italics indicate thoughts | (elvish translations in parentheses) | This chapter un-Beta'd

An Pennas

(For the Record)

Transition

"The trial begins on the morrow."

Thranduil offered the information quietly, seriously, a note of restraint and concern underpinning the words. It was a tone and manner he had developed of late when speaking with his elder son, a conscious rejection of the arrogant disdain he had nourished and cherished so long. It was much worse than mere hubris and condescension he had banished, of course, and recalling the hatred he'd harboured and the cruelty he'd employed in his dealings with Legolas shamed him now. Looking upon him, Thranduil wondered that he had been so easily duped. Though the healing wounds were covered up and the shorn hair was growing in rapidly, Legolas was far from well and strong, yet even in this depleted state his spirit shone with resilient brilliance. A soul this tenacious and a heart so steadfast could only spring from Oropher's lineage. This understated demeanour of respectful commiseration was meant to declare that kinship and express his earnest desire to create a genuine familial bond.

Discovering the best means to win Legolas' trust was at once simple and extremely difficult. As closely as possible, Thranduil mimicked his father, clothing himself in Oropher's phantom, donning the demeanour of paternal tenderness and restraint he recalled from the days following the discovery of his naneth's remains. As harrowing and damaging as that time had been, its memory held the core of his indefatigable love for his father, for during those first months of mourning Oropher put forth great effort to reach his youngest son's heart and hold it safe. Grieving drew the family together and Thranduil came to believe, truly believe, that his father loved him.

It had never been easy for Oropher to love him; something stood between them that Thranduil could never name or understand and he had never mustered courage enough to confront his father and demand an explanation. There was nothing overtly cruel or unkind, as his manner toward Legolas, but there was a gulf between them, a distance his father did not want to cross; some unarticulated aspect of Thranduil's personality was thoroughly repugnant to Oropher. The loss of his wife-mate had shattered that barrier. Now they shared a thing, horrible and destructive and immutable, a loss and a grief so profound it brought them all to the brink of fading. Faced with the raw and ravaged soul of his youngest son, Oropher softened and extended the light of his suffering spirit to soothe and heal Thranduil. It was not his fault that he failed; he was grieving, too, and could neither comprehend nor follow his child's path through that darkness.

Thranduil had wanted, needed someone to blame, someone from whom to exact retribution. His challenging statements condemning the Powers sounded too much like accusations to the grieving father and husband. The Valar, he reasoned, were far removed from the forests of Region and could not protect the First-born. That was the province of mates and parents and in this duty Oropher had utterly failed. His youngest confronted him with this truth openly, but his scornful condemnations of accepted dogma issued form him in such venom and rage that Oropher feared what he might do. His attempts to offer comfort were received in startled distrust and questioned, as though Thranduil believed his father was withholding the truth to purposefully blind him. Oropher was forced to see something no father can easily abide in the best of circumstances: his unconsciously expressed discrimination among his offspring had alienated Thranduil. The child knew he was a disappointment, the last to receive praises and the first to be criticised.

Adar thought his estranged son would wreak bloody revenge for her death, for his failures. He was not so wrong.

Yet, if the child was not what his father wished, should the child be blamed? Thranduil had not designed himself nor chosen the world into which he'd been born anymore than Legolas had. Oropher, he could see now, had been shamed by his revealed prejudice, had tried to reverse the harm he'd done and reached out to embrace his youngest, his demeanour calm and quiet, humble and contrite. He never protested Thranduil's raving or admonished him for expressing his profound anger, accepting it all in hopes of preventing a violent confrontation and a second tragedy. He might have succeeded had he not sent Thranduil away to the care of the Spirit Hunters. Yet, the child was too adamant, too passionate, and too sharp of both mind and tongue. The weight of his contempt and his hatred was killing Oropher. In the end, he must live, yet could not live with the living representation of his guilt, and there were more suffering than just Thranduil. In order to provide security and healing for all of his family he must have peace, and his youngest was ensnared in a reaving storm that would consume them all, and so he sent Thranduil away.

Thranduil had not sent Legolas away, though he had wished it and thought on it often, and in retrospect it would have been better for the child had he done so. Why had he not? The answer, the same that lay at the foundation of nearly all the contentions he'd faced since the loss of his father, was Ningloriel. However inadequate she was as a mother, she would not be parted from her child. The King had always considered this a means of spiteful revenge against him, but now he had a darker example with which to compare her maternal instincts and believed that her reasons were the simplest and purest that ever worked upon her soul: Ningloriel adored her son. There was no question that Legolas adored his naneth and would abide no slurs uttered against her in his hearing. Here were two things he and Legolas shared: love and loss of their mothers.

Love and loss defines our lives.

Thus, Thranduil reverted to recollection of his father's efforts to heal him and vowed not to fail his son as his father had failed him. Thus his conscious mind explained the deeper motives of his hidden heart, all valid reasons to be sure, but the true cause for his novel treatment of the Tawarwaith resided much too near to his own injured spirit to acknowledge. He wanted this strange ellon, so much like his father in personality and character, to approve of him, to respect him, to own the kinship between them with pride and gladness instead of abhorrence and disgust. In a convoluted transference of emotions, Thranduil had seated all his stymied desires for paternal regard onto his son.

"You expect me to attend?"

Legolas' query interrupted his father's internal musing and Thranduil startled slightly, recovering with a deep inhalation as he blinked and passed his gaze over his son. Legolas sat on the sofa longways, his bare feet up and his back supported by cushions, head resting on the arm of the settee, his eyes on the ceiling of dry, bare limbs. He was wearing the loose and comfortable sleeping garments Thranduil had sent over, the King's fur-trimmed cloak draped across his body. The clothes were made of the finest silk cloth elven hands could weave and died a deep walnut brown, and though Thranduil had conveyed the dimensions himself the size seemed much too large. There was a deep weariness in Legolas' posture as though the effort to hold himself upright was exhausting, and the shadow of pain hovered close about his pale features. His mate sat on the floor beside him; Legolas' hand clasped to Erestor's so firmly the connection must be all that kept him conscious, a vital life-line without which he would perish, and Thranduil did not doubt the verity of this observation. It was unlikely he would be fit enough to participate in the hearing, but trying to hide its commencement was foolish and, to Thranduil's mind, insulting. Expressing this was somehow more difficult than he'd imagined it would be, and when the resultant silence went on too long Legolas lifted his head and repeated the question.

"You believe I should be present?"

Legolas watched his father keenly, fascinated and yet wary, and listened with every sensory nerve attuned to the tones and undertones, the subtle shades of pitch and inflection that often betrayed falsehood and revealed truth. That familiar demeanour of regal and aristocratic might, radiating justified fury and self-righteous affront whenever Legolas was near, had been rooted out and cast off. Not that Thranduil had humbled or abased himself, it was more that Legolas had been exalted, an equal to be treated with due regard and courtesy. Yet again, it was more than polite civility; the King's aura glinted with little flashes filled with impatient eagerness and the scrutiny with which he weighed the reactions to his words was intense. Here was a person Legolas did not know at all and he found himself curious to test his character and learn his quality.

"No, I would place no such burden upon you," Thranduil continued, glance flicking to Erestor for a moment to share his sincerity and determination with that imposing Noldorin Lord. The seneschal's dark glower promised battle. "I thought it right to tell you in case you wished to confront your to confront him."

"I see," Legolas tendered his mate a wry smile and squeezed the hand that held his. "As opposed to what others might deem right?"

"I saw no reason to make you endure even the thought of it," Erestor defended his protective instincts, shooting Thranduil a scathing glare. They'd had a talk and he'd believed he'd made himself clear on this point, but apparently Legolas' stubborn nature was an inherited trait. He leaned forward, pointing at the Elven King. "You want him there for selfish reasons, to strengthen your position with the warriors and the common folk. You care nothing for what serves Legolas' health and happiness."

"Spoken as a devoted mate should," Thranduil smiled thinly at the legendary statesman, sparing a second to wonder anew over the dark fate that had brought him to Greenwood, and completely ignored the accusation. "Legolas, you are not a child and these things happened to you. They were not accidental mishaps but the designs of a scheming mind bent on your ruin and mine. He misused your naneth disgracefully and betrayed her heart, betrayed the one person she loved more than him: her only child." Thranduil announced these truths without compunction, knowing fully the target of his words was the sore and aching emptiness in Legolas' soul, his sadness over her abandonment of him. Causing her to flee was the one crime the Tawarwaith was least likely to forgive and Thranduil hoped to deflect part of the blame onto Elrond. "At times, the way to promote healing is to expose the wound to light and air. Pretending it isn't here just allows the darkness he spawned to fester, spreading its poison unseen and unchecked."

"You speak from experience." Legolas was not being sarcastic but voicing a pertinent observation. Thranduil had undertaken an exhaustive self-examination that was evident in his felicitous comportment and visible in the mature resolve in his vibrant emerald eyes. His brothers' work, but he is not resisting it. He is trying to change. It wasn't so much changing his views, Legolas realised, as evicting the toxic residue of long-held grief. In that instant he decided. If he must have Thranduil for his father, then he wanted the Thranduil he'd caught unawares in solemn contemplation, a person of noble character and long-standing strength, dedicated to the same ideals that motivated him. How to coax that character out of hiding?

"Yes," Thranduil lifted his chin regally. "I am angry and feel the need to finally vent my rage upon the true perpetrator of the injuries my immediate family has suffered." Erestor shifted on the floor, a move of restrained hostility combined with a derisive sniff, but the King would not be distracted. "I do not reject my responsibility, but neither can it be denied that I was manipulated with malicious intent."

"Had you not been so "

"Sîdh, Melethen," Legolas truncated the seneschal's contentious rebuke. "Let me treat with him as I would."

They shared a long moment soul to soul and then Erestor sighed aloud his capitulation, resigned to bend to the steely will of the indomitable Tawarwaith. He leaned up to kiss his mate and then rose, sparing a repudiating grimace for Thranduil. "Sui thelich, hervennen. Since I find it hard to refrain from argument, I will leave you two and have a visit with your guards. I will not go beyond earshot." With that oblique warning to the King, Erestor opened the trap and descended, filled with both pride and irritation, but he smiled as he walked away, gladdened indeed that Legolas was strong enough to voice his wishes. Ah well, mutual love and devotion does not mean we will never disagree. He did not even realise he was humming his soul-song as he went.

The lilting, melancholy melody made Legolas blush and smile, openly pleased with his conquest. Alive since the First-age, wily Erestor of Gondolin, esteemed statesman and Lord of the noble House of Eärendil, had evaded all efforts to woo and win him. Legolas alone had tamed the randy, roguish councillor; he and he alone had claimed the seneschals' carefully guarded heart. He realised Thranduil was also smiling and blushed redder, looked away.

"I am glad," Thranduil announced as though to counter an unspoken criticism. "It is love such as you deserve and he is right to watch over you. Yet, Erestor does not fully realise the depth of your pain anymore than do I, save that I have caught a glimpse of it in understanding fully the part I played to cause it."

"Aye, it is best to meet fears and enemies head on," Legolas agreed, for this had always been his belief. It was with a small burst of surprise that he considered whether he might have learned this from Thranduil's example.

He shifted on the settee to ease discomfort in his back and side, watching the King watch him, wondering if he saw anything in him that evoked a similar sense of recognition. He sighed, deciding that was too much to expect, and removed his sight from the pensive face to the neat stack of clothing on the low table beside him: Thranduil's latest offering of garments. He fingered the suede leather appreciatively; this was the third such present and the finest yet. "I do not know that I have strength to endure the entire hearing," he said, "but I will come for a time and see what I may." He lifted the tunic to examine the rest of the clothes and uttered a small cry, incredulous and bemused. Resting atop the neatly folded leggings lay a woven circlet of holly berries and yew boughs identical to the one adorning Thranduil's brow at this very moment. His eye flew to it and then to his father's face, brows lifting to observe the defensive and self-conscious expression transforming the King's features. He took up the winter crown. "You would have me wear this?"

"I would have you wear what you please," Thranduil dissembled awkwardly, "but I wanted to make the point. It is your right should you choose to exercise it."

"That is no answer," Legolas challenged, turning the circlet in his hands and noting that all the prickly holly leaves and thorns had been removed, the inner surface of the boughs faced in silk to prevent abrading his forehead. He lifted his gaze to the King's and presented the crown, the motion abrupt and short, an unvoiced censure vaguely tinged with hopeful expectation. "You would have me wear it?"

Thranduil held his son's eyes in the silent seconds that followed, hoping only his genuine remorse showed and nothing of his uneasy trepidation, for as always Legolas' merest glance was as probing as Oropher's and as difficult to endure. "I would have you wear it," he admitted the truth simply, tone subdued, and held himself tense, ready for a barrage of insults and mocking detractions. He still had much to learn of the Tawarwaith's character.

Legolas' chin lifted and his posture realigned in a total expression of rising self-esteem and open appreciation. He gave the briefest dip of his head and the solemnest smile in his repertoire, his best impersonation of Thranduil's haughty air. "Then I shall," he said firmly and offered a faintly less daunting countenance.

"Oh," Thranduil was dumbstruck, having again expected sneering disgust, having imagined the circlet thrown at his face amid expletives and demands to get out. Suddenly he smiled; Legolas was doing just as he'd predicted: giving him the chance to prove he would not revert to previous attitudes and behaviours. "Thank you," his voice finally returned and the words wrought a warmer expression on his son's features.

Thranduil's eyes looked to his hands, stunned to find them gripping his knees so hard it hurt, and removed them, stood from the chair. He cleared his throat and met Legolas' eyes, pleased with the intensity of his regard, revealing just a hint of mirth and gratified approbation. His heart gave a swift and sudden jolt as though it wished to get free of him, the body too confining for the feelings crowding it. Here, now, after all his life searching and hoping for approval and acceptance within his family, after being consistently denied the very thing he required to heal and be whole, he saw that he was to receive this gift from the very person he had rejected and maligned. He swallowed, fighting the urge to go to his son, to touch him, and gave a brisk nod. Thranduil moved to the trap, opened it. "I expect the trial to take all day; come when you will." He ducked through the gap and closed the hatch softly, pretending he did not hear the Tawarwaith's quietly emphatic parting remarks:

"Nasan, Hiren Adar. You will speak the words and place the crown upon my brow with your own hands. Would that she could be there to see."

- Talagan's Fate -

He stood in the dark of the winter night, a mere impression of life invisible to all but elven eyes, vigilant and calm, guarding the path at the verge of the great valley, the trees like frozen lace around him, frozen and fragile, charred and twisted shapes softened by the thick coat of snow and ice, aglow in eery iridescence under the minimal gleam of Ithil's sheen. Beyond stretched the broad, open plain of Imrad Anduin (Anduin Valley), a white expense unbroken save by a few scrubby trees standing half-buried in the drifts, stranded and forlorn. The solitude and the covering dark lent the valley a stark magnitude far greater than it truly owned while above, the stars swept close to earth, milky with the haze of high gauzy clouds drifting in slow parade like the banners of the dead or the ghosts of ancient warriors trapped forever betwixt home and whatever lay beyond. Talagan shuddered, a violent rattling that coursed through his bones and left him uneasy and filled with sorrow. Countless such turns of duty he'd fulfilled in places foul and fair, but never here at the place where Greenwood began.

Or ends.

Was he to be witness to that end? Was it to hold within it his death as well?

All of the others are dead.

Here, on these narrow tracks and winding paths, the life of a sylvan warrior arose and here the battle-weary and grief-worn wound out their service and their days; youth and antiquity paired to safe-guard both and ensure the integrity of the secret entrance. Here, the untested and untried gained experience and confidence; here veterans enjoyed a duty easier in its fulfilment yet as vital to Greenwood as that of warriors in the borderlands. To them fell the task of preparing the next wave of defenders. It was a position of dignity and respect; those chosen were nominated from among the ranks with which they served, but it was also a means for those who no longer possessed the nerve to fight to retire with honour. There were fewer of them, young archers and elder warriors, the numbers dwindling each year, and Talagan wondered how long it would be before the Wood Elves were overrun by their foes and driven out into that vast plain.

Refugees again.

He remembered the journey from Beleriand, Oropher unerringly leading his people right here, right to this very point. Legend had it that this path was first worn down by the feet of the great mass of elves following the call to Valinor in the Elder Days before the sun and moon were made. Oropher had not been alive then, yet some in their caravan had and they recalled the way, noting how the forest had encroached upon the valley, how the trees loomed so large and lush. It was then, scanning this daunting realm from the outside, that Talagan first marked the combination of fresh-eyed young archers and sorrow-sunken old faces filled with defiance, the glance from the latter promising death, the former pleading in silent ferocity not to be made to deliver it.

The tradition had served the woodland folk well and none had seen need to change it until the recent attack from the distant mountains. Now active, frontline warriors stood watch at the gate in turns, but Talagan could not shake the sensation that he was here to begin the long retreat that led either to Mithlond or immersion amid the trees, his spirit too weak and his body too drained to clasp one to another anymore.

Fading. Immediately the concept was rejected and forced from conscious consideration; there were better ways for a warrior to die.

He crouched low and inhaled deeply, exhaled the warm steam slowly through his hands to hide the tell-tale puff of wispy white breath, and stood again, stretching up onto his toes and holding the pose to relieve a cramp, dropped noiselessly to his heels. Normally, he preferred the night watch, enjoying the quiet serenity and the opportunity to indulge without interruption those internal conversations of heart and soul, a means to evaluate actions and events and try to make sense out of them, to make it all worthwhile somehow, but not this night. He did not like the feel of the place. An unaccountable sense of being vulnerable and exposed ebbed and flowed through his soul despite the surrounding cover, and his mental dialogue was mired in regret, a tug-of-war between condemning guilt and rationalisations fuelled by denial, the emotions equally matched and thus perpetually at odds. He was not the sort to have those kinds of reflections, viewing errors and failures as valuable lessons, teachers not to be ignored. No, Talagan knew his strengths and accepted his limitations without boasting, apologies, or excuses. This departure from familiar terrain into the uncharted depths of motive and intent was alien and disturbing.

He shook himself, determined to cast off such morose introspection. It was useless anyway; the past could not be changed and the future was taking care of itself. This thought coalesced as a piercing spike of hurt and resentment for that was the crux of it. He could not see himself in this self-assembling new Greenwood. Before, always, he had perceived his own hand in whatever might unfold; his actions, his strengths bent upon bringing the will of his King into reality. Theirs had been the same vision, he and Thranduil sharing one dream to be realised through careful, diligent, and often violent action. He could not remember a day when they had not faced the world side by side, brothers in arms and in spirit, sharing not a drop of blood between them but a sameness of soul that was uncanny. He believed each knew the thoughts of the other, a gift rare enough to be legendary; he believed their ideas flowed between them effortlessly. It was not so now; Thranduil had shut him out.

For centuries unnumbered he had served as the only true friend on whom Thranduil could depend without question. He was family in a way even blood kin could not be, for they had defied death together and defeated it too many times to recall them all without effort. Talagan knew all the darkest secrets of the Sindarin King and had participated fully both in their execution and the efforts to safeguard these harrowing truths. Each understood the other and accepted everything, good and bad. Yet, now Thranduil was changed and had no desire to remember the things he had done to secure the realm he ruled. He had a family again, broken but healing, and a son worthy to stand at his side. Talagan's voice had condemned that son; it was not something either Thranduil or Legolas would be likely to forget.

He stooped to breathe as before and stayed low, counting out his respiration and the seconds used both in retaining the air and releasing it, tempted to stay there, hidden and lost. Even if Thranduil forgave him, there was no going on. Even if the King opposed it, the Council might charge him; he'd be tried for his part in Legolas' downfall, stripped of his commission and rank in front of all the warriors he had commanded. Judgement! It was too humiliating to imagine and he swiftly shifted the emotion to anger, stood abruptly, glared out into the snow-shrouded plains.

What else could he have done? It had seemed perfect, an acceptable way to finally rid his King of the bastard forced on him by Ningloriel. The corpsman did not deny the charge of negligent incompetence when his words would have prevented Talagan's battlefield condemnation. Was it his fault the humans took the disgraced archer away? How could he imagine Legolas would fail to complete the ritual and end his own life? The Judgement could not be stopped under this set of circumstances. The consequences had been distressing, but everything involving Legolas had always been intensely distasteful and burdensome. It was he who'd had the task of administering Thranduil's punishments, reduced to beating an adolescent child. It was beneath him, the job of nannies or tutors. He remembered taking out his anger over this demeaning chore on Legolas; the beatings were far worse than they'd needed to be. Somehow, interaction with the misbegotten prince brought forth all that was dark and ugly within him and he'd blamed that on the youth, too. The failure at Erebor had come as a relief; whatever its cause, the Judgement had held within it the hope that they would both be rid of him, finally and forever.

The years dragged on and Legolas did not die. Thranduil pretended not to notice his presence; Talagan did the same, ignoring the perverted actions taking place in the storeroom and their negative impact on the warriors. It was the old talan-builder who forced us to see. Then Legolas disappeared utterly into the southern woods, the most dangerous and deadly region of the forest; surely there he would perish, alone and forgotten, but it had not been so. Instead, word of his deeds filtered back to the stronghold and his courage inspired the warriors, sylvan and Sindarin alike. Mithrandir's interfering influence. Yet, even Talagan could not deny his admiration for the ingenuity and tenacity of the wild elf. When interlopers allowed them to see what real enemies looked like, Legolas was no longer an embarrassment from which to shrink, but the Tawarwaith of prophesy.

The onerous burden of Judgement shifted onto the young shoulders of Lindalcon and the sacrifice was at last completed, but through such rending horrors that it was difficult to accept. Difficult for Talagan, Sindarin in blood and beliefs, and so must be just as bitter for his King. Why is it so much worse that Lindalcon was sacrificed instead of Legolas? He knew the answer: Legolas was stained with the taint of illegitimacy and abhorrent sexual desires; Lindalcon was pure and innocent. Talagan sighed out another carefully measure breath; now here he was, pondering why it all seemed to be following after him like a hound on the hunt, all that dark and ugly stuff.

"Gwador, you must be troubled at heart to let me catch you dreaming."

The words were couched in quiet tones to match the stillness of the night, glazed with affectionate rebuke, the voice rich with the depth of their long association. Talagan raised his head to find Thranduil watching him from the boughs above, a half-smile softening those firm, grim lips. His eyes glimmered green from the depths of his hooded cloak and Talagan caught his breath; it was not entirely a friendly look. "Thranduil."

"I was looking for you." The King leaped to the ground and joined his comrade. "The roster showed you here, why? Surely this work can be delegated to other soldiers."

"I must take my turn like the rest," Talagan bowed, flustered and uncomfortable. There was that which he would say, but the timing was wrong. He straightened to find a narrow and piercing stare evaluating him carefully and came automatically to attention.

"Aye," Thranduil nodded, understanding fully what underlay this half-truth. "Out here you can be certain; under the mountain my brothers lie in wait for you."

"As you say," Talagan scowled and, because this was Thranduil, he spoke what he knew must be evident. "All of the others are dead, every one of them save you and I. Even Meril." It did not displease him to see the sudden jolt that rocked Thranduil at the speaking of her name. "You are exempt for the childrens' sakes, though your suffering may lead you to wish it could be otherwise."

"As always, I can count on you to be blunt, Talagan, but your words are sharp this night," Thranduil hissed in strained tones. His remark went unacknowledged.

"You will be spared yet no others will escape Tawar's retribution and I am no fool; my time is at hand. Even so, I would not have my doom announced by your voice in their words. Let me find my own way, Thranduil."

"It need not be so. There are the Noldorin Lords," reminded Thranduil not unkindly. "If they may be spared then why not my oldest and dearest friend?" He reached out and settled his hand heavily upon Talagan's shoulder. "You are all I have of family, mellon vrûn."

"Nay, it isn't so. I've become a burden, an unpleasant reminder of this ugly past. You've a grown son to stand at your right hand, an ally and a counsellor, a mighty warrior, the prophesied saviour of Tawar. It can never be again as it has been for me." Speaking the truth tasted bitter and his mouth felt dry and clammy at the same time, like he might choke on his own spit. He swallowed with effort and blurted out the rest. "I truly have no other but you."

"I am still here, as you have remarked, and will continue to be." Thranduil squeezed the rigid muscle beneath his palm. "You have not retreated from my side before, even if the distance between us was at times somewhat greater than was pleasing to you. Even when I found love and forgot you, even then you were never beyond the call of my voice. Can you not overcome these adjustments and remain my trusted friend? Legolas will not demand an accounting of you."

"I am your friend, now and always," Talagan managed, the syllables full with sulky antipathy.

"Then what?"

"I know the bargain you have made," Talagan said quietly and paused, noting the subtle tension that altered his friend's stance.

"Go on," Thranduil bade him, resigned to hear it all.

"The gates will come down; your brothers will be free. Where will they go? Into the trees? Nay, they long to be reunited with their families, with their Adar. To Mandos? Someday, but not for many years yet; not until Taurant is fully grown. I know the bargain you have made with them, Thranduil. You I will always honour and love, but it will not really be you any longer and already I grieve for your passing. Already I feel my soul yearning to escape, to go and follow my wife-mate to Mandos."

"It need not be like that. I will remain and become better because of it," insisted the King. "Can you not see this? Together we can control the grief and rage, my brothers and I, and I will be the King our father would have wished and our people demand. I will be the father my children need, even for Legolas. Is that so repugnant a transformation?" The body beneath his hand shuddered in revulsion and withdrew from him.

"Perhaps my devotion is not so encompassing as I have long thought," muttered Talagan, "for it cannot accommodate them also." He flinched as the King fixed him with an incredulous eye. "Let me go," he demanded, low and tormented. "Let me find my own way to amend my misdeeds. We both know they will demand redress whether you, Legolas, or the people of Greenwood want it. If there is any friendship remaining between us, grant me this mercy and spare me the shame of Judgement." He dropped to his knees before his King, head bowed and heavy-hearted, waiting to have his doom pronounced, thinking it fitting that it should be here where a sylvan warrior's service commenced and concluded.

Thranduil stared down at him in sorrow, for he had not wanted this. Knowing in his heart it would come to pass, still he had hoped to turn fate in a new direction and salvage his gwador. He recalled the day they had made their pact, swearing in solemn words and youthful voices to always stand side by side and never desert one another, no matter what evil sprang upon them. That day, Talagan had committed the entirety of his life to Thranduil's service. Children though they were, Thranduil knew it and had silently vowed never to make light of the gift. Through all the Ages of time and turmoil they had shared, Talagan had remained true. He shook his head sadly.

"Must I lose you now? The night is ending, Talagan; a new day dawns for Greenwood and for us, brothers and more than brothers."

"Aye," Talagan said, looking up and finding he could smile now, hearing the genuine sorrow in Thranduil's voice. "A new day for you and for Greenwood. Yet I will remain loyal and serve you as long as I may. Do not mourn when my passing comes to be; I will make it a good death, a clean death."

They remained in silent contemplation sharing this ultimate realisation of Talagan's vow, each perusing the memories coursing through the other's heart, and then Thranduil sighed, his breath a pure white vapour that obscured his old friend's face for an instant.

"Nasan," he whispered and laid his hand upon Talagan's head. "You did what you thought right, misguided by my errors and your own true heart. No guilt do I assign you for it is all my own. I leave you free to choose how you will serve the Tawarwaith, whatever decision you make." He removed his hand and Talagan stood, clearly relieved of the burden his soul had borne these many days since Legolas' captivity, though in fact he had just shouldered not only his guilt but his King's. "Will you take his place tending the traps and patrolling the southern region of the woods?"

"Nay," his old friend announced, dismayed to think this was what Thranduil expected of him. "I have put together a new duty and will head it myself. Lindalcon's grave must be guarded until the earth thaws in spring; no Orc or wild beast will be permitted to desecrate the remains. When the final rites are completed and he is no longer in that place, then I will undertake a thing I have long wished and I hope will please you."

"What is that?" If Thranduil was surprised by the degree of thought and planning Talagan had invested, he did not show it.

"The Central Mountains were once ours; the caverns majestic and beautiful as Yavanna designed them and Aulë her spouse carved them."

"Talagan!" Thranduil could not help but cry out, for this was suicide. It was one thing to face the dangers of constant combat and fall to that violence, another to seek such a death. It was a distinctly sylvan trait. "I do not care about those mountain halls and you must know Legolas will never enter them again." His outburst was ignored.

"I will undertake to reclaim those caves and cleanse from them the dank and evil residue left by the Orcs and their masters. Legolas may never go there, but Taurant might wish it, and in any case it is a bad business having the enemy entrenched so near to hand."

"Ai, mellon vrûn," Thranduil said. "Even Legolas had a finite term of Judgement. Your sentence need not be a death sentence."

"No," Talagan was shaking his head. "We both know this is not the case, for Legolas was innocent of any wrong and I am not." He paused, considering the way of things a moment, then grimaced, shrugged, and continued. "There is one of those renegade warriors left, one of those who took such delight in watching Rochendil's cruelty. The others died in the battle or remain in Lorien by the will of the Lady, according to Haldir, granted clemency by virtue of true repentance and enlightenment. I have made certain this last offender will also serve this final duty. We will all be gone then and you can start anew with Legolas, with the children, with Greenwood. None of us will remain to remind you of unpleasant events."

Thranduil did not deny the understated charge. There was truth here, too, for he was not displeased that all of the culprits in Legolas' downfall should be punished, even Talagan. Nor was he displeased to have the responsibility to do so removed from him. Yet he subdued a strong surge of sorrow and fear for the loss of his dearest friend and wondered if the Valar would permit his escape from a similar fate. The next instant he banished those worries; Talagan, always an able advisor, was right in this also: for the sake of the children, for the sake of Greenwood and her people, Thranduil would be spared.

"Nasan," he said again and dipped his head, half-bowing with hand over heart. "You honour me and our long friendship; I will not forget to honour such loyalty."

"My thanks, Gwadoren. I leave with the dawn. We will see one another once more before I begin my final duty, in Echuir when it is time to exalt Lindalcon. Then, when my service to Tawar is complete word will come to you from a source you know and trust. I beg you will not seek my remains, for that would not be an easy thing for you to see. Let me know you will remember me as I stand here now."

Thranduil nodded, deeply moved by the depth of his friend's determination and the unfailing habit of protecting his King foremost from any hurt, whether of heart or body.

"One final favour I ask, Gwadoren."

"It is already granted; speak."

"When you melt the gates and the key, you must also render down the armour you crafted for me and set those blighted souls free. No more do they owe me penance for my wife's death; they have my forgiveness and my regret also. Let them go where they may, even if that is to demand retribution from me in the Halls of Mandos."

"It shall be done as you say."

They smiled on one another and clasped arms in warrior's salute, automatically drawing close to share a final embrace. Parting, they moved forward to the very brink of the realm and stood side by side within the arch of silent, snow-clad trees gazing across white fields brightening under dawn's approach. Winter kept its stern and silent vigil, no insolent noise of bird or beast allowed. Abruptly Talagan turned and whistled the change of the guard then left Thranduil, striding swiftly down the elf path to engage his fate.

- Elrond's Reckoning -

"Let the accused come forth."

The formal words, edged in disdain, cast in cold rage restrained, issued from the Wood Elves' King and echoed in clear, ringing majesty through Thamas uin Aran. (Great Hall of the King) They bounced off the stony walls and battered the tips of ancient, desiccated stalactites hanging from the ceiling, the jagged points glinting ruddy in the torchlight like the bloody fangs of some immense beast. The sounds amplified and changed pitch; the proclamation criss-crossed the throne room now in three voices, now four, now two, and then none, devolving to an inchoate droning hum, vibrations of menace and righteous condemnation. As it faded into nothing, a sharp and vicious silence arose, predatory, filled with hunting eyes and seeking ears and quivering nostrils, rising in magnitude like the hackles of a wolf. Through it he must pass, and Elrond's nerve failed him there on the threshold of the great hall.

Blinking and squinting, he peered into the yellow glare, unused to such radiant illumination after so many weeks ensconced in the bowels of the stronghold. It was a spectacular place, simultaneously lavish and austere. All but barren of furnishings, its beauty lodged in the structure and the stone embellished with gold leaf, mithril inlay and faceted jewels, amid elaborate carvings and the ornate cut-work bannisters of double-tiered galleries that limned three quarters of the room. People were crammed into them and packed all the way to the the walls facing the dais, leaving barely two metres of clear space before it. The platform was barely visible from this angle, though its presence was heavily felt. Elrond imagined he was eager for this day, glad to re-enter the living world above ground after having imposed isolation upon his tainted soul, but discovered this to be a lie. He had come to prefer his tiny cell and its solemn solitude; he was safe and protected there, left alone with only the reproof of his thoughts for company. The place on the other side of the arch was less a theatre of litigation and governance than a great cage or trap, nay, a stage on which to exhibit his shame surrounded by eyes straining to pierce him, hearts burning with hatred and mouths poised to unleash it in a volley of epithets and spittle.

It was this raw, undulating anger he'd expected to encounter upon entering the Woodland realm, but it hadn't happened that way. That would have been easier, for he'd had his sons beside him and Haldir and a full troop of warriors ordered to defend him. Now he must go, naked and alone, into this arena and try to placate a multitudinous beast, a single entity with innumerable arms to strike and teeth to gnash. He was not naked, truly, but dressed in the finest garments he had brought, thinking when he'd packed them to cow these lesser people with the grandeur of his renown. He was not alone, either, but flanked right and left with the very guards who had met him that first day. They were old friends now, the proof of it in the pity with which they treated him; careful, cautious, dignified pity such as one used when handling an aged and infirm mortal or an elf disfigured and maimed. There was nothing one could do to remedy such things and thus pity was the balm they offered. He knew them by name; they still called him Lord. They did so now.

"It is time, Hiren."

"Yes," he sighed and gave each a grim smile. "Just a moment more, mellyn; it will be better if he must call for me twice."

"Nay, Hiren, the people will think you fear justice."

"Aye, it is fitting," Elrond nodded. His guards shared uncomprehending glances and shrugged, but granted his request.

He pretended internal amusement over how much he dreaded this confrontation. He had convinced himself that he was prepared to own his failings and accept any foul derogation, any punishment to prove it. Instead he was scared, suffused with that fright of the helpless and vulnerable child, remembering only now that fear resided in the body beyond the rational mind's ability to stem. He must not permit it to master him. He had Thranduil's promise; he need only endure these next two days and then he could go home again.

Home. Imladris.

Images of the fair valley inundated his thoughts and induced a powerful surge of longing that spurred his pulse and pinched his heart. He hadn't thought of Imladris in weeks, at home in his loneliness, free to search his innermost heart and root out every last thread of malice and envy and guilt and martyred discontent that hid there. Each little bit extracted was painstakingly dissected, all its clever rationalisations and beguiling falsehoods exposed, revealed and destroyed. Home had become solitude and the dim illumination of lantern light, but he had not forgot after all what the wind felt like or the sound of running water or the warmth of the sun upon his face. Suddenly, he was quite ready, yet now had to wait upon that second summons and the delay chaffed his very soul. Imladris! On the other side of this nightmare was a bright and merry refuge waiting for him. His people would forgive him; they must.

"Let the Lord of Imladris come forth and face his accusers!"

This time the command was boiling with exaggerated, indignant impatience. No sooner was it voiced than an ominous, grumbling discord arose to supplant the booming echo. The folk were no more patient than their King or their prisoner. Elrond smiled to hide the chill the murmuring menace of the throng gave him, but his faithful gaolers were not fooled.

"Take heart, mighty Lord, you were not chosen to lead your people without good cause."

"Aye, our Lord and King is no more perfect than you, only he's never let himself be caught."

"Yet we do love him despite his hidden crimes, for he fights those who would destroy us."

"We sylvan folk understand what Shadow can do and will not hold a grudge against you once this matter is settled."

"No more will your own people reject you, but welcome you in wonder, remarking on the depth of your humility and wisdom."

Elrond's brows rose skyward, displeased by the comparison to Thranduil but unable to deny it, surprised to hear this reference to the corruption inherent in those who rule and the fickle morals of the governed. Or were they merely jesting at his expense? The guards preceded him into the hall and no sooner had his feet trod upon the ornately tiled floor than a contentious outcry of reprisals and curses descend upon him. The woodland folk erupted in a writhing mass of arms and faces contorted with pure enmity, invisible barriers of pride and opprobrium all that kept them from mauling the prisoner. They named him everything ugly and evil their minds could seize upon, venom and disgust in their voices, until gradually two words gained supremacy and assaulted him with vigour. Betrayer, they named him, and Defiler. Elrond lowered his head in shame for so he would be remembered here, no matter his kindly guards' assurances.

"Gwarth! Gwathron!" (Betrayer! Defiler!)

The shouts rang out with the might of a thousand voices transformed into the single roar of this primitive brute, its injured innocence the panoply that made it bold, shouting not only for the Tawarwaith's sake but its own. Denied venting its wrath upon Meril or Rochendil, the crowd pummelled the Noldorin Lord with all the horror and dread the Shadow imposed upon them, the true culprit manifest at last, a living and visible and conquerable demon to excise from their hearts and their lands. The volume rose higher and the resounding chant grew to deafening proportions as the whole mountain rang with it; the gilded fangs in the ceiling trembled; the tapestries quivered in the wind of the noise.

"Gwarth! Gwathron!" (Betrayer! Defiler!)

They began stamping their feet, a pounding throb that mimicked the seething madness of their inflamed hearts, their rage escalating like wild fire, devouring, energetic hunger focused on Elrond. He fought the urge to hurry, fought the rising spike of fear that set his pulse racing, and dared not look upon them. He mustn't meet a single rabid eye, convinced they would lose all reason and rip him apart if he did. He crowded up close against the guards, sight fixed to the polished surface passing beneath his feet, praying, praying fervently to reach the appointed spot that he might prostrate himself before their King and beg mercy. He forgot that his sons were here amid this crowd, forgot the presence of Celeborn the Wise, forgot the Istari in their humble garb and holy mien, forgot Legolas and Erestor. He was reduced to the base response of the hunted as the hunter closes on the kill, desperate to reach a safe haven, a hole in which to hide. Suddenly there it was: the squared toes of polished boots on a low marble step, the subtle sway of the hem of a royal cape; Elrond cast himself down before Thranduil.

Instantly the beast fell silent and listened.

"Gohenach nín! Gohenach nín! Annach nín baul a brenio, a gohenach nín!" (Forgive me! Forgive me! Give me any punishment to bear, only forgive me!)

A long pause followed then, unquiet and tense, the woodland people absorbing the fallen Lord's ignominious defeat and complete mortification, gloating over his effort to hide his cringing terror, inhaling the rich scent of it. It was a moment to relish and Thranduil permitted it. As for himself, he felt nothing but disgust.

He looked down upon Elrond from the dais near his throne, its splendour wrought not in majestic proportions, as the room that housed it, but in the intricate design with which the white marble was carved. The four legs were fluted and fit firmly against the floor with the spreading elegance of rooted trees, supporting a broad, smooth seat from which symmetrical, gracefully interwoven branches reached for and met one another at the midpoint of each face of the square. The arms seemed to grow from the underside of the seat and swept up and then curved outward, looping again to join to the back of the chair. This support was not overly high, reaching the area of the scapulas, and was solid but not plain. On it was carved the seal of Oropher's House, the mighty oak inlaid in gold and mithril and pale jade, and above this the stars as they appeared on Thranduil's conception, and these were cut of diamond and spinel. It was fitted with plush green velvet pillows and beside it stood an identical chair, save that the scatter of stars upon it was not the same and it was thickly padded with cushions and draped in furs. Beneath it hid a matching footstool. The Woodland King stood beside this secondary seat, his hand upon its back, and watched his enemy abase himself.

Somehow, this was not as satisfying as he'd imagined it would be. Somehow, this seemed a needless distraction from important matters that pressed upon his mind. Conversely, he suddenly felt he was being too lenient, that the sentence he'd chosen was too brief in both execution and consequences. It was all a farce; he had agreed to terminate the trial quickly and see the punishment proceed the following dawn, after which Elrond would be free to go. Thranduil scowled; he had bargained with Lorien and Imladris and concluded the negotiation poorly, Greenwood on the bottom again. Elrond would return to his hidden haven and recover his former glory. What was this one moment of dishonour against Ages of reverence and renown? What had he done to earn such accolades? Celeborn had convinced Thranduil; there was no price high enough to purchase a new history for Legolas or for him. There was only the future and for that to blossom and bear fruit this interloper needed to be removed. He knew this was right, yet it nagged at his mind that Legolas had not been included in their conference. His frown darkened

Let me be done with this creature.

"Forgiveness you ask of me?" Thranduil asked quietly and the words raised a sudden sigh from the throng. The sylvans calmed; confident their King would make the foreign Lord repent.

"I do not ask, Aran Arth (Noble King), but beg," Elrond pleaded, the sentence muffled in weak submission.

"Why should we grant you such a boon?" It was not what he'd planned to say but the thought got free and lingered in unsettling overtones that circled the room. Everyone waited to hear an answer, every eye trained upon the prostrate form, but the reply did not issue from Elrond.

"There is no valid reason to exhibit clemency," Elladan stepped forward from his place beside Elrohir, but did not go to his father. "The House of the Beeches has been injured and the realm of the Wood Elves trespassed. I cannot undo this wrong, for it is monstrous, as all here know. Yet, I offer my blade in service to Greenwood and the woodland folk, be they Sindar, sylvan, or mortal for as long as the life of Legolas, your elder son, has thus far lived, or for whatever term you deem right." Elladan drew his sword and held it hilt out-facing as he dropped to one knee before Thranduil.

This, also, was unplanned and Elrond reacted automatically, raising his head to shout his objection. "Nay! Elladan, nay!" His paternal dismay did not set well with the people and they murmured against him, but their discontent was squelched as Elrohir came forward to state his own solution.

"Muindor, you have done enough. Let this part be mine." He knelt beside Elladan and likewise offered his sword to the King. "I make the same claim and the same oath of service, only do not ask my brother to do this."

"Ai, Elrohir," complained Elladan sourly but with much love behind it.

"Your word was given," Elrond pleaded, now on his knees also, but Thranduil was not looking at him.

Pleased by the brothers' earnest desire to do right, the King raised a hand to forestall the crowd's outcry over Elrond's remark. "Restrain yourselves! See you, the House of the Mariner is not lost as long as there are Lords so noble to defend it." His praise inspired his peoples' and their discontent ebbed. Then Thranduil studied the identical faces peering up at him. "Given your noble heart, Elladan, I should have guessed you would desire this. As you are Twins, I should have expected Elrohir to join you."

He took the elder brother's sword and inspected it with interest, knowing few had ever held it save Elladan, and tested its weight and the way the strength of his arm flowed easily into it. He gave a quick demonstration of his skill with a blade, a parry and thrust and a sweeping cross-body slice that would have disemboweled an Orc, and in this final flourish neatly nicked Elladan's cheek, a shallow cut such as he had suffered in their brief tussle a few days past. The crowd gasped and Elrond cried in horror, but Elladan remained unflinching and Elrohir likewise held still. Thranduil nodded his approbation.

"Rise, Elladan of Imladris. Your service is accepted, but the term is too lengthy. Instead, let the time be seventeen years, and hope with me that at its end I may have regained what was taken."

Elladan bowed formally and received his sword, sheathing it with a quick glance at his brother before resuming his place. Now Elrohir and Elrond remained before Thranduil and each waited in suspense to know what he would rule. He shrugged and took the younger Twin's sword, using it to tap him lightly on the scull, grinning as Elrond winced and Elladan inhaled an audible breath. "I cannot be the one to part you; join him." To this Elrohir returned a merry grin and stood, bowing with less formality and more genuine appreciation; he liked this new Thranduil. He sheathed his blade and returned to Elladan's side, reaching out to clasp his shoulder and wipe away the trickle of blood.

"Well done," Celeborn praised, indicating both his grandsons and his distant cousin in his insightful gaze.

Through it all Elrond sat on his heels filled with pride over what had transpired, not daring to say what his heart would fain express, and could only gaze upon his sons, his bold and incorruptible sons. Yes, here was the true character at the core of his lineage, the very highest of ideals harboured safely within them, Lords of Imladris in every sense of that word, Lords among Elf-kind and the moulders of the future yet to be. Such as they were now, once he had been, and the realisation was a burden both onerous and easy to bear. He had never given in to Darkness; he had fought it diligently in every place he found it, and only now did he see that it had been hiding the worst of its malignant power behind the severest wounds the heart can take, right inside him. He drew a harsh breath; Elladan's eye met his and he saw it there, too, manifest in the pain and rage his son harboured for loss of first his mother and now the father he had only respected all these many years of his life. "No!" he cried out, an involuntary plea of desperation, a hand flying out as though to pull that shadow out of Elladan's soul; his blindness must not be inherited. Then he had to look away, seared by the repugnance shining in Elladan's countenance; he did not understand.

"Your sons do honour to their House; such actions aught not be maligned or hindered," intoned Mithrandir, unconvinced of Elrond's contrition. To him, it seemed he was merely reacting to his own misfortune, as had been the case so often before.

"Nay, nay," Elrond denied and agreed simultaneously, for he approved their valour and had not meant to deter them, dropping his hand and lowering his forehead to the floor. Thus, he missed Elrohir's spontaneous motion to go to him and Elladan's hasty grab that stopped it.

"Eglerio Gwanur Hîr-en-Imladris!" (Praise the Twin Lords of Imladris!)

"Av'leinio hain!" (Do not hinder them!)

"Hyn leithenner Tawarwaith nín!" (They freed our Tawarwaith!)

"Eglerio hain!" (Praise them!)

"Av'leinio în cairth eryd!" (Do not hinder their noble deeds!)

These admonishing praises shot out from sundry spots within the hall, crossing one another verily over the defamed Lord's head, until Thranduil raised his hand to command silence.

"Aye, they are worthy of our praise and we are honoured by their service," the King attested solemnly. "It is strange indeed to find outlanders better able to comprehend the needs of justice than any among our own." He scanned the faces ringing the court, noting their guilty expressions and downcast eyes. "They perceived wrong and did not hide from it or pass blame on to another, but came here with all speed to own it and make it right. Here is the example we must follow. Henceforth, we will move more carefully through the confusing currents stirred by Shadow and temper any hasty response by recalling how horribly we have failed and what those errors have cost."

"Ai, Lindalcon!" someone cried and a lowing susurration of mournful lamentation hissed through the room at the speaking of his name.

"Aye, revered he shall be and hallowed is his sacrifice," intoned Thranduil, well versed on the ritual response. A time of respectful silence passed and then he drew breath and focused again on the elven Lord. "Elrond son of Eärendil, son of Tuor, son of Huor, son of Galdor, son of Hador, son of Hathol, son of Magor, son of Malach, son of Marach of the Fathers of Men, you have asked forgiveness of this court. Yet what must we forgive? What are the sins of which you need to be shriven?"

At his feet, Elrond jerked, an involuntary response to the naming of his mortal ancestors, and groaned, raising and lowering his head, pressing his brow to the tiled floor as he spoke. "For trespassing the sovereign bounds of Greenwood secretly and with intent to harm her people." He spoke loudly and clearly, not wishing to be commanded to utter the hated phrase a second time.

"Úgarth ceredir! Ethir!" (Trespasser! Spy!) The people named him with guilty guile.

"What cause had you to enact this invasion across our borders?" demanded Thranduil. "Has any citizen of Greenwood done such to the realm of the Noldor in Imladris?"

"Nay, Aran Thranduil," Elrond admitted, tense and expectant, knowing all that must follow. "No citizen of Greenwood has ever sought to injure my nation or my people or myself."

"Again I ask you, Elrond son of Elwing daughter of Nimloth daughter of Galadhil son of Galadhon son of Elmo, Lord of the Teleri Calaquendi and King over my people in Aman, what motive inspired this unwarranted act of aggression?"

Another shudder assaulted the debased Lord of Imladris to hear his noble Telerin kin so announced, people of the same race that settled Greenwood, and he could feel the elevation in emotion spreading through the audience. "The motive was vindictive and selfish. My only purpose was to bring ruin to Legolas, son of Thranduil and Ningloriel, she whom I loved that spurned me."

"Treachery! He admits it so easily!"

"She sailed for grieving, not for spite!"

"Punish such hubris!"

It took a little while for this enmity to be vented and Thranduil did not intervene, for the sylvans had need to express their outrage. Not a one could be found who would place any blame on the absent Queen now, whatever their private judgement of her morals might be. No more would the King remind them of it. She was a bereft mother lost to them through grieving, forced to sail or fade in the face of her son's prolonged and undeserved death sentence. Always she had defended his paternity and fought her husband to restore his rights. She had become a tragic heroine in the compelling saga.

"Ruin for the child of she whom you loved?" the King repeated, booming voice incensed and mocking. "How can you claim to love her, my wife and mate, when you were already wedded?" It was lost on none that Celebrian's sons were present and that Celeborn was Elrond's law-father; none wished to name the Lady Celebrian in this ugly scene. Neither she nor her sons nor her father had done harm to Greenwood. All was quiet as Elrond struggled to answer the query without debasing her life, yet he was required to acknowledge the insult and shame he had given her.

"I was wedded to a noble and loving mate; love I did not deserve. She knew of my inconstant heart and bore the pain it gave without so much as a sigh. I met them both in Lorien and both I loved, unable to relinquish one to honour the other. I wronged them both."

"Glib and insincere these affronts fall from your lips!" charged Thranduil, dissatisfied. "Elrond son of Elwing daughter of Dior son of Luthien the child of Melian the Maia, Blessed among the Valar in Aman, what meaning can this word love have to you?"

"Love always has two meanings," Elrond choked out, mouth dry as ash, mortified to admit his narcism in the wake of his illustrious pedigree. "There is the meaning of how one expresses love for another person and the sense of what it means to be loved by another. I confess; I have only concentrated on the latter definition through all my long life."

"Fool!" someone called out. "How came you to be thought wise?"

"How one loves, this is the essence of one's character."

"I agree with my people," Thranduil said softly, his voice suddenly lowered and cast in tones of remorseful sorrow. "In this respect I have also failed. I did not love my own child, instead reviling him and denouncing him. Tell me, Elrond son of Eärendil son of Idril daughter of Turgon son of Fingolfin son of Indis the daughter of Ingwë High King of the Vanyar and Finwë High King of the Noldor, what cause would motivate me to reject my elder son, Legolas?"

Now this had never been publicly announced before, though rumour and gossip had long ago spread the tale that Thranduil believed Elrond was Legolas' sire. In the silence that followed respiration ceased and all ears strained to catch every nuance of the impending answer. The elven Lord remained slumped against the floor, motionless and quiet as he had been instructed, and suddenly Thranduil's toe shot out and shoved him sprawling to his side.

"Get up!" he roared. "Stand and face me, the father you robbed, the husband you cuckolded. Stand upright, noble Lord, and tell them why I believed Legolas was yours!" Here Thranduil reached into his tunic and withdrew two objects, one an old and much creased parchment, the other a pale green handkerchief, stained and crumpled. He threw them atop Elrond and pointed down at him. "Read it!" he bellowed.

Elrond got to his feet, clutching the cloth and the missive, red-faced and ill, fearing he would vomit before he could obey. He mastered the urge and drew a shaky breath, dared a glance at the King ere he turned to address the crowd. Better to look upon them than the aghast expressions of his children and the bloodless, stricken visage of Celeborn. With shaking fingers he unfolded the parchment, explaining as he did so, his voice flat and clinical: "This letter and the silken scarf, which belonged to Ningloriel, were sent here by me. They were intended to arrive approximately at the time of Legolas' birth. The fabric is soiled with the seminal fluids and the secretions particular to the female during intercourse; they are Ningloriel's and mine respectively." He blocked out the exclamations of shocked disgust and continued.

"The letter reads: 'Suilad Thranduil Oropherion, King of Greenwood, and felicitations on the birth of Ningloriel's child, who will be your heir. I recall her happiness over the conception of a son when last we were both in Lorien, a protracted holiday for her, I believe, which ended only a little more than a year ago. How proud you must be over the expectation of this child! I rejoice as I did when my sons were born and look forward to the day when I may meet this prince of the Woodland Realm. Enclosed is a token you may find of interest regarding Ningloriel and her offspring.' It is not signed, but the handwriting is mine and I admit that I did this hideous thing."

There was no outcry, no time to summon one, for immediately Thranduil stepped from the dais and marched to his enemy, stood glowering at Elrond, bitter fury and absolute bewilderment plain within his emerald eyes. "Why?" he demanded. "Why did you do such a thing? What wrong did I do to you?"

"None," Elrond replied bluntly and held the King's gaze. "Nothing direct or overt."

"What does that mean?" Thranduil wanted a truthful answer, needed a means to comprehend why he had been so basely manipulated. "What created such hate in your heart that you would punish my innocent son? For he is mine, Legolas is, and all here know it. Do you dare claim him as that letter implies?"

"No," Elrond answered. "He is not my son. She was careful, wanting a prince for the sylvan people and not a bastard from Imladris. She refused to lie with me during that stay in Lorien; that is the truth. I knew when she left me she was going back to you to give you this son and heir, a promise made but also a real desire in her heart. She wanted her people to have a claim upon the throne of their own lands. And it angered me that she would not bear my child, for it meant she did not love me. Out of perverse jealousy I sought to take from you the child I deemed should be mine."

A heavy sigh exhaled through the crowd to have this quandary finally laid to rest; their Tawarwaith wholly theirs. Thranduil, too, seemed more at ease and nodded coldly at his enemy.

"Go on. There is more behind this tale and you will tell it, since we were the chosen victims of your enmity," he said.

"Long before this," Elrond continued in halting syllables, "when first we met, before she became your Queen, she asked me to be her mate, to come here and live with her and rescue her people from the Shadow. This was after the Last Alliance and Greenwood's people were grieving; the kingdom of Oropher struggling to stand. She wanted the strength of Vilya to serve her people and deemed it likely I could easily supplant you, sunk low in grief as you were. To this day, I do not know how she had knowledge of the Ring I bear. Yet, I declined and chose another I deemed more appropriate for a great Noldorin Lord, the High King in all but words. So I took fair Celebrian to wife and Ningloriel I had on my own terms."

There came during this recitation a muffled and inarticulate exclamation of distress from the Lord of Lorien and a soft ruffling of robes as his grandsons closed round him in support, but their pain was a secondary drama inadequate to distract the rapt audience from the principal characters.

"Yet what sprang between us was not so easily termed mere prurience and I deem it was love, of a kind." Elrond paused, realising he must be careful not to make her the scapegoat for his failings. She was not here to speak of what lay in her heart and so he must leave the sylvan folk enough doubt to hold her blameless. Yet his bitterness won this battle. "After Legolas' birth, then she sought in earnest for a child with me. I denied her, knowing what caused the breach in her relationship with you, her husband, and gloating over it. Now she wanted me to free her from your fearful wrath, but I was content with the manner of our affair and saw no need to take on the burden of a darkening realm for her sake. I would punish her, you see, for refusing to give up Greenwood, for refusing to give up her beloved guardian, for refusing to give up you, Thranduil, and I blamed you for being secondary in her life, for my unhappiness and sorrow. I blamed you even though I had chosen my lot freely."

"Ai, Adar!" Elrohir whispered.

Thranduil was taken aback; these were things Elrond had refused to discuss in their meetings, no matter how he wheedled or stormed, and he was incredulous. "Me? This is the wrong you have harboured all these many centuries?" It sounded preposterous, yet he was guilty of many an irrational belief himself and thus the King waited to hear Elrond's reply.

"No, the wrong I have nourished and fed with hidden tears and silent rage has nothing to do with you," Elrond barked, contempt in his voice. "You were just easier to condemn and ready to hand, real and vital and blind to your own frailty, an unsuspecting target. The true cause of my torment goes much deeper, and because I could not face it and root it out, I must go mad. This madness chose to destroy others to prevent destroying me."

"That is rather abstruse," Mithrandir intervened his mocking words. "Be plain if you would find mercy here."

"Silence!" commanded Thranduil, wheeling to rebuke him. "None may speak above the Woodland King in his own court!" He favoured the wizard with a warning glare, no longer so pleased with his continuation in Greenwood now that it was clear Legolas had no wish to interact with him. "Yet he speaks my thoughts," he turned back to Elrond and crossed his arms over his chest, certain of the insult inherent in these admissions. "I was a simple fool, you mean to say, and who would care about the shattered lives of lesser elves such as me and mine. Aye, we know the low regard with which our Noldorin kin consider the sylvan folk, when by chance they think on us at all." His words evoked a sympathetic vibration among his subjects and they whispered in low and menacing speech, forgetting for the time that Thranduil had scorned them in much the same vein.

"Enough," Elrohir suddenly growled, shaking loose of his brother and grandfather to join the King and berate his father. "It is past time for philosophy and riddles and distractions over old disagreements. Tell us this great torment that has rent your soul and besieged your mind with madness." His eyes bored into Elrond's, trying to decipher the core of this ugliness, this malignant tumour that was devouring his heart. "You have to speak," he insisted, voice rough in frustrated anger. "Can you not see what this is doing to those who love you? We are torn, Adar, torn! Once I understand I can forgive, until then I am trapped in quandary, one moment empathetic with your plight, the next furious over the vile things you've done. Surely this must spawn in me the very same madness that defeated you."

"Aye, Elrohir, I will tell you everything. Everything," Elrond said and took his son's hands in his. "Everything. If you despise me for it than may you at least find pity in your heart for the father who raised you."

"As soon as we recognise him, we will honour our Adar as we have always done," Elladan promised darkly. He did not join his sibling.

"So be it," Elrond grimaced; the rejection stung and raised the old thoughts up as a shield, but this time he fought them down. He trained his eyes on Thranduil, who was watching all this with less lurid delight than he'd expected. Indeed, there was in the King's eyes a hint of that same pity the guards had shown. "Let me remind everyone here that whatever motives I might have invented, the truth is that neither King Thranduil nor anyone in his family, even Ningloriel, has ever wronged me. I chose to destroy him for reasons that are erroneous and which I will now reveal. If the reasoning seems bizarre, that is as it should be for this is truly convoluted, a case of substituting one person for all the others that hurt me."

"iI is Legolas upon whom you heaped this unwarranted blame," Thranduil reminded quietly. "I was fully grown and maybe my deeds and motives were impure and tainted by darkness, perhaps I have earned some of my hardships, but he had yet to be born. He deserved to be loved by the parents who made him. What might he have become had he enjoyed this simple right?"

"Whatever Elrond has done," Elladan interposed, "he failed to destroy Legolas. The Tawarwaith has become exactly what he was meant to be when Eru gave thought to the Music of this Greenwood and its people."

The sylvans liked this notion and traded smiles and glad words, and Thranduil dipped his head to acknowledge the correction. To Elrond he gave a different sort of nod. "Speak; answer your son's demand and my command."

Elrond smiled, an ironic expression, and raised his brows. "Could you do it, I wonder?" he asked Thranduil. "Could you admit to all the betrayals that formed your views and twisted your heart?"

"Since I have not seen fit to inflict my pain and anguish upon others with malicious intent to do harm, there is no cause for me to do so, anymore than there is cause to demand such from your sons. Would you deem it right to ask it of them? Nay, for they have not used that pain to excuse base conduct." Thranduil was furious with this challenge and came as near to laying hands on the half-elf as he had since the trial began. His face grew hot, feeling again the touch of that manipulating mind, and his hands tightened into fists. "The hold of this Darkness is tight upon you; its roots sunk deep into the recesses of your heart. Can you not break its bonds and speak freely of these things? Must the Istari invoke the might of their order to loose the demon's grip?"

"I can free myself," Elrond said, rather startled to realise he was still delaying and baiting Thranduil to distract the court. "I was abandoned," he said abruptly. "First my father deserted us for some grand quest to reach Aman and plead for the aid of the Valar. Was it heroism or boredom? I still don't know. I know only that he left us alone and when trouble came he was not there to defend us or give counsel to our mother. He should have taken that filthy jewel with him, for it corrupted her. To keep it from the sons of Feanaro, she abandoned her children. She chose that gem over her own flesh and blood."

He had to stop speaking as waves of nausea rolled through his gut, the scene playing out in his mind and bruising his heart. It was still shocking, still terrifying after all this time. He swallowed against the surge of bile and struggled to master the anger that accompanied it, failing. He turned harried eyes upon the King. "You think yourself wronged by fate because you mother perished, but you do not know what real hardship is. She loved you and did not go from you willingly, her life torn from her by violence. My naneth just left us there, alone. We became hostages of the very people who had killed untold numbers of our kin and that is not the worst. The worst is that these Feanorion princes, these bloody-handed killers, cared more for us than our own parents. We were never ransomed, as everyone knows. Our parents were not among those who came forth from Aman to fight Melkor. Why?"

The silence in the room was intense, not a breath audible nor a foot stirring, the elven Lord's despairing question unanswerable. He surveyed them, noting the wide eyes, the ghoulish stares of horrified fascination, lips parted in anticipation of secret and revolting revelations, nearly salivating in their hunger for his humiliation. He heaved a noisy breath.

"Nay, there is no one who can explain it, though I have talked with all the elders of my people and even the highest among the Istari. This is what happened and nothing can change it. It was the first of many abandonments, though not all were voluntary. My beloved mentors were next, the jewel again triumphing over love, the last of the Feanorions gone. My brother chose mortality and left me after the fullness of time Iluvatar granted him; I count that a betrayal also. Long before then I took up residence with Círdan in Mithlond and dwelled there with Gil-galad my cousin." Again he stopped, emotion threatening to overwhelm him, for it was still difficult to speak his name even after so many centuries. He glanced at the leering faces; how could they enjoy the misery that inflicts another so severely? Well, then, let them gnaw on the bones of his blasted destiny.

"I will say now what few know: I came to love him not as a cousin and not as a brother but as my beloved. He was my first love and I his; we did not hide it but neither did we solidify the bond with any formal ceremony. We did not require it." Now he turned and faced Thranduil, a hard glimmer in his icy grey eyes. "And this is where Greenwood wronged me. Aye, though it was not intentional, the harm was irrevocable and I could not forget it. But for Oropher's refusal to adhere to Gil-galad's strategy, both would still be living now. I lost my beloved; you lost your father and for the same ridiculous pride that verily defines the woodland folk."

His words provoked a shocked gasp from the audience and loud was the outcry against him that followed. Elrond watched them, the bare trace of a sneer contorting his nose, wondering if they would dare accost him, crossing those invisible barriers established by protocol and the King's will. Beside him, Thranduil simply waited, allowing the people to express the indignation he felt, refusing to be manipulated into an angry outburst. This was, after all, his own evaluation of why Oropher had perished and he had blamed and then confiscated the souls of every sylvan who died with him that day. If anything he was surprised and annoyed by the similarity between his and Elrond's thinking. His silence caught his subjects notice and the grumbling wound down until uneasy silence returned, for now they remembered that part of it, too, and then the King spoke.

"So this is what you have against me; this is the cause for which you condemned my son, that your beloved was slain in the same battle that gobbled up the lives of hundreds of sylvan and Sindarin and Noldorin and mortal warriors? My father, and by extension me, and through me to Legolas, caused Gil-galad's downfall? Strange, here in Greenwood we speak of Sauron as the cause of his death and of Oropher's and every other person killed over the course of the siege. At least you have established the reason for your hatred, fallacious though it surely is. What say you now for this convoluted rationalisation, Elrond Peredhel?"

The pejorative needled as it was meant to do and Elrond could not hide his aversion for the term. He was elf-kind, that had been his choice to make and he'd chosen long Ages ago. Yet, he swallowed his discontent and made to answer, for that was the agreement he'd made with his captor, only he made the mistake of letting his eye be drawn by a faint flutter of motion in his peripheral vision and locked on Elladan's agonised face, mortified rage bleeding from his stern and stormy eyes. "Forgive me," he said softly but there was no softening in his son's glare. Elrohir refused to look on him. There was nothing to do but resume his chronicle and he did so, awkwardly aware that everyone had heard his plea and witnessed its refusal. He coughed and cleared his throat, swept the room with his unhappy haze, and continued.

"I look upon this association of my loss with the failures of the Last Alliance as the breaking point, the place where reason gave way and madness entered in. Grief is difficult to bear among the FIrst-born and I have kept mine hidden, thinking it best to do so, only now seeing that I cherished and nourished it, for within my grief were the memories of my parents most vital and vivid. I was already conditioned to do the same on Gil-galad's death." He turned suddenly back to Elladan. "This is how Shadow takes root: by convincing us that if we give up the grief and rage we do insult to the memory of those we have loved and lost. Unwittingly, we begin to nurture and cherish the anger and the sorrow, believing doing so is a tribute to the depth of our feeling and the continuity of the bond that has been sundered." Even as he spoke, Elladan relaxed and drew a deep breath, his eyes going bright with a sheen of moisture that he blinked away, relief and thanksgiving shining there instead, and Elrond understood. His son had realised this truth and feared his father never would. Elrond bowed his head solemnly, heart heavy over the degree to which his sons had assumed the burden of his wrongs.

Thranduil observed this silent exchange and felt keen sympathy for the Twins. There was nothing he could do to spare them; it was their right to be here and their hearts were not his responsibility. Through them he spied a glimpse of Elrond as he once had been, as he had known him during that bloody war. "So strange is this fate, Elrond, which entwines us. Our sons view us today as exactly opposite to that personality familiar since childhood." His remark clearly startled the Noldorin Lord and Elrond peered at his with stricken eyes. "And you are the cause for both those shifts in perspective." Thranduil inhaled and blew back a disgruntled breath and shrugged. "Even so, you have spoken truth and that commends your conscience. There is hope you may yet be redeemed, but there is a little more to hear, I think. Long were the centuries between that victorious defeat and Legolas' birth; even more years, almost enough to frame an Age, passed before you made the decision to trespass here and seek out the ellon you so thoroughly ruined. Explain it to us, Lore-master, renowned healer, Keeper of the Ring of Air, and revered councillor to the White Council."

Elrond was frowning. "As the chosen bearer of that article, I respectfully ask that you refrain from naming it here, so near to the Dark Tower."

"I second the request," Celeborn implored his kinsman. "The battle just fought and won is no guarantee that the Shadow has given up on its war against our people."

"Aye, that is wise counsel and I will heed it," Thranduil acknowledged both with a dip of his head and then peered at Elrond, eyebrows lifted in expectation and exasperation. It was all taking too long and he wanted it over before Legolas arrived."Get on with it," he snapped.

"Yes. It is simple enough to conclude. I was content to nurse my hatred in secret during this time, satisfied by having effectively alienated you first from your wife and then your son. I enjoyed hearing reports of your misery and rage, of the forced retreat of the Kingdom far behind the borders established when Amdir's father ruled. Then all this business of the Judgement happened and because of that she left me. Ningloriel left me because you took a sylvan concubine to get you new heirs. I didn't believe she would really go. Nothing had moved her to abandon Greenwood before, though I had tried; indeed, the whole trick with the note and the cloth was meant for you to drive her out. She would have no choice but go to Lorien and bring the child with her. Yet, while she endured the charge of inconstancy and defended her son's paternity, she could not stomach another in her place. She left, even with Legolas in terrible condition from the brutality of Chastisement. Oh yes, she described it to me in gruesome detail. She wanted me to come and rescue Legolas after she was gone; it was she put the idea in my head, but I had no wish to help him. I wanted to hurt him since I could not hurt her."

He had to stop because the throng was shouting too loudly to hear himself above the din. The people were in a frenzy of outrage to hear this so baldly placed before them, so raw and ugly and vindictive. It was almost a worse insult than the trespass itself, this bland and cold-blooded account of his decision to invade their lands and harass their Tawarwaith, all wrapped up in criticism of their sylvan Queen as though she was responsible for his deeds. It was too much and they must teach this arrogant outlander what it cost to discount them. Thranduil did nothing; it was all staged and this was no more than what he'd ordered, though the people were genuinely angry. It was a bitter realisation that they would not riot and assault the prisoner though they had readily laid hands upon their King, and Thranduil hated his prisoner for it. He suspected Elrond had more he wished to add but he pinned him with a hard glare. He turned to his subjects and raised his arms for silence.

"What say you? It is my right to name the punishment but I would hear the choice of my people."

At once the clamour rose to new heights and for a few moments a number of unintelligible phrases jumbled together in a cacophonous tangle. Then a consensus arose and the words became clear and strong and loud as the sylvans chanted the sentence they preferred.

"Râd-en-Gynd a Megel! Râd-en-Gynd a Megel!" (the Path of Stones and Blades)

"Nasan," Thranduil called out and his assent silenced the people. They watched him, expecting the words and longing to hear them spoken, and the King obliged. "Elrond Peredhel, you have admitted your wrongs and recounted your evil deeds and their dark and warped genesis. You have pleaded for mercy from this court and from the people of Greenwood, yet nothing moves you to propose any remedy to the consequences of your crimes." Elrond made to speak, for this was not part of the plan to which he'd agreed, but Thranduil stopped him with a furious shout that made the elf Lord flinch. "Gwarth! Gwathron!" He moved an inch from his enemy's face and screamed the words again, spraying spittle. "Gwarth! Gwathron!" And Thranduil struck him a heavy blow against the cheek that sent Elrond reeling; the King snatched him at the biceps to keep him upright and yanked him close again. "Others have punished you but I have refrained until now. You offer me nothing to atone for the egregious wrongs done to me for no just cause. Your sons understand; they have answered the demand placed on their personal honour, but you have none. You have not even spoken of restitution for Legolas.

"I say to you now you are not forgiven. Your sins remain and I will hold you to account for them until you find it within yourself to offer some gesture of atonement, however inadequate, to me and to Legolas. I cannot believe that the whole period of time you have been here you have not made one single suggestion that considers the weight and gravity of the harm you've caused! Nothing! You have spent this time in secluded contemplation of your soul and worked out how to forgive the wrongs fate decreed for your life and nothing more. How grand! You return a cleansed and improved elven Lord, ready to meet the great challenges which confront you as the leader of a realm that lies hidden, protected from the evils that beset my people." Thranduil paused his sarcastic tirade and stalked a tight circle round his enemy, looking him over with aversion and loathing, wishing Elrond would dare interrupt so he could hit him again. "I am not impressed with your exalted heritage and your celebrated wisdom; you are a hypocrite, Elrond Peredhel!"

Now none would intervene to halt Thranduil's harangue, though it is true the Twin Lords of Imladris and their foster brother might wish it. Yet they remained silent and still, allowing this assault, deeming it mild in comparison to the King's treatment of Legolas over the years, and the fault for that lay at their father's feet. Celeborn had no desire to stop his kinsman and indeed felt his own anger kindled on hearing Elrond's quick and easy dismissal of what Celebrian had endured as his mate. The wizards had weeks ago decided that any punishment would be tolerated as long as it was clear death was not likely to result from it. They, too, considered this very moderate behaviour from an elf given to manipulating souls.

"I cannot stain my spirit with your blood or I would have every drop of it spilled right here and now," menaced the King darkly. "Such is the depth of my anger that I wish I could bludgeon you to death, but killing would not reverse the damage or give my heart ease, nor please Legolas. Do you know the one thing out of all this mess he would like undone? He wants his mother back, and I cannot make it happen. Can you?"

Elrond shook his head sadly; he did not count this as one of his errors. He had tried to make her stay, but he held his tongue now. Nothing he could say would appease the King and so he refrained from stating the things he hoped to do that would amend his sins, for he had thought long on this topic in the empty hours of his confinement. He should have spoken sooner, but thought he was meant to do so here before all the people.

"Nay, she will remain in Aman and he will not see her until he leaves Middle-earth." Thranduil sighed in exasperation and discontent and ran his hands through his long mane, agitation in the motion. "I want you gone from here. I don't want to look upon your face again until you have given some thought to make reparations. You will leave my lands on the morrow, and you will exit through Râd-en-Gynd a Megel, and I will be there at the end to make you regret your trespass if nothing else. Now, you will sit outside the doors of this hall and abase your self that any citizen who might wish it may denounce you and spit upon you. Get out."

The people cheered and many hastened to leave the room so to be first to exhibit their disgust upon the mighty Lord. The two guards came and took Elrond at the arms and walked him out through the grand arched entrance, and there in the hallway they stripped him down to his breech clout and sat him on a low stool in the corner. For all their sympathetic words and kindly treatment, they were the first to mock him and laughed at the shock on his face when they did so. After that, a long train of people filed through the hall, each pausing to cast insults and saliva on the Lord of Imladris. He sat quietly and kept his head bowed, his eyes lowered, and did not attempt to shield himself.

The line of sylvans seemed interminable and he believed every elf in the realm wanted the opportunity to denigrate him, but after a time a buzz of excitement travelled through the crowd and everyone pressed back against the walls of the wide corridor, jostling one another for the best position. Then they fell silent and all eyes watched the far end of the hall which connected to the outer courtyard. A hushed cascade of bended knees swept the crowd as the people bowed down at the approach of the Tawarwaith.

Aglar Ovor - Abundant Glory -

"Pan vae?" Erestor whispered in windy, breathless bliss, wrapped all round Legolas where the two lay conjoined in the swaying nest, the seneschal's heaving chest flush against the Tawarwaith's back; the archer's heart pounding in a wild, reciprocal rhythm that matched his perfectly. One hand cradled the velvety warmth of Legolas' soft, lax penis, slick with spent seed, and the other gently surrounded his battered body so that their hands were clasped just atop the old dagger wound.

"Aye, pan vae," Legolas sighed, raising the seneschal's hand to his panting lips in a small expression of tender veneration. Berenaur still feared to cause him discomfort, but he did not mind this need for reassurance; it was rather exhilarating to be so treasured. "I am happy," he whispered, "and so grateful that you don't care. You never did."

"The scars?" Erestor kissed one, the tail end of a lash that had caught the shoulder and neck. It was smooth and bright red and hot after their exertions.

"Aye." Legolas bent his head to expose more of his throat and relished the soft pressure of adoring lips.

"Of course I don't care. They are fading anyway, even the deep ones that touch upon your soul." Erestor paused and thought about it a moment, though, finding it was not entirely true. "Yet I do, Legolas; I do. I'm angry and racked with guilt, for I could not shield you from any of it; even after I took you for my own I could not protect you. It burns, like a red coal lodged down beneath my heart, for it feels too like the selfish and fearful youth who fled the sack of Gondolin. Am I a coward?"

"No," Legolas said simply. "You did right not to follow me into that hellacious place. I could not have borne it knowing you suffered also. It would have been the end of us both and the only good thing I have ever known would then be ruined, tainted and sullied by their dark games. Who can say how long we would languish in Mandos trying to regain some semblance of sanity?" He smiled and caressed the arm wrapped round him. "Sing to me," he murmured, shifting to get closer, an impossible feat since the seneschal's cock, slack and sated, was still buried inside him.

"What shall I sing?" Erestor smiled; he had never done quite so much singing as in these recent months, save perhaps during his childhood in Gondolin. It was good to recall the rich harmonies of that wondrous place where even the stones were given voice in Ulmo's fluid tones, to remember its glory instead of its ruin. Legolas answered him with an admonishing elbow nudge in the ribs and the seneschal laughed. He began a song of exalted love, the only sort of music he seemed able to make these days, grinning as he altered the words of the ancient tune to serve his particular purpose this night:

"In ithil's gleam you are fair and far too beautiful to resist.
Under Anor's glare your glory rivals the stars in heaven above.
Rare and precious is such perfection as this;
I must make you mine ere some other catch your eye and inflame your love.
How to capture your heart and bind your soul? Impossible, yet I have done this very thing
by the call of your spirit and the union we share and the promise of a golden ring."

Legolas had been drifting into hazy reverie but this word snapped his mind back to clarity in an instant. He caught his breath and he shifted, peering over his shoulder into Berenaur's eyes, hoping he had not misheard. "A ring?"

"Aye, Pen-rhovan," Erestor beamed, pleased to see the anticipation his humble lyric raised. "If you will have it."

"Of course I will have it," Legolas replied, incredulous. They disengaged so he could turn and face his mate, watching in joyous relief as Berenaur leaned over to fish about in the catch pocket of the netting. He held forth a small leather pouch and demanded a kiss before handing it over. "Let me see it," Legolas pleaded, impatiently trying to snatch the little bag, but the seneschal would not let him.

"Nay, let me do this," Erestor insisted, helping Legolas sit up as he did the same. "Give me your hand now," he said quietly and Legolas did so.

Erestor stroked the archer's fingers, carefully pressing on the remaining marks left by the forcible removal of the false bonding band. The wounds were healed and the bone was whole again and Legolas desperately wanted a replacement. Erestor knew that desire was foremost in his heart and mind, though Pen-rhovan held silent on the subject. The seneschal understood; he must provide a new ring without prompting, a test of his constancy and the strength of his love. He gazed into Legolas' eyes and saw the fear there. It stung him; he would never desert his wild elf.

Yet, he knew where such dread arose and could not feel angry or resentful. Legolas could not help it; everything in his life had been twisted and broken, no love ever given him pure and untainted or free of unholy demands. Until now, everyone he'd ever loved had eventually rejected him. What reason had he to believe that love could be true, eternal, and a source of limitless joy? It was time to extinguish the doubts such a history inspired, something Erestor had not had time to do before Lindalcon's flight into the forest prompted Legolas' futile efforts to save him. He isolated the injured finger and slipped the new ring past the knuckle; it was a perfect fit.

"Elo," Legolas sighed and held his hand up to look upon it, curious and surprised. "I was not expecting something so ornate. Where did you get it?" Reason insisted it had to come from the vaults, but what he really wanted was its history. It was ancient, crafted in fine filigree so that the metal looked to be woven together from tiny strands. This was exactly so and within the minute crevasses between these strings of gold ran ribbons of deep blue sapphire. It was a ring such as he had never imagined.

"Thranduil," Erestor shrugged, hoping this would not diminish the value of the gift. "He brought me a box filled with the 'best rings ever crafted to adorn elvish hands' and said they were from Beleriand."

"Not from the horde of Nargothrond?" Legolas exclaimed in dismay. He knew Oropher's host must have passed across the very same shallows where the bloody treasure lay abandoned. "Those jewels are cursed!" He made to take the ring off but Berenaur stayed his fingers.

"Nay, nay! Not from that, Pen-rhovan, I would not give you any such thing, nor would he, I am glad to admit. Your father insists these were recovered from the carnage resulting from the war over Amon Lanc." Erestor gripped the Tawarwaith's hands between his and smiled at the wide-eyed stare focused upon him. "Now, Thranduil was trying not to indicate which ring he favoured, wanting me to choose one of my own liking, but it was impossible to hide that this particular ring meant very much to him. When I picked it from the rest, he almost cried out. Then he explained to me that he believed with absolute certainty I was meant to be your mate and not just the 'first ellon to show him any kindness', meaning you, of course, and accepted I was not just taking advantage of your loneliness, or remaining at your side due to guilt."

"He said that?" Legolas scowled. "Who is he to weigh the burdens of another's conscience? What does he know of loneliness or of love?"

"Well, perhaps more than either of us have credited him," Erestor smiled and squeezed the lean fingers then touched upon the new ring. "This belonged to his Naneth and Oropher wore it round his neck on a golden chain after her death. It was during the fighting against the Necromancer's orcs that he lost it, for he was wounded and the chain cut at the same time. Thranduil went to find it and the story goes that he very nearly took back the fallen duchy in his desire to get it. He says he does not remember all that happened; he saw an orc with a chain of gold in its hands and went mad with rage, his own words. Gladhadithen has confirmed this is the legend retold by his brothers, one of the few in which they expressed pride in Thranduil. Upon recovering his health, Oropher gave the ring over to him." Erestor paused and watched his mate's reaction carefully. "He did not wear it on his person, as had his father, but kept it among his belongings where he could see it daily. I do not think he owned anything more dear to him, yet more painful a talisman he could not possess."

"Ai Valar," Legolas turned the ring on his hand carefully; there was no break in the circle and he could see no beginning or ending, even in the sapphire ribbons. "He passes this to me; you have Oropher's bonding band and I his mate's. This is...I never thought it possible he could be so generous."

"Nor I and it may be cynical, but I think this is his way of laying claim to us both and securing our loyalty. We're part of his family now," said Erestor, no longer disturbed by the idea as he might once have been.

"It is all so strange," Legolas shook his head a bit, befuddled, "yet I cannot deny it pleases me."

"I am also pleased, for he has finally come to appreciate the qualities in you that I so deeply admire. If he had continued in his hatred, I would have been forced to remove you from Greenwood, and was not sure I could convince you to take that remedy. I only wish I had some relic from my people to give to you," Erestor's complaint was met with a mischievous grin and a quick hug.

"I have you."

"Oh, an old relic, am I?" Erestor laughed and kissed him.

"You're certainly much older than I am."

"True enough, but we are too well matched for that to matter, and in so many ways you have wisdom that far surpasses mine."

"Then you will abide with me?" Legolas queried softly, eyes on the ring instead of his mate's face, for they still had not settled this issue.

"Listen to what I say, Pen-rhovan." Erestor tipped the fair face up to meet his gaze. "I am bound to you and no other and ever shall I be. The Galadhrim warriors with whom I have shared a part of my life have no claim upon my heart in this way, and I have explained to them that they never will. As your foster-father rightly informed me, they never imagined they had. You have nothing to fear from them, as you will know when you meet them."

"Meet them?" Legolas was not so sure this was warranted.

"Aye, but only when you are amenable to it," Erestor hesitated but then decided it was as good a time as any to share the news. None of the wild elf's unusual family had braved the revelation, fearing to upset him. "Orophin and Dambethnin are to remain in Greenwood as guardians to the prince and princess. Dambethnin is the babes' surrogate mother and a better naneth they could not hope to have; she adores them."

"Oh. I see," Legolas did not know what to say. He hadn't thought he would ever have to confront Berenaur's Galadhrim lovers and it was a peculiar quirk of fate to have them become his siblings' mentors. "I am grateful if she can turn them from sorrow." It was the best he could manage; the idea was too new and too unexpected.

Erestor understood his discomfort. "If it helps you to understand, consider that they are the closest thing to family I have, Elrond and his children aside. They could not stay away once they heard of the trouble I was in. I must admit to you they were very disappointed in me until they realised my heart was utterly committed. I love them, but not as I love you, Legolas. You are nothing less than the strength of my spirit and without you I would quickly fade. Had you not been freed, we would have met again in Mandos."

Legolas shifted; this was not a notion he liked to discuss. "I will attempt to accept them as you have accepted my family," he said and looked again to the ring, glad to have a symbol of their pledge that none could refuse to acknowledge. "Why did you wait until now to give me this?"

"It is from Thranduil and I didn't want anything from him at first. I wanted to commission a new ring that would be of my own design. I didn't trust him."

"Ah," Legolas sighed and relaxed into the Noldorin Lord's arms again, glad it was only this.

"Yes. It was early days when he offered the selection and I wanted nothing to do with it. He has expressed a different side to his character since then. This war has changed him."

"It isn't the war," Legolas corrected. "His brothers are working on him, and they are not tutors to be defied. Yet, I do not believe he rebels against their instruction."

"Interesting, if rather unsettling," Erestor shrugged to ward off a shiver and held Pen-rhovan close. "I wonder, will they convince him to give up those black arts for which Wood Elves have become infamous?"

"He decided that for himself, but the weirds upon the Enchanted river will remain."

Erestor pulled back and peered in wonder at his mate. "How can you be so certain? Did he speak of it?"

"No, he speaks to me of many things but never of his unusual gifts." Legolas shook his head in wonder. "He speaks to me," he whispered and then glanced into Berenaur's calm grey eyes. "Truly, I have no proof, only a feeling."

"So be it; I trust your feeling."

They were quiet a time, content in one another's embrace, and needed no words to satisfy the peaceful moment. Then Legolas stirred and sought the seneschal's eyes again. "You will not go home, then, when your kinsmen leave for Imladris?"

"My home is here in this clearing with you, Beloved," Erestor assured him softly and kissed him. "I will come home with you when my kinsmen leave Greenwood."

"That is all I needed to hear," Legolas' joy was in his voice. He laid back against the cushions and offered himself, rosy erection exposed and inviting. "Caro mîl enni."

Erestor did so, claiming his mate with gentle urgency and devotion, and afterward Legolas fell asleep in his arms, fëa and hroa conjoined, hands entwined, hearts beating out the same contented tempo.

Seventeen years.

Legolas smoothed his palm over the supple suede tunic and slipped his fingers inside, enjoying the lavish texture of the silk lining. He ruffled the rich, thick fur of the high collar, soft and warm and velvety black, pieced from the pelts of the unique squirrels indigenous to Greenwood. It was not the most elegant tunic he'd ever owned for his Naneth had ensured he was always garbed as befitted a Sindarin prince. It was not the finest garment Thranduil had sent him, either, in these early days of his son's convalescence, these early days of discovering what it meant to be the Tawarwaith's father. Simple and severe, this tunic was the most recognisable part of a warriors uniform and an old friend much missed. His hand ran again down the front, watching the deep green hue take on a silvery sheen as he pressed the napped pile, pausing at a small mithril broach in the form of twinned arrows crossed, pinned upon it at the breast. The insignia did not announce his rank amid the Guard, which was nothing exceptional, but his status as an archer, which was the highest possible. To find it here set his soul singing.

In all of Great Greenwood there were but twelve such pins and this one was his, conferred so long ago he had all but forgotten, yet nothing once known is ever truly lost to the recollection of the First-born. Seeing it there, brushing the silvery ridges of the frozen fletching, brought the moment forward in all its solemn grace and he felt anew the strange commingling of pride and humility to be so lauded. It was not Thranduil who had pinned it there, nor Talagan, but Iarwain, reciting the tradition of the sylvan people in honouring their most accomplished warriors. A thrill ran up through his fingers and touched upon his heart, wrenching it tight until Legolas thought he might cry out. His skill had failed him only once. Just one step forward, a mere second's inattention, and four lives lost.

Nay, not four. So many more.

He was meant to be the fifth, but fate had spared him. Why weren't his four comrades spared? They were worthy soldiers as devoted to Greenwood as he, undeserving the end that claimed them, a purposeless end as it benefitted none but Meril. He could find no answer to satisfy this complaint. But for her scheming, Rochendil would have remained merely a petty antagonist too cowardly to openly accost him. But for Rochendil's carelessness amid the rocky defile, no boulders would have rained down to ruin Legolas' aim. He was convinced it was an accident, certain Rochendil would never have had the nerve to actually kill an elf, whether by covering him in an avalanche or firing an arrow into his heart. Without that misfortune, and whom may I blame for it, Shadow or the Valar? Legolas would have hit his mark and those four warriors might not have died that day.

Those deaths were not of his design nor a result of his negligence. He could perceive this so clearly now; they were never his kills to claim and he was just a small player in the scene of malicious avarice composed by Valtamar's mate, the fair sylvan maid, Meril. From four casualties the total increased dramatically when the heaving earth destroyed the village and killed so many innocents. He had to add these people to the count, for had he never been banished then he would not have antagonised the Wraiths and then maybe Shadow would have no cause to rend Greenwood so horribly. Then followed in quick succession Gildin's agonised demise, Malthen's final sacrifice, Rochendil's complete annihilation, and Meril's suicide. Last of all, Lindalcon's blood poured over the conflagration ignited in Erebor that day and finally quenched its destructive fury.

Seventeen years filled with violence and destruction.

It was a minute segment of time, insufficient to grow a child to adulthood, a blink and a breath compared to the centuries his life contained before the Judgement, yet more than sufficient to rock the Woodland Realm to its very foundations. Those few years had become magnified far beyond their true length, dwarfing the rest of his history, drawn out and extended into experiences that seemed too much for one person, too harrowing, too intense to be fit within even an Age of years. He had lived another lifetime in those seventeen sun-rounds, replacing a life defined by mental misery, isolation, and suffering of the heart with one comprised of grinding physical torture, deepening sorrow, and relentless terror; a life from which he had not escaped until Lindalcon's ghostly visitation scarcely a month gone by, delivered at last from the first and the second into this fragile new reality.

In it he would live a third life, the one he should have had from birth, and in it he would be honoured and loved; part of a family in the truest sense of the word. He still feared what effect the loss of Meril would have upon his siblings, but for this he would not shoulder responsibility. He had done all in his power to prevent her part coming to light. Like all other turns of fate, his will and any action born of it proved ineffectual, and this was a truth he was forced to recognise. If they should fade, then no good was to be gleaned from all this wretchedness and misery. He could not bear even to imagine it; the burden of the children's doom must be carried by another heart. Legolas did not envy Thranduil's internal torment through the years to come, ever watchful, ever fearful that he would lose them either to grieving or to Darkness.

Nay, he will not; I will set myself a new Task and preserve their tender spirits from the Shadow of the past.

No sooner had he laid aside responsibility than he snatched it back up in defiance of all he had just determined. Legolas scowled grimly; perhaps this was a lesson requiring additional years to solidify. He inhaled a deep breath and let it go, relaxing his hands where they gripped the leather so tight they'd left marks. He would not brood on this and focused on the events ahead. He caressed the pliant suede and permitted himself a smile. He had never thought to be holding this garment again; he had never believed he would survive the Judgement. He had not wished to live and considered the moment when that had changed, eyes flickering to Berenaur, the seneschal busy setting the talan to rights so to give him this time to himself. Solitude had always been his constant companion and Berenaur accepted his need for mental separation. Or perhaps he needs time, too. That caused him a brief flash of fear; what was Berenaur thinking about right now? Were his thoughts also plagued with grim regrets? As though called, the seneschal turned to check on him, love and concern plain in his eyes, and Legolas' heart turned over. They shared a smile, Berenaur resumed his chores, and Legolas once more turned his attention to the future in his hands.

It was a moment to relish, a victory to celebrate rather than waste wallowing in somber introspection, except it was also a solemn moment deserving his utmost respect. Not in all the years of exile had he worn the Greenwood's colours or donned the uniform of the King's Guard, the severe garment that had defined him nearly all his adult life. Yet, it was a partial, incomplete expression and only after it was stripped from him, his sole claim to rank and honour, that he learned the truth lodged deep in the core of his being. So much had been taken, so much lost in the need to fulfil the Tasks, so much discarded in the effort to survive, and he'd wondered in the emptiness of those lonely years what part of himself remained? Was there anything left of the internal concept that encompassed his notion of Legolas? He sighed, at peace with it now, the truth manifest in the solid mithril contours of that badge of honour. Never once during those seventeen years had his bow rested or his service lapsed. He had not changed at all, and yet he was completely transformed.

It is over.

His heart gave a thunderous lunge and an explosion of bright jubilation coursed through him. Time had moved on and carried him with it until now he was here, Hecilo no more, exonerated and forgiven, loved and beloved and soul-bound to his mate: the Tawarwaith, about to be crowned Greenwood's prince and Thranduil's heir. He fumbled the closures open, eager now to feel the suede against his skin, to claim this new reality, manipulating buttons cast in gold and moulded in the insignia of Oropher's House, the House of the Beeches, and then his fingers froze. The fifth button was different. He gaped at the small metal disc, lips parting in surprise and delight; the remaining five were cast in the seal of his mother's people. A harsh breath left him and he sucked it back in fast, earning instantaneous attention from Berenaur.

"What is it?" Erestor sat beside him and reached a protective arm round bare and bony shoulders. He met blue eyes awash in diffident pride as Legolas held up the tunic.

"Nay, nothing, just my uniform." Legolas showed him. "It never had these before." He laid it upon Berenaur's lap with almost reverent care. "My Nana was Greenwood's Queen. Did I tell you that?"

"No," Erestor smiled and tightened his hold a little, "but neither had you need to. I met her often in Lorien." He touched on the simple design deeply etched into the metal: a swallow in flight. "She was Nandorin; is this the mark of her people?"

"Aye, she is Danwaith," Legolas corrected softly and sighed, resting his head against Berenaur's as he thought on her, her laughing smile and vibrant eyes watching over him on a summer's morn when he was but a child. "Those were the best days," he murmured and smiled as he was hugged, a kiss pressed against his hair. He did not ask what the seneschal thought of her; he didn't want to know anything about her years in the Golden Wood. He did not want his fond memories of her tainted, having ample recollections of her self-indulgent and contentious personality.

Erestor hugged him again and fingered the heavy leather tunic with its high furred collar. This was a dress uniform meant for state occasions and court functions, newly stitched and tailored to fit Legolas' reduced physique, but the change in the buttons was a surprise. "It could not be Thranduil who ordered this," he said, deciding Feafaron had conspired with the tailor. He could see what the garment meant to his mate and the recognition of his sylvan heritage clearly pleased him.

"No, but Thranduil will not correct my adoptive father's consideration. He'll be too busy amending my disinheritance and will do it with the most pretentious and majestic pomp he can order up. They argued about it incessantly," Legolas stated, "at the utmost height of their vocal capacity. Nana demanding the elevation on the day of my majority as was the custom, Thranduil denying it in vicious and contemptuous insults, everyone listening. Elrond's foul deceit destroyed even the pretence of civility between them and ruined me. Today I will have my vindication and I want him there; I want him to see the crown placed upon my brow." He paused and bent to retrieve a sleeveless silk undershirt from the stack of clothes and pulled it over his head, needing a moment before he could confront Berenaur's troubled visage. "Is that petty and spiteful?"

"Nay," Erestor shook his head, but quickly averted his eyes. What he thought of Legolas confronting Elrond was not positive, but he preferred not to argue. He was determined to support whatever Legolas wanted and keep his fears to himself. A soft laugh drew his gaze back to the Wood Elf and Legolas reached out to him; the seneschal took the hand so offered and returned a bemused smile.

"Is this how it's to be, then?" Legolas queried. "Whatsoever I wish, just so shall it be done?"

Now Erestor's smile grew warm and he rubbed his thumb over the calluses on the deadly digits. "Aye, for a time at least; if it's in my power. I feel there's room for compromise on my part since you've conceded to my will concerning duty in the patrols."

"Aye." Legolas moved back into Berenaur's arms. "I will abide by that for love of you." He was content to remain thus for a time and absorbed the seneschal's tender devotion in silence. Then he sat up, turning for a small kiss, and clasped his hand over Berenaur's so their rings touched with a gentle percussion; the vibration echoed through their souls.

The seneschal raised the rings and kissed them. He began straightening the undershirt, tightening the lacing at either side, watching Legolas closely for any sign of distress. The simple task gave him a deep sense of contentment and purpose that he couldn't entirely quantify. He felt this humble task marked the dawn of their life beginning, their life as mated spouses, the future a shared experience, everything they might undertake henceforth irrevocably entwined. It hardly seemed plausible and Erestor marvelled at it; could they truly have a normal life together? Hope and love silently shouted not just assent but an adamant demand for nothing less. As his heart revealed glimpses of the days ahead, Erestor prayed they would be as filled with peace and joy and glorious love-making and squabbles over chores and duties and what to have for dinner and all the everyday things that spent time and defined life.

"Elo, Legolas! Gwethim!" (Behold, Legolas! We are bound!) he whispered and Legolas smiled.

"Aye. Gwethim, Berenaur."

Erestor discovered he was quite excited to play out the end of this relentless tragedy and said so, holding out the tunic. "I confess my anticipation to seeing you crowned, Arâtâ Kundû. It is high time your inherent dignity and majesty were acknowledged. Besides, Elrond has great need to be reminded of just how far he has fallen. If he is ever to be redeemed, he must first acknowledge his need for it."

"I want him to see that his plot has failed," rejoined Legolas, inserting his arms through the sleeves. "I don't care about his redemption." He turned away slightly as though to conceal his wrath, but it was smothered at once in a tight crush as Berenaur grabbed him close and held him, murmured cautions in his ear and kissed its delicate point tenderly.

"You say so now, but I know you," warned Erestor. "There is something about him you don't understand yet, but you will see it when you look upon his face today. Then you will be moved to pity, but you must not offer clemency. Elrond is at the heart of the greatest crime against you." Erestor smoothed his hand up and down the Tawarwaith's back, counting the ridges of his spine silently so to dull the anger in his tone. He did not want to upset Legolas, but he would not hide his outrage over this. "What Malthen did to you should never have happened and would not have happened except for the choice so many made to shun you." It was more than that; he was sure of it, certain that someone in the stronghold must have known what was happening and kept quiet out of malicious spite.

"Aye," Legolas said quietly and heaved a disconsolate sigh. "I loved him so, Berenaur."

"I know it," Erestor whispered, heart contracting over the forlorn anguish in that simple admission. "There is no wrong in love given and received and it was not your morality that failed, but his. Even though you love him still, I would have him suffer what you suffered, alone in the wilds of this blighted land, left to his wits and whatever mercy Vairë might chance to extend his way." He pulled back and searched the watery blue eyes. "Is that petty or spiteful?"

"No," Legolas stated firmly, grateful for this forthright testament to the seneschal's devotion. "He is in Mandos, Beloved, there to remain many Ages yet to pass. His last words uttered were to warn me of danger, his last act one of sacrifice that I might escape capture. I am torn over it, for had he not revealed that threat I would surely have been caught then and Lindalcon would not. The Wraiths cared nothing about him: how could they having no knowledge of his existence? There was no reason to take him prisoner but for me. They knew, somehow, that I loved him as my brother, though I still don't understand that part. I only know for certainty that Lindalcon would be alive now had Malthen failed. I don't understand why fate continually intervenes and spares me in favour of others just as worthy, if not more so."

"Ai, Legolas!" Erestor was disturbed to hear these words and comprehend their horrendous irony. They did not speak of Lindalcon or of anything to do with Legolas' captivity and the seneschal was uneasy to realise his mate obviously thought about it often. Did he choose not to speak because he knew Erestor hadn't the stomach to hear? "These are things you should not be worrying over in your inner heart. These are things you should be free to express to me."

"I am expressing them," said Legolas, "and meant no complaint against your care for me. I cannot talk about it much or often, but this is a day for remembering and my heart will have its wounds cleansed and salved even as the lacerations and lashes covering my body. Ah, that reminds me," he added and stood, moving to the chest against the trunk of the great tree. Inside was his old pack and he lifted it out, bringing it back to the bench which he straddled, facing Berenaur. They shared a look of suspenseful hope and then he smiled, opening the weather-worn leather, and removed from its depths the blood-stained scourge. "I am done with this souvenir," he announced sombrely and held it out.

Erestor's heart gave a heavy thud and his stomach rolled. It was such a hideous thing and that Legolas had used it to punish himself was one of the most disturbing consequences of the Judgement. He took it with a solemn nod and rose, leaning out to open the door of the grate and shove the vile thing inside. The flames rose up and enfolded it within a burst of yellow and orange heat and the tangy stench of burning hide filled his nostrils. He sat and gathered Legolas to him and together they watched the fire consume the scourge. It did not take long and they inhaled and released identical breaths of relief when only the wooden core of the handle remained, flickering with rosy light.

The seneschal met the stalwart gaze of the Tawarwaith and felt his spirit swell with admiration verging on awe. He bracketed the fair face between his hands and pressed his forehead against the smooth brow, then bent his head and kissed pliant lips that were smiling as they opened to him. He took his time to savour the moment, letting his heart relish the blessing it had received and quail at how nearly it had been stolen away. Slowly he relinquished his beloved Pen-rhovan and sat back, caressed rose-streaked cheeks, met the indigo eyes that had seen right to core of his being that very first day in the forest. "I don't know if you understand how proud I am, Pen-rhovan, how humbled and simultaneously how exalted your love has made me. I am not even the same person anymore; I am so much the better, so improved, so…"

"So pretentious!" laughed Legolas, desiring to lighten the mood and ease his mate's struggle between guilt and gratitude. "You were brought here because we were meant to be together, nothing else. Now help me finish dressing, Hervenn nín."

"Gladly," Erestor said and stood. "It pleases me to see you wear such fine clothes."

"Ai! They already itch and I've next to nothing on," Legolas complained.

"Then, once this is over, I will just as happily divest you of them."

"That is a promise to carry me through this day."

"We do not have to go."

"We must, though I am concerned about seeming to be frail and weak. Well, I am, but would not put this wreckage on open display. As to facing him, I have no qualms and will show Elrond no mercy. In any case, it is not for me to decide. The Council of Elders have no jurisdiction, either, nor will the wizards intervene. Not even Lord Celeborn will beseech the King's lenity for his law-son. It is Thranduil who will determine Elrond's fate today. In a way, I already pity him, and I am saddened that his sons have to endure this trial. They have been only kind to me."

"Aye, I wish they could be spared," Erestor agreed. He took up the nut-brown leggings, eased them onto the Tawarwaith's legs, gentle with the wasted calves and the healing bones. "No one is going to think you weak or fragile. Wounded, ill from poisonous infections, yes, but none will think less of you for that." He stood and brought Legolas upright, too, raised the garment over small clothes snuggly fitted over a leaner, less-rounded rump, gently eased the covered, half-hard erection to the left , closed the laces, and patted the small lump lovingly. Legolas did the same to his mate's rather more prominent bump and they snickered with devilish delight.

"Later," Legolas promised and Erestor grinned.

The Noldorin Lord stepped back for room and with steady fingers did up the buttons of the uniform from bottom to top, calling forth as he did a princely image of Legolas he had never imagined, so proud and austere and nobel. The clothing fit his reduced frame well and minimised the severity of his long illness, even with his hair so shortened and sparse. He bent to collect an emerald sash faced in deep maroon satin, the inner colour a faint nod to the Tawarwaith's link to Eärendil's House, and wound it round Legolas' narrow hips, knotting it to the left; the fringed end swayed against the sylvan's thigh just above the knee. Next, he retrieved a belted long knife, another gift; this one sent by the Spirits of the Gates and chosen specifically by Legolas' uncles from among the hoard in Thranduil's vaults, though none but the King knew that. Like everything Legolas wore today, Thranduil had sent it over. The blade had belonged to their Naneth and was nearly sacred to the three brothers. No better veneration could this weapon know than to aid the defence of their Tawarwaith.

Erestor seated the scabbard amid the folds of the emerald sash and secured it there with a leather tie. Last of all, he knelt again to the floor as Legolas sat and together they completed the toilet with fine silk hose and elegant new boots. Then Erestor stood and helped Legolas stand, held onto his hand and backed away a pace to observe the effect, eyes travelling up and down in wonder over the transformation revealed, and he smiled, pleased beyond the need of words to convey it. Legolas stood before him no longer an outcast but an equal, his match in stature and station, his better in dignity, courage, and grace. Seeing this, Legolas held himself taller and lifted his chin, eyes alight with love and wonder.

"Ready?" Erestor asked and at Legolas' nod led him down to the main level of the flet. There he draped the panther-skin cape about Legolas' shoulders and pinned it with Oropher's ruby broach, Hûn-en-Ûr, opening the trap as Legolas spoke.

"Nay, I cannot go forth without my bow."

"No more would we permit it."

The voice came from below and Legolas looked down to find Fearfaron waiting there, Gladhadithen beside him, struck speechless in teary joy to behold him, and Aragorn grinning as only a human can do when fate shows itself right and true. The Man was holding as fine a harness as any the archer had ever seen and with it a weapon he knew well: Oropher's war bow, the same he had stolen so many years ago in his youth. He made haste to get down to the ground and was not surprised to find the glade filled with warriors arranged quietly in ranks across the snow-bound path, all presenting stern and serious countenances as befitted the Royal Guard, yet their rigid posture radiated nervous anticipation, respect, and guilty shame. He knew them; every one of them fine warriors with whom he had served over years uncounted, but not before this day could he name even one true friend among them. As his eyes grazed among them and caught on individual faces, their eyes pleaded absolution before dropping away, heads dipping in deference. Legolas gave them nothing; if they would serve him such was a boon they had yet to earn.

Fearfaron came forward, taking the quiver from Aragorn, and faced his adopted child. "You will allow this, Ion-edwen. It should be done by blood kin, perhaps, but we have shared a kinship of spirit superior to that in many ways. Even if it is not so, permit a sentimental old soul to render you this honour in remittance for the shame I once cast upon you."

"I do permit it and the kinship is true. You will always be my Ada," Legolas answered, finding the words stung his eyes and seared his heart. He stood still and let the carpenter strap the harness on and when it was done their eyes met, each one smiling with unhidden love. Legolas set his hand over his heart, careful to make sure the new ring was on display, and bowed. "I can never repay you."

"Nay, you have done so," Fearfaron insisted, his smile broadening at the fair and ancient band, and did the same. "It is I who stand in your debt." He reached for Legolas' hand and held it within his, sighing faintly as he traced the blue strands.

"I am sorry about Analdir's ring," Legolas said. "I…I lost track of it in that terrible place."

"Nay, be at peace over it; I am beyond content for I have both my sons back."

"Legolas, mellon!" Aragorn could restrain himself no longer and hurried forward to grasp the archer's arm in warrior salute, laughing and nodding his approval to see him advancing toward a recovery none had thought possible a short time ago.

"Aragorn," Legolas began, but could not manage more.

"Oh, come here!" cried Gladhadithen, truly weeping, and wrapped him in a tearful, careful embrace, mindful of all that the formal uniform obscured. "I know you will not heed my warnings about over-extending yourself, so just promise not try my skill so severely ever again, Ernilen." she exhorted as she stepped back.

"You have my word; he will confine himself to regular patrols henceforth; no more Tasks." It was Erestor who answered, Legolas unable to master the emotion evoked by the love in her voice and the dignity in the title she so readily uttered. Behind her the soldiers murmured agreement, professing the same promise. Then the glade filled with tense, expectant silence that held for a handful of heartbeats, giving way to the brusque vocalisation of military severity.

"Nîbe ornâ!" The command rang through the clearing and the collected warriors snapped to strict attention, all eyes on Legolas. "Maktâ; Anta Kwinga!" As one the soldiers affirmed their allegiance and raised their bows high, a single shout of approbation echoing against the surrounding trees. The captain calling the orders moved out from the group and took the bow from Aragorn's hands, approached the Tawarwaith, and bowed low as he presented the weapon. "An le, Ernilen."

Legolas accepted it with hesitant, cautious hands as the warrior stood tall, smiling, none other than Thôn-golf, he who had offered his service to the Tawarwaith first after the lifting of the Judgement in Thranduil's court. Legolas gave him a crooked smile and cocked a brow. "Now, how came you to bring me this?" he asked, holding up the ancient weapon. "Surely Aran Thranduil did not bid you remove it from its place of glory?"

"I took the liberty and took it," grinned Thôn-golf. "We will call it a test of our King to see whether he honours our commitment to Oropher's true heir or not. But whatever he may do, we are yours, Tawarwaith." His troop responded in kind.

"Aye, if you permit it."

"Whether you will or no, no other will we serve."

"No other will we follow!"

"An Erin Galen a Tawarwaith!" They cried as one and then fell silent again, aware of the critical examination with which their chosen Lord evaluated them.

"I am not Thranduil, seeking an army of my own, nor am I inclined to respond to flattery and false praise. If your words are inspired by genuine regard, then I am honoured. I serve Tawar and all that name encompasses; if you do the same we will suit each other well," he said calmly and was pleased as the import of these words was evident in the eyes trained upon him. Again he moved his sight from face to face and this time not a one fell away, each eager to have him read the truth in their souls and the sincerity of their hearts. Legolas gave Thôn-golf a faint smile and a brief nod, and the captain wheeled to command the prince's honour guard.

"Staknâ atata!" he shouted and the warriors divided, forming two equal columns and an aisle in the snow, revealing at its end a solitary ellon. Tall and silver haired and regal in bearing, he was engaged in the humble task of a groom, leading a mare to receive her mount, the same horse bedecked in satin and bells Legolas had ridden once before.

The Tawarwaith stared; he did not know this person, but suspected who it might be, and the horse was a welcomed friend. Tuilinn tossed her head and reached her muzzle forward as the pair halted, and he stroked her nose as he greeted the warrior. "Mae govannen, mellon. A sylvan not of my lands can only hail from Taur Vallen. You can only be Haldir."

"Well met, Hiren; I am indeed March Warden of Lorien." He pressed his hand over his heart and bowed low. "My Lord Celeborn bids me escort you to the stronghold in his stead, for he cannot leave his kinsman, your father, Aran Thranduil. Pray allow this substitution and grant me this honour, though by no right is it mine to ask." He straightened and met astonished blue eyes, then spared a quick glance to Aragorn for he must share his amazement over the progress of the healing. When he met Legolas' gaze again he found an expression of sorrow bent upon him that made his heart falter and he dropped his eyes.

"You are the one who tried to counsel my brother Lindalcon," Legolas said and reached out to settle his hand on the warrior's shoulder. "I would that he had listened to you, but it was not to be. I thank you for the effort you made to save him."

"Nay, no thanks are needed, Hiren," Haldir replied, gingerly returning the gesture, a peculiar aversion to touching the archer invading his nerves. The very hand upon his shoulder had loosed that lethal dagger and lay heavily on his heart. He was not yet prepared to love Legolas, but neither were his feelings a consequence of anger. He was surprised to find his reticence akin to that which prevented him from touching the Lady. "I did not know you were aware."

"Word reached me through a mutual friend," Legolas smiled and sent his own wry glance to the Man, removing his hand. "I am glad to look upon your countenance, Haldir, but I am not your Lord. Call me Legolas."

"I will do so on any other day but this," Haldir lied as he stepped back. "You are my Lord's kinsman and a Lord in your own right, and on this day all here will acknowledge your rank and status among our people, Ernilen."

"Nasan," Legolas replied and looked round him at all these folk gathered to do him honour, missing his Naneth's haughty smile of proud approval, wishing Lindalcon could be here to see this day. He inhaled a steadying breath and nodded solemnly, "So be it."

Then Erestor came and gave his mate a leg up onto the mare and the procession began, Haldir leading, Aragorn and Gladhadithen next, the seneschal guiding the mare at Legolas side, and the warriors closing ranks round them all. They made their way in silence through the lofty ring of wintering trees.

A handful of people stood in scattered clusters, talking in quiet voices of the recent war and the losses suffered, recalling in kind previous conflicts endured over the long Ages lived in Greenwood. They spoke of the final journey over the mountains and across the expanse of Eriador to Mithlond, and the fearsome fickleness of Ossë and the sea awaiting them. They shared hopeful reassurance of the beauty and peace in the land beyond the hardship, of kin and family waiting there, of the end of war and violence and Shadow. These were sombre thoughts spoken in melancholy tones for none liked the idea that the time foe leaving was ever closer, and they wondered what manner of trees resided in Aman and whether there was anything resembling the protecting Spirit of Tawar in them. Sooner or later the question was asked: would Legolas leave them or would he stay?

Their muted chatter ceased abruptly and every head turn toward the trees. Silently they shared proud smiles that acknowledged the courage on display, the raw invincibility of their wrecked and ravaged Tawarwaith, for Legolas sat straight upon the mare, victorious despite the atrocities endured. Hooded and cloaked, fitted for war yet garbed in fine regalia suitable only for a formal event, this vision of Legolas evoked a memory of a time that had never been, a glimpse of life stopped and stalled, frozen in all its intricate detail, an entire reality rolled up and stored away until circumstances permitted its viability. Like a dormant vine comes to flower, so their prince at last emerged from the beleaguered warrior who had served Tawar all the days of his life. In solemn accord, the sylvan folk formed an aisle between them and knelt as the entourage passed, heads lowered and eyes downcast, and no word did they speak.

Legolas gazed upon them, his features grim and stern for he had no energy to spare for pleasantries or pardons, and the pain was great. Berenaur was right; he should not have attempted this excursion; he was not well and his strength was ebbing away. Every step Tuilelindo took jarred his battered body and sent shooting tendrils of misery coursing through his chest and back. Every inch of him hurt. He was a fool, so easily manipulated by Thranduil, the most tentative offers of respect and kindness sufficient to gain his participation in this farce. The crowning would only serve the King and increase his support among his previously divided subjects. What could it mean to Legolas? He was not going to remain in the stronghold and learn statecraft from his father. Such would fall to Taurant in the days ahead. For the Tawarwaith, there could be only one destiny and it did not reside in these cavernous halls.

The arched portal loomed and he inhaled deeply. Tuilelindo halted to let him dismount. Berenaur's hand squeezed his calf and he looked down to find much worry and a faint expression of annoyance on the seneschal's face. He had to smile. "You may now say 'I tried to warn you'."

"Nay, it's an excellent idea and I would see you honoured, but the timing is all wrong," Erestor returned the rueful smile. "Better to have waited a few more weeks."

"Aye." Legolas fought the desire to lie upon the mare's neck and rest, discovering his hands clenched tightly in the fibres of her mane.

"Let her carry you forth," Aragorn suddenly said, equally dismayed to see the exhaustion in the pale blue eyes, the tight lines of strain around that stubborn mouth and chin. "The caverns are more than ample to allow her passage."

"Yes, it must be so or I will order the event cancelled, which I should have done in the first place," complained Gladhadithen. Legolas had a way of overriding her best intentions for his care. It was just too hard to deny him anything when he had suffered so much.

"Excellent solution," agreed Feafaron and motioned to the guards to advance and clear the way, for the numbers crammed into the main corridor were immense, their murmuring and muttering a droning song of glorious outrage and gloating disgust.

Thon-gôlf scowled at the agitated crowd. "Make way!" he called and the people turned to see him there, a lone silhouette framed in the portal, and some moved to comply while others were loath to give up their positions, still waiting to pay their rough disrespects to their enemy. "Stand back and give way before the Tawarwaith!" the captain shouted, angry to meet even the least resistance, and his displeasure inspired his warriors to express their agreement in more physical terms. They pushed the people back and pressed them against the walls of the corridor, herding the bulk ahead of them toward the open doors of the throne room. Loud was the outcry against this abuse but there was no recourse and soon enough all who had exited the hall were back in it, scattering now to take the best positions in the galleries so to behold their champion's elevation.

The sound of the mare's hooves on the polished tiles was strange, echoing in the space only faintly for their were so many bodies ready to absorb the noise. No voices spoke, not a foot moved, but every eye watched the approach of the King's son. None could miss the strain this short journey entailed and yet everyone felt relief and smiles reforming their worried faces, for during the years of banishment Legolas had more often returned to them unconscious, borne in by comrades, just bare half-steps beyond the pursuit of death. They bowed their heads as he met their eyes, bobbing bows and curtsies that were awkward in the confined and narrow area.

Legolas gazed upon them, glad he had come now, glad to see all the people welcoming him, awaiting him. He did not recall the cold shunning, the open disgust and abhorrence with which they had once regarded him. He was eager to forget that, to be accepted, appreciated and included, to be one of them at last. The folk followed the will of their Lord and it was upon Thranduil the blame for their hatred must rest. Most had not despised him, he knew, but could not master the fear that befriending him would earn them similar scorn and exclusion. It was easier to accept the common view and try to go on with life, that was all. Now they could see him clearly, outside the shadow cast by Elrond's cruel lies, and perceived that he had always been one of them, always their Tawarwaith. They loved him, and if he was aware of their easily shifted loyalties, he was more cognisant that such flaws could be removed by diligence and the proper example. He was a Wood Elf and these were his people; he loved them.

Long as this massive corridor was, Tuilelindo's steady step naturally crossed it without delay and soon enough they were before the open doors. There a shifting in the masses lined along the way revealed a figure cowering in the corner, naked, his pale skin dotted with spittle and linty dust. His hair hung down before his lowered face as he squatted on the floor, hands clasped together in supplication before him. Legolas stared, uncertain at first, then shared an aghast look with Berenaur. The seneschal gave back a stern admonishment and a shake of his head. He did not want his kinsman to have the satisfaction of trading words with Legolas and gaining his sympathy. All of this the archer understood and returned his sight to the diminished Lord, remembering the abuse of the healer's gift to hurt him.

What kind of person, when offered shelter, compassion, and the comfort of shared pleasure, accepts those gifts only to reject the person who presented them? He remembered thinking it was because of something terrible in himself that everyone else could see except him. He felt again first the hurt and surprise and then the shame and humiliation this rejection promoted. He had not condemned the healer even then, though angry and mortified, he had believed this treatment was his due. Such was the pattern of his life and while he had never understood it, neither had he found means to challenge it. It was Berenaur who taught him that there was nothing inherently bad in him, that the hatred and disgust heaped on him even before his birth was not for wrongs he had done or the presence of evil in his essence, despised for the fact of his existence. All of that was the design of Elrond and he had come to Greenwood at last to see his handiwork and gloat over it, to complete Legolas' destruction and send him to Mandos.

No, Legolas would not permit this person to plead forgiveness from him. That was something Elrond would need to earn, and the archer could not imagine what deeds might garner such a boon. He urged his mount to move on and smiled down at Berenaur's soft sigh, registered the consoling pat upon his leg from Fearfaron and shared his resolution with the carpenter, too. Yet at the threshold of the throne room he halted the mare.

"I will walk," he said quietly, eyes on Berenaur, and received a confirming nod even as the seneschal's hands reached to help him down. It was painful, the injured leg protesting sharply, and he leaned heavily on the Noldorin Lord, but together they entered the throne room.

The silence was incomplete and the people watched him avidly, shifting against one another to have a better view, but none spoke and no outcry of approbation arose. Legolas felt their scrutiny and scanned the sea of faces, glad to find nothing of the animosity generally exhibited toward him. Thranduil stood in solemn severity beside the platform and Celeborn came down, too, giving Legolas an evaluation that was all of concern, his cool grey eyes showing nothing but respect. The Twins bowed low and Aragorn, Fearfaron, and Haldir joined them. Gladhadithen hovered close behind the halting step of the seneschal and the Tawarwaith, ready to assist should he need her aid, and for Legolas the scene was complete, save for one person's absence. He sighed; it could not be helped. He stopped before Thranduil and met the monarch's sombre gaze.

"So. You are ready to do this?" Legolas asked, and he did not mean the coronation so much as the change in their conduct toward one another henceforth.

"I am, as I have told you already," Thranduil dipped his head to obscure the need to break from that clear blue stare. He was so much like Ningloriel in face and form, but so like Oropher in the spirit.

"For the children," Legolas nodded, unable to cover the film of disappointment that coated the phrase.

"Yes, but not only for them," Thranduil countered. "It is for me as much as them, and for you. It feels right and good to reverse the wrongs done to my family. Now, let us put aside unpleasant thoughts and celebrate this day instead."

So saying, he took Legolas from Erestor, carefully and with a quick check to be sure the Noldorin Lord would behave, and led him toward the low step. Celeborn flanked the Tawarwaith's other side and also grasped him gently at the biceps; together they half lifted him onto the dais and then Celeborn moved to retrieve the crown, a circlet of woven mithril entwined with spruce and fir. He carried this to Thranduil and then, keeping one hand on Legolas' shoulder, the King addressed his people.

"I am glad of all the witnesses here to observe this ceremony. You have all seen the way that my son was scorned and reviled by me, by all of us, because we believed the lies of an unscrupulous Lord. So much strife and sorrow imposed upon us from outside when we have so much with which to contend under the eaves of Greenwood. Yet, we are fortunate, myself most of all, for generally what is lost cannot be regained. Such is the reality of our life here. Elo! I have my elder son returned to me and in shame must admit that I believed an outlander before I would credit my own wife. It is a sin I will be long in correcting, but I am pleased to have the burden for I might have lost Legolas forever to Shadow long years ago. Eru has preserved him for me and for Greenwood. Now we will acknowledge him and honour him as Greenwood's prince and the Heir of Oropher, my father."

Thranduil took the crown from Celeborn's hands and faced Legolas, and between them passed a long moment, a shared recollection of the King's pronouncement of Judgement in the humble house of healing in Lake Town. Seldom in Greenwood's history had those words been spoken and Thranduil had never uttered them until that day. He recalled the bitterness with which he had announced them and the horror that grew in Legolas' eyes as they filled the air and revoked what little distinction he had garnered for his skill and service to the Woodland Realm. It occurred to Thranduil that such a punishment was more horrible for Legolas than the tortures of the Wraiths, for those abuses did not seep into the spirit and negate his very nature. The penitent father did not look away though he was sorely tempted to do so, but he would not deny the cruelty in which he had engaged and hoped only for Legolas to know he regretted his actions. Even as he thought this, Legolas' eyes lost their wary distrust and smiled, and Thranduil was stunned to see it, felt his own lips turning upwards in kind. He reached fro the circlet to find his kinsman pleased and expectant, an encouraging nod accompanying the crown's change of hands, and Thranduil felt that finally he was about to do something his father would approve.

"In the ancient days in the land of Beleriand, Oropher dwelled with his kin in the forest of Neldoreth. He was good and wise and loyal to the King of Doriath, obeying the laws of the land and the policies of Thingol. A time came when Oropher deemed the King was corrupted and he made ready to leave, taking with him all who wished to return to the ways of the Telerin people since the awakening: a life of community, of mutual support and cooperation between all the living things beneath the trees. We returned to Greenwood where we had left our kin before the rising of Ithil and Anor. We were welcomed here and Oropher became King so to watch over Tawar and the sylvan folk of the woods.

"He found here a mighty realm long-lived and undefeated. He discovered a people with tenacious spirits and undying fortitude, and their acceptance was a great honour for him and for me. Willingly he gave his life for the greater good, as so many of our people have done, but before then he embraced traditions that honoured the best of Greenwood's defenders, adopting these customs as his own. Among them is the elevation of the first-born male of every clan on the day of his Col-o-Gwedh, for the demands of a warrior are many and the danger inherent in such efforts more often lethal, and it is right to honour those who would relinquish life that others should live. For my Adar's sake, the sylvan folk of this realm, desired a means to acknowledge the first-born as the princes of the realm, and he permitted this for love of you, though he did not enjoy the separation such an action caused between him and his people. So it came to pass that my elder brother was so honoured.

"We all know the result of our efforts to aid in the destruction of Shadow. We all know how many were lost to us then. We all now how difficult was the struggle to heal and rebuild. In the midst of this strife, a joyful event occurred and I announced the conception of a son and heir for Greenwood." Thranduil set one hand upon Legolas shoulder and drew him closer. "I denied him his identity and you ratified my decision, treating him with the same scorn and hatred. I denied him the right of elevation when he came of age. Now we amend that error." He turned to face Legolas and held the crown aloft.

"Legolas of Greenwood, first-born of Ningloriel, I name you our rightful prince as my first-born son and Oropher's Heir. Should my life be spent in defence of this realm, you shall become the lawful and chosen Lord to take up the responsibility of ruling these people. Until that day, we will rule side by side, our work in concert with the efforts of all our folk. Thus, let your primary concerns be of service to the people and preservation of the forest and all the life therein. Let your actions be governed by respect for the citizens and for the leaders who have come before you, not the least my father, Oropher, who loved this place as though he had been born beneath Greenwood's boughs. Let this crown elevate your spirit sufficiently to gain the deeper perspective required to govern with justice, integrity, and courage."

He set the circlet on Legolas' brow and stepped back, bowing low, hand atop his breast as the hall erupted in a deafening roar of affirmation, ratifying his decree with a wild outpouring of cheers and praises. These were all the words the ceremony demanded, but he was not finished and the peoples' applause was cut short as Celeborn strode forward and held up his hands, imploring restraint, for he knew what his kinsman desired. Thranduil stood straight and gazed upon his subjects, sweeping the throng and meeting the eyes of many, sharing with them the importance of his next pronouncement, and the sylvans hushed in solemn expectation for his words. Thranduil spoke:

"Let it be known that even without the crown, though demeaned and reviled all of his life, given no cause to defend or serve either me or you or this realm, the virtues I have just recounted have always defined my son's actions. No recognition from me is required to acknowledge the Tawarwaith, the true guardian of the forest and the voice of Tawar. I am the one honoured to see my son accept and adhere to such a ponderous fate, and I am humbled before him." Thranduil again reached for Legolas, guiding him forward and presenting him to the people. "All hail Legolas of Greenwood, the Tawarwaith!" he cried and the cavern resounded with a thousand voices shouting Legolas' name in joyous gratitude and boundless pride.

Legolas smiled and let them continue for a time, though he was weary and wanted Berenaur at his side. The he raised his hand and instantly every raucous voice fell silent, every eye peered in reverent query.

"I accept this honour with a full heart," he began and touched the circlet. "I did not ask for this destiny or this crown, and while I am glad to be named your prince, I cannot take from my brother the right to rule. I cannot be Oropher's Heir, for my duty will always be attuned to removing the curse of Shadow from our home and returning Greenwood to its rightful glory." He unclasped the fabled gem upon the panther cloak and handed both to his father, who gazed in thanks that was tinged with surprise. "I am Tawarwaith first and your prince second," he said, "and was not made to govern from a royal throne but to uproot Darkness and the power that feeds it."

"Perhaps, yet today you are our prince."

This impertinent rejoinder drew every eye to its author and Legolas looked to find Fearfaron smiling, happier than he had beheld him since the death of Analdir. He motioned him forward and the carpenter came up, taking him by the arm and guiding him to the elaborately carved seat and its many furs and cushions. There he settled his adopted child and sighed with contentment; he could leave now with no fears for the Tawarwaith's future. Abruptly he leaned close and hugged the archer, whispering words of devotion, and behind them the people clamoured their approval. Then Legolas let him go and watched the lanky ellon resume his place beside Aragorn, and gazed upon his friends, warmed to see such open delight upon their faces. Finally his eyes fell on Berenaur and at once the seneschal joined him, but before he took Legolas in his arms he fell upon his knees and raised the archer's bow hand, kissing the ring that graced the marred finger. Then Erestor took his place behind the throne, his ring hand upon the Tawarwaith's shoulder. Thranduil sat upon the other throne and Celeborn stood beside him, and the people could not contain their joy.

20 Norui, TA 3018, Greenwood

"I'm sorry, but truly what can it matter?"

"What can it matter? It is clear to anyone; the battle was a diversion and Shadow achieved its purpose."

"I could not refrain from joining the repulse of the Orcs; what you suggest is beyond cold-blooded. How could I stay behind when the alarm was raised?"

"How? By following the orders given you!"

"Oh yes, we all know what your fabled devotion to orders cost Greenwood!"

"Enough!" Thranduil shouted and got between his sons, taking Taurant by the arm and drawing him away from Legolas. He sent his elder son a dark scowl. "Stop berating him; he is young. The creature escaped and nothing can change this now. He made an error in judgement and foolishly left his post, but his intent was honourable."

"Aye, foolish and young," Legolas complained, shooting his brother an admonishing glance. "The error is mine; I should not have chosen you for this duty."

"Indeed it is your fault; you are the one who decided to let the creature out of its cell for - what was it? - 'fresh air and wholesome sunlight and the Music of green life.' Pah! That was foolish!" the Prince retorted.

"I acted on the words of Mithrandir," Legolas raised his voice. "Do you pretend to understand more of curing and healing than a wizard?"

"Certainly not so much as you, dear brother," Taurant mocked and laughed when Legolas' face flushed scarlet. "At least I know when I am being used."

"Hiren Adar sanctioned the keeping of Golum; do you presume to say Aran Thranduil is a pawn of the Istari?"

"Stop this," Thranduil sought to intervene, setting a hand on Legolas' shoulder that was rudely shoved off.

"Don't put words in my mouth! Adar would have granted my commission in the patrols by now but for you!"

"You are not ready and this incident proves it!"

"It proves I am devoted to my homeland! How would it look if I didn't go to fight? People would think I am afraid of battle. Better to be named foolish than be thought cowardly,"

"None think this," assured Thranduil but his soothing words were rejected.

"Nay! He wants people to think it!" Taurant shouted, pointing at Legolas.

"I do not! People will judge you by your own actions and speech, not by mine."

"None would be judging me at all but for you!" He turned to his father. "He refuses to assign me to any position of authority. He holds me back because he fears I will surpass his exploits and gain the favour of the people."

"Nay, Taurant, it was I who demanded your appointment to this chore," Thranduil explained, but his appeasing words were ill-timed.

"So the truth comes out!" Taurant raged in wounded indignation. "He tells you I am unfit to fight and you believe him!"

"I never said this!" Legolas yelled. Taurant rounded on him.

"Tawarwaith! Who says you are this great leader born to save Greenwood? Only you!"

"Tawar says it," Legolas barked. It was often hard to love Taurant and he thought he understood Thranduil's brothers a little better now. "I neither chose it nor asked for it; such has fate demanded of me. I would have you survive to know yours, brother."

"I will not be confined to the halls and the limits of the city!"

"You will do as you are ordered!"

"I'll take no orders from you!"

"Enough!" the King boomed, his own temper flaring. "Did I not say enough? I will not have this contention." He sighed and met his young son's eyes. "It is time you put aside these childish tantrums. Legolas does not speak against you; indeed, he has complained to me often that I am coddling and cosseting you. He is right; if there is fault here it must lie with me. I have acted selfishly, wanting you beside me, fearing to lose you as the forest grows ever darker. I do not want Legolas bringing you home wounded, or worse."

"I am no child," Taurant tossed his head. "I would be bold yet cautious, Adar. I would not be the one coming home bearing the bloody bodies of my fallen comrades."

Legolas drew a harsh and audible breath as he reared back, rigid and defensive. "You go too far, Taurant. None of my warriors perished in this fight; the dead are among the troop assigned to guard the creature, of which you were made captain. These lives were yours to command and protect and were forfeited for your folly."

"See how he turns the blame upon me, even after freely admitting he should not have ordered the vile thing loose from the cells in the first place!" Taurant shrieked, trying to get past his father and accost his brother.

"You say you are not a child, then bear the responsibility of your command as an adult must do!" Legolas shouted.

"Enough!" Thranduil roared, face red and eyes harried. "Enough, both of you! The fault lies not here among us but with the Shadow. Legolas, you should need no reminding of this fact. The deed is done and now we must decide what to do about its consequences."

"Aye, you are right." Legolas admitted, ashamed to have lost his temper and denounced his brother. He met Taurant's defiant gaze contritely. "Forgive me, Muindor. You acted as you deemed right."

"Fine," the younger prince said, haughty voice glowing with victory, and drew himself tall so that he looked down upon his brother. "In future, mayhap you will consider my counsel more closely. Did I not say letting that thing out was a foolish mistake? Now three warriors are dead because of your stubborn insistence on following Mithrandir's orders."

Legolas' face turned crimson but he held his tongue as once more Thranduil's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"What you said was that the duty of guarding it was beneath you, ion," Thranduil rebuked his heir mildly. "Those were not the wizard's orders but mine. Legolas is no more at fault than you." He waited, watching Taurant keenly, willing him to make amends and repent of his part in the contention.

"Fine," Taurant sniffed, folding his arms over his chest as he cooly evaluated his father's hand on Legolas' shoulder, shifting his sight to favour his brother with icy contempt before addressing Thranduil. "I know you love me, Ada, but I cannot go on being discounted when matters of importance arise. If I am Oropher's heir, then my counsel aught to be considered and I should be permitted a greater part in defending these lands."

"Ai, Valar," Legolas breathed in exasperation, shaking his head. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily, resting his elbows against the table and his chin upon his hands. They were in the King's war room, the destructive battle over just minutes ago, and he had come here straight from the infirmary, still covered in grime and the blood of the deceased. "You should not have let Talagan go. I will not be the one to oversee this folly. He is not ready."

"Peace," Thranduil demanded, the request made of Taurant who was eager to respond to this criticism. "I agree with him, ion. You are not ready for command, yet you refuse to be commanded. This is not the way of a mature adult. I cannot permit you to throw your life away to prove a point that is faulty. Until I deem you properly trained and sufficiently wise, you will not go forth beyond the borders."

"But Adar!"

"So this means you will be sending Legolas out to recapture the creature?" A new voice answered and all three turned abruptly, so absorbed in their arguing that none had noticed the entry of Gwilith into the room. She stood assessing them seriously, soft brown eyes revealing a quick and calculating intellect. Her gaze passed between them and came last of all to rest upon Legolas, where it remained. He stood with a loud scraping of the chair.

"I would not think of risking him that way," he said earnestly, for her unspoken accusation was ever ringing in his heart. It was for her sake that he tried always to spare Taurant any chance of injury. She must not lose another brother.

"You would not?" Taurant spat, mortified to be discussed in third person as though he were not present. "I am not yours to protect, Legolas; didn't we just establish that? I can take care of myself. I am responsible for my own actions and will do as I deem fit and right."

Legolas' brows rose to his hair and he could only stare, speechless, to hear this childish announcement. Thranduil intervened before the two fell to arguing again.

"Indeed, I am not sure there is reason to go after the creature. Surely it is now in Dol Guldur; there is no entering in that place and getting back out alive. Neither of you are to attempt it."

"So be it," Legolas sighed wearily. "Yet Mithrandir had reason to want it kept safe. We have failed him and maybe this creature will cause some crisis the likes of which we cannot guess. We must tell him it is abroad."

"Legolas should go," Gwilith announced and met his eyes calmly, smiling. "He knows the wizard so well."

"Excellent idea," Taurant jumped at the suggestion, eager to have Legolas gone from Greenwood that he might finally establish himself, free of the Tawarwaith's renown.

"Nonsense," Thranduil did not like the idea at all. Legolas was a vital component to the defence of Greenwood and he had become Talagan's replacement. Thranduil considered him his right hand and knew he was completely committed to the realm, wise in the ways of defeating their enemies, and as devoted to his siblings as was their father. "We need only send a message to Imladris; Elrond can send his sons to search for the wanderer. I need you both here."

"A messenger may be caught and the news never reach him," rejoined Gwilith, "yet Legolas has such good fortune that if he makes this journey he will not be harmed. It would be unjust to withhold word of the creature's escape. Such would cast shame upon our people. Of course, no mention of Taurant's part in its loss need be told; he is Oropher's heir and not to be held up to the scorn of outlanders."

"Scorn!" Taurant spat. "Who dares use that word?"

"Nay, she does not mean it that way," Thranduil soothed.

Gwillith ignored them and crossed the room, taking Legolas hand in hers. "You will go, won't you Muindor?"

Looking into her eyes, so like those of Lindalcon, Legolas was defeated. He could gainsay her nothing, the guilt for the loss of her brother too heavy to lift from his heart. He sighed and squeezed her hand, a sad smile returning hers.

"Aye. I will go."

The End