shake convulsively. Every dialect of every language he had ever learned--and those were many-- came out of him in ever-escalating furious declarations of disbelieving frustration and anger. Again and again he slammed his fists into the ground; over and over Thranduil wept the name of his son, his wife, his lost father, liberally interlaced with every curse and epithet he could remember.

Celeborn folded to his knees beside him and gathered the grieving Elf into his arms. With a curt jerk of his chin toward Tinuvîl, he silently ordered a dispersal of the onlookers and the removal of Aldor to the healers; only Saeros would not leave, which neither surprised nor annoyed Celeborn. He had decided absolute centuries ago that Saeros, like Glorfindel or Galadriel, simply was, and one did not argue with such entities. The Silvan warrior knelt opposite him and sat back on his heels, resting his slender, powerful hands on muscled thighs; he did not attempt to touch his King, but simply stayed there as a sentinel. The other Mirkwood folk and onlookers from the other realms faded into the camp environs or out under the trees, silent as shadows, while Celeborn held onto his stricken kinsman and refused to let go no matter how much Thranduil struggled and fought and pleaded and demanded that he do so.

When the fit began to subside somewhat Celeborn simply held him as he had some days past in Galadriel's glade, when the Mirror had given him the dark gift of seeing Legolas gain his physical maturity. Eventually he began to rock Thranduil very gently, as one might a distraught Elfling. Very quietly Celeborn both spoke and sang, willing calm and peace as the terrible storm lashed itself to tatters and passed away, leaving its victim sobbing helplessly in the aftermath.

"Drink," he then commanded, bringing Elrond's little flask up to Thranduil's lips. Unaware that he did so, the other obeyed, draining the contents; Saeros lifted an interrogative eyebrow, but said nothing. Several more moments passed; under the hypnotic beckoning of Celeborn's hands, soothing and gentle as he stroked Thranduil's fevered brow, smoothed down his disordered locks, peace and silence were at last restored.

"E-einior gwanur--" Thranduil said softly, in a fractured whisper, but Celeborn shook his head gently.

"Later, nîn ion," he whispered. "Now you must rest. The vile one will be dealt with, I swear to you. The full brunt of justice will be levelled upon him, you have my word."

Thranduil shifted in Celeborn's arms, giving out with a soft murmur of annoyed contentment. The full brunt of justice... that bade poorly for Aldor. Elven justice was precisely what it sounded like: truly appropriate recompense meted out with careful forethought, by a council of elders specifically chosen to consider all evidence and render judgement. When done properly it could be quite daunting--and even if Aldor did not realize what sorts of Elves awaited him in Lothlórien, Thranduil himself certainly did. All of them were Elves who knew quite well how true judgement should be defined.

He wished he could stay like this for half of forever. Somewhere vaguely in the back of his mind, Thranduil realized this was at least the third time in less than a week that Celeborn had all instinctively known this was the one way to get his kinsman's attention--and because it was desperately needed, Thranduil was more than happy to receive such consideration. At his age there were not too many beings left who could make him feel this cared-for, this secure...

This--drugged?

Thranduil struggled to sit up but found he could not make himself move. "You--wily old Balrog!" he ground out with great difficulty in an ever-slurring voice. "What is it with you Galadhrim and drugs?!"

Celeborn smiled faintly. He gentled Thranduil back in his arms so he could see the other's face, and bent closer to check his eyes; they were quite dilated. Celeborn quirked an eyebrow at his kinsman.

"I am not Galadhrim, son of Oropher," he reminded Thranduil, who stared up at him as if poleaxed. "I am a Silvan Elf of Doriath--just like your father."

Thranduil uttered a chuckle and a sob together in one fading breath, just before he passed out into deep unconsciousness. Celeborn held him a moment longer, just to be certain; then he sighed lightly and levelled a calm stare upon Saeros.

"I am not carrying this hulking great Elfling all by myself, pen-iaur," he stated flatly.

Saeros gave a deep, furry chuckle and unfolded from his knees, fluidly regaining his feet to assist Celeborn in lifting the unconscious Elven-King.

"I would never expect you to, nîn hên."

This surprised a laugh out of Celeborn, who was still shaking his head as he looped one of Thranduil's slack arms over his own shoulders.

Called a child, at my age! Within the borders of Lórien too, he thought, and smiled. I shall never live this down....

TBC....

Translations:

aran brannon= lord king tithen emlin= little golden bird, a nickname Thranduil has for Legolas

tithen guren= little heart, a nickname Luthiél has for Legolas

Úlairi= Sindarin for the Ringwraiths/Nazgûl

fëa= soul, spirit

naneth= mother

nîn iaur mellon= my old friend

Nana= Mommy/Mama, diminutive of Naneth

pen-neth= young one

neth-gwanur= young kinsman

tithen maethor= little warrior

nîn gwador= my brother (said of a chosen brother, not one of blood)

nîn khîr: my lord, with Nandor lenition

einior gwanur= elder kinsman, an epithet of honour as well as a descriptor

nîn ion= my son

nîn hên= my child

A Few Words of Explanation:

On Doriathrin:

This dialect obliquely referred to by Celeborn is a (presumed) subset of Sindarin, as spoken in Doriath by the people of Elwë Thingol. In this universe, a few Elves in Ennor still speak it, but not as a daily or regular thing; Celeborn was a Prince of Doriath, as (arguably, by looking through many sources and asking many people for help!) he was probably Thingol's grand-nephew through an infrequently-mentioned younger brother of Olwë and Thingol, supposedly named Elmo. His son Galadhon is said to be the father of Celeborn, and of course, it was in fair Doriath that Celeborn and Galadriel met and fell in love.

On Ancestry:

Since (with her permission) I have borrowed parts of Astrochick's postulated genealogy for Legolas from AC's wonderful "Folly of Starlight" series, Thranduil here is the son of Aziel, daughter of Ingwion/Ingwil, son of Ingwë, the High King of the Vanyar. Oropher's ancestry is a little less clear, but I diverge slightly here from AC, as I don't want these guys related too closely to Eol and Maeglin. ;-) Let's just say that somewhere in the underpopulated family tree of the Firstborn, which the Great Master Tolkien only completely filled in for Elrond and his immediate family, and some of Galadriel's more interesting kin, there is an un-named Telerin Sindar who was a cousin of Thingol's, hence a greater likelihood that Oropher would have been given sanctuary in Doriath after several episodes of kinslaying, and would have a healthy dislike of the Fëanorians (which may indeed have driven a number of his actions in the Last Alliance, leading to his death). That un-named Telerin Sindar is the father of Oropher. I'll make up a name and postulate a more clear relationship between Oropher and Thingol for future stories, if it proves to be needed.

On Aziel's side, though, things remain the same: Oropher left Doriath because things were getting too Noldorized, went to stay with his other cousin Círdan the Shipwright on Balas, and there, about the time of the War with Morgoth, met, fell in love with, and romanced Ingwë's daughter Aziel. Thranduil was conceived and born before the complete resolution of the Morgoth War, and thus is a little bit younger than Elrond, though (at least in my fevered brain) part of the same generation, just a different part. Generations among the Firstborn, I would imagine, are quite lengthy, given how long they tend to live if grief, murder or battle do not carry them off beforehand.

Luthiél, for those of you who have asked, is of Sindarin/Silvan descent. Her father Farafael ("generous hunter") has been referred to in these pages, and in my mind, he is a Sindarin noble of Doriath with Telerin Sindar parents, and his lady is Baincaladril ("fair light"), daughter of a Galadhrim father and a Sindarin mother. Farafael and Baincaladril came to Greenwood with Oropher, and were friends of his; Farafael was a grand old rip of a warrior, and a very fine hunter indeed, while Baincaladril was one of those dangerously quiet types who discover in times of great need that they had a heretofore undiscovered talent for fierce protectiveness. (grin) They had two children, Tinuvîl and Luthiél; you'll meet Tinuvîl's lady Menelian and their kids (sons Faravîl and Galmirion, daughter Limiriél) in sequels to this.

And for those of you taking notes, young Morilinde of Mirkwood is of the same generation as Legolas, but she was a good 70+ years old when he was conceived, so they were not playmates. Her father and mother are typical of refugees living in Mirkwood under Thranduil's rule: Her father is Indomânil, which means "spirited heart". He is a Silvan Elf whose father and mother came from Doriath, and he is now an architectural advisor to the King, with the title of Chief of Works. Morilinde's mother is Glinalfirin, "gleaming bellflower," a Galadhrim native of Lothlórien who is a riding instructor to the princes, and was chief lady in waiting to Luthiél when she was alive. Morilinde assists her mother with riding lessons among the nobility, and was an early tutor in that art for Legolas.

On Horse Matters:

Many have asked, and I have tried to weave the answers into the narrative, but it does occasionally still crop up in e-mails. So here we go again. (Not a problem, as I adore horses and everything about them.)

Yes, Legolas asked the Rohirrim to remove Arod's saddle and bridle in the book LOTR: The Two Towers. By this, many have come to believe that all Elves de facto ride sans tack (the catch-all term for saddles, bridles, cruppers, martingales, reins, etc. etc., known in the Medieval days as "horse furniture"). Others have decided it is a Wood-Elf thing to do this, based on the fact that Glorfindel (who in the bookverse is the one who meets Strider and the Hobbitses out in the woods beyond Imladris, and lends his horse Asfaloth for Frodo to ride to get to Elrond before the Morgul fragment offs him) uses tack on his horse, with the charming (if impractical for a hunter or warrior) addition of having bells on the reins. (grin)

I have opted for the second concept, that some Elves ride bareback, and some do not. In Chapter 9 of this tale, we see Thranduil riding a lovely mare he has borrowed without permission from Celeborn's stable, and we are told he: "sat lightly atop her, riding unencumbered as the Silvan folk rode." Additionally, Thranduil ponders that: "had this been any other situation, the Elven-King would have ridden his own fine mount and used the handsome saddle, crafted many years before by a skilled Firstborn craftsman in Doriath; it had been his father's before him, and being Elf-made, was as fine a piece of work as it had been the day it was completed. The continuity of riding to war with that saddle, to rescue his father's youngest grandchild, would have pleased Thranduil..." So we have a melding of the two traditions.

Glorfindel makes his home in Imladris, so I am postulating that the Imladris Elves utilize tack (if they have not some other preference, that is!), which is why Elrond and Glorfindel are both riding with saddle and bridle. Mithrandir is using tack in this story because he is not riding the King of the Mearas, the magnificent Shadowfax (who won't be born for a LONG time yet...), and I just have a feeling Shadowfax would not stand for being tacked up (wry grin).

When we see Legolas receiving remedial riding lessons from Morilinde (who is Silvan...) hopefully you will all be pleased at the choice our young Princeling makes. (grin)

So that's that, and once again, sorry for the length of time it took to update. I vastly appreciate your patience!

TTFN,

Jasta