Aradan, Rinion and Thranduil sat in pensive silence, a glass of wine in their hands and a far away look in their eyes.
The vote had been favourable to Thranduil's proposal, and Legolas had been proclaimed a lord, but the results of the council meetings had been all too eloquent. The Silvans were rebelling and the Sindar were slow to speak out against Bandorion, not because they sympathised with his beliefs, but for the sake of harmony. And yet that desire had backfired, for the result had been exactly the opposite of what they had wanted to achieve with their silence, for it had been logically misconstrued as complicity. With their reluctance to act, they had forced the Silvans into turning on them. It had gone too long unchecked and Bandorion had grown strong and bold, just as the Silvan and Avarin people of his realm had grown tired and frustrated.
The question now, was how to undo the damage that had been done? Was it even possible, wondered Thranduil? Had he pushed the nation too far with his idleness? With his all-encompassing self-pity?
"The situation is volatile at best," murmured the king as he sipped absently on his wine, refusing to fall into a spiral of self-loathing. He was wise enough to know that he could not have avoided his long years of hibernation.
"Yes. For now they are appeased, albeit Bandorion is shaking the Sindarin warstick. We must look to both fronts now, my King, the purists and the Silvans for I do not doubt that Erthoron is capable of much more than may be obvious to us at this point," warned Aradan.
"Bandorion should not be underestimated," added Rinion as he turned from the window to face them. "He has some interesting points he skilfully embellishes with his rhetoric - it appeals to many of the Sindar at court," he said, avoiding his father's gaze.
"Agreed," said Aradan as he turned to the crown prince. "He tempts them with talk of the olden days of glory; of great battles and famed warriors, of the pride of the Sindar. There are many that would see those days return."
"I would see those days return, in some ways," said the king, "but not at the expense of the Silvan people. They are just as much a part of us, and - they have a prior claim. Indeed I believe it is the same for them; Erthoron himself has said as much. They feel their culture is no longer a part of The Greenwood, that it is being pushed aside, belittled in favour of all things Sindarin."
"Yes, there is that," said Aradan before turning. "We must find a balance, it seems, between restoring our own heritage, and that of the Silvan people. Strike a perfect equilibrium, one that speaks of two great people, people who are different but that are enriched by each other, united in their respect the one for the other, return to the people their sense of belonging, their sense of king and nation."
"Well said," murmured the king.
"In my experience, the Silvan warriors, while good archers and disciplined troops, lack the necessary leadership skills to climb the ranks as well as our Sindarin warriors," said Rinion sincerely and Thranduil saw it for what it was.
"Your experience has been reaped in times of veiled Sindarin dominance. You have not lived in the older days, when the Silvan people were still regarded as equals, when they were ruled by Warlords. It is natural for you to think this way for these ideas have been deeply inculcated in you since childhood. Have you served with trainee Silvan lieutenants or captains?" asked the king.
"No," admitted Rinion, but I have always believed that was because they did not meet the necessary requirements."
"That seems unlikely, my prince," answered Aradan. Do you truly believe such differences can be explained by the quality of one's blood?"
"I do not rule out that possibility, Councillor."
"Well I do, my King, there is no reason to believe it is an inborn thing, no reason at all. It is all about opportunity, being given the chance to excel and that is where things break down.
"The fact remains," said the king, "that a small victory has been won, but it will be short-lived if Bandorion continues to rally the elder Sindar. He must be watched closely," he concluded thoughtfully. "Rinion, you are the best person for this job. He lives with the hope that you will join his cause; use this to find out what he plans," he said, his piercing grey eyes staring commandingly at his son.
But Rinion was nothing if not wilful, and his own stare was just as challenging. "I will not spy on my uncle, father, and be warned, I do not disagree with everything he says, albeit he is far too forthright and aggressive in his ways. I will watch and learn what I can, but I will not stand against him."
"Whatever he does?" asked Thranduil pointedly.
"I did not say that. If he manoeuvres in such a way that he puts our people at risk, then my opinion will change," he said, holding his fathers gaze somewhat mutinously.
"I cannot ask for more than that," conceded the king. "You are your own elf, so long as you are loyal to your king I will respect your wishes, of course."
There was a hint of surprise on Rinion's face, and he turned quizzically to his father. "You think I would turn against you?" he asked softly. There was no fire in his voice, only deep concern, utter shock that his father could even think such a thing.
"Is that so hard to understand, Rinion? You have been - vociferous - in your criticism towards me for many years," said the king levelly, knowing full well he was treading on rocky ground.
Rinion simply stood still for a moment longer, before leaving the room in silence, and when the king turned back to Aradan, the councillor looked back at his friend in worry and concern.
"He is loyal, Thranduil, yet so too, is he tempted by the picture Bandorion paints. You must paint a better one..."
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Erthoron and Lorthil sat together with Amareth, who had finally ventured out of her suite of rooms. It was only when Legolas had been officially recognised that she had dared to do so, for the stares and the whispered comments had been unbearable. Yet now, the stares had turned from hateful to curious, and she could, at least, live with that.
"When do we return?" she asked softly. She seemed sad, thought Erthoron as he watched her. There was an air of submissive melancholy about her that he did not like.
"In two days, Amareth. Are you not happy?" asked the village leader encouragingly.
"Happy? No, not really, no. All this - business of lordships and princes, of politics - he will not want it, Erthoron, he will want none of it; it is not in his nature."
"You would be surprised what elves are capable of, given the right motivation, Amareth. He may surprise you and take up the challenge if he knows this will be beneficial to the Silvan people- his people," said Lorthil enthusiastically.
"He is a warrior, Lorthil, as much a warrior as any elf can possibly be. It is all he ever wanted, and everything else he may choose to accept will be for the good of others, not for his own. Do you not see that?"
Lorthil's happy demeanour changed and his face straightened. "Perhaps, yet that does not mean he is doomed to a life of suffering, Amareth, for what is the life of a warrior without that? without self-sacrifice?"
Amareth held his gaze for a moment, before nodding, conceding that point at least for Lorthil was right. She just needed to speak to him, to talk to him, to explain - all the things she had never been able to mention, all the things she had kept from him, all the secrets.
"How long until he returns from Imladris?" asked Erthoron in curiosity.
"Two months, I think," replied Amareth, "why?"
"I believe we should be here, when he returns," began the Silvan spokesperson.
"Who?" asked Lorthil.
"Us, the Silvans, the Avari, the forest. All of us should be here to welcome our lord, to finally embrace him openly, without hiding, no more secrets," said the old Silvan, a new spark of determination and resolve in his wise blue eyes.
"You assume he will accept the role you have set before him," said Amareth a little sternly.
"Amareth, do you truly believe he has a choice? Even if he refuses, the Silvans will not let him go. It means too much to them. He is what he is, you cannot change that, and neither can he..."
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Days turned into weeks and Legolas and The Company trained harder than they ever had. Idhrenohtar was almost ready to take the grade as Master Archer, and Ram en' Ondo was progressing well with the sword. Legolas for his part, spent hours training with the short swords and his new weapons, the double-bladed spears. In secret he would learn the Qalma Liltie with Glorfindel and in his free time, he would met with Elladan and The Company, and with Handir, with whom he was developing an incipient yet promising relationship.
Slowly, Legolas was beginning to accept the protocol that came with Lordship, and even the fine clothes that both Handir and Elrond insisted he wore when not upon the training fields, much to the light-hearted mockery of The Company.
The dressmaker who had designed his clothes had taken a shine to Legolas, and as a Sinda herself, had offered her advice on how to dress his hair. She showed him drawings of the Sindarin warriors of Doriath and the braids they wore. They were intricate and beautiful and Legolas had decided that they were as much a part of himself as the Avarin braids that Lainion would always weave. He would do them all, he had resolved. He would be neither Silvan nor Sinda but a mixture of them both, for that was the sum of his blood.
Indeed the whole thing had turned into a heated yet constructive debate between Legolas, the seamstress and Handir. Strange though it seemed at the time, there were political decisions to be made for the brothers had already discussed the necessity of showing what Legolas stood for, showing the multi-cultural nature of his blood, staking his claim upon command and his future service as a Protege of Yavanna.
The dressmaker had sketched dozens of designs as she listened to their conversations and slowly, a pattern began to emerge. The Silvan warriors of old favoured skirts with no breeches, and thick, reinforced leather jerkins that left one arm uncovered, usually the right. For more solemn ocasions, the Sindar would wear knee-length tunics, while the Sindar favoured longer robes that reached to the calves or even the ankles.
Soon enough, she had produced a final design for both an every day outfit, and a ceremonial one, and Handir stared at it for long moments, before looking briefly at the elder Sindarin woman, and then to Legolas.
"I have never seen the likes..." he murmured, handing the designs to his brother, who took them gently. His eyebrows rose in surprise and made to say something, but he stopped before the words came.
The dressmaker chuckled kindly. "If you give me leave to make these, my lords, I guarantee you will look splendid. We must simply choose our colours and be bold," she said, her eyes sparkling in anticipation of what they would say.
"I say we do this," said Handir. "It is daring, I must say, but if anyone can wear this, it is you, Legolas."
"I - but, here," he shook an index finger at the drawing, "I am showing half my chest here..." he stuttered awkwardly, his face a little too red.
The dressmaker laughed heartily now. "And that is a good thing, my Lord. You have the body for it, if you will forgive me for saying so, and you have a growing collection of warrior bracelets to show off. But this is much more than that, my Lords. What you have said here, about bringing together your people, I listened carefully to your words, I understand them and I hope, with all my heart, that you succeed in this thing. There are many details I would work into the fabrics and the buttons, the sashes and hems, for this is the most fascinating project I have ever undertaken my Lords. You see, in my designs, you would be stating your intentions, showing your people what you want, what you strive for, who you are," she finished passionately, and Handir stared back at her for a moment before speaking.
"You should have been a Councillor, my Lady," said Handir with a smile, which the woman returned with a respectful nod of her head.
Legolas' worried expression had softened and then he looked at the designs once more. He could not imagine himself wearing them and yet they were simply magnificent. He had never seen anything remotely similar and he wondered if he would have the confidence to wear them...
For now though, he would stick with his fine leggings and new tunics, and leave these more intricate items for later, for his return to the Greenwood, for somehow, Legolas knew that would mark a new milestone in his life, a pivotal moment from which there would be no return.
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It was raining, or rather pouring down in sheets of silver, the kind of rain that soaked one to the skin in a heartbeat. They had trained indoors today but now, on their way back to their living quarters, or in the case of Legolas, back to the main building, he suddenly and abruptly stopped in his tracks, in spite of the rain that now ran down his hair and face, turning his skin to polished porcelain.
"Legolas, getting that hair dry will be no.." began Lainion but he stopped, for Legolas' eyes had turned a bright, glowing green, so bright an eerie mist collected before them. Lainion had seen this before but Glorfindel had only seen it once, in Celebrian's gardens and it made the finer hairs on the back of his neck stand painfully on end.
"Legolas?" he called.
"Orcs," he muttered, his eyes turning to the right as if he listened for something, "to the East. We will need at least 15 warriors..."
"Company, to me!" shouted Glorfindel urgently. "Kit out, we ride in five minutes he said to Legolas who nodded absently, remotely grateful that the commander had not questioned his words.
"Bregor, run, inform Lord Elrond of our mission and do it quickly. Join us when you can."
"My Lord!" he acknowledged before sprinting through the rain in search of the lord.
"Legolas, move!" shouted Glorfindel, already pulling him by his arm. Arm yourself, snap out of it!!" he ordered, and this time, Legolas' eyes focussed on the commander. Nodding he ran back to the barracks where only his practice weapons would be found, namely his twin knives and two double-bladed spears which he had never used in battle before - but it was all he had, his beloved bow sitting in his rooms too far away to retrieve now.
Thrusting the short swords into his belt, he grasped the two spears and ran to the stables, still pulling on his leather jerkin. Stable hands ran this way and that as the warriors saddled up and mounted, adjusting straps and reins and stirrups, before wheeling their mounts around and trotting into the central courtyard to await their commander.
It was not long before Elladan joined him, his jet black hair dancing around his shoulders as he brought his mount under control.
"So now we ride for the first time together," he smiled and Legolas returned it with a curt nod and a hand upon Elladan's intricately embroidered vambrace.
"So we do - fight well, brother, lieutenant," said Legolas with a fey grin, his high pony tail swishing around his head and sending his braids flying this way and that.
Soon enough, the rest of The Company joined them, rallying around Legolas until finally Glorfindel and five Noldorin warriors arrived and Elrond came to stand upon the steps of the manor together with Mithrandir.
"Legolas, to me. Guide us," ordered Glorfindel.
"Sir," saluted Legolas as he took his place to the right of Glorfindel, the Silvan and Noldorin warriors behind.
"Hea!" shouted Glorfindel and they were away in a thundering cloud of hooves, under the intense gaze of Elrond and Mithrandir, who watched them leave.
"He is impressive," murmured Mithrandir, his eyes watching as the riders grew smaller and then disappeared into the surrounding trees.
"Oh yes. Every bit as impressive as his grandfather," drawled Elrond. "What a surprise awaits Thranduil," he said, well aware of the understatement and Mithrandir's cocked eyebrow.
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Two hours of hard riding had passed, and not once had Legolas spoken, indeed it was all the warriors could do to follow him, for he had set a furious pace, and although his eyes did not glow, they were still brighter than normal.
Glorfindel watched him as they rode, aware that the Silvan was concentrating on whatever lay in wait for them. There was an intensity about him, a sharpness to his features that was unnerving, even for him.
Before long, Legolas held up his arm for the patrol to stop, and then pulled on his reins and turned his horse to face them. "They are close. Around thirty in one group. They are mainly goblins, but their leaders are Uruk Hai. They are as yet unaware of our presence and are damaging a sentinel as they set their camp."
"How far, Legolas? asked Glorfindel quietly.
"Five minutes ahead of us, there is a clearing with one natural entrance and no exit save through the trees.
Glorfindel issued his orders, his voice low and measured, hand signals backing up his commands. Turning once more to Legolas he seemed to notice the absence of his bow.
"Legolas, with Elladan and myself. Melven, Cormion, take the left flank. Company, to the trees on my signal."
The warriors nodded their understanding and in the blink of an eye, The Company scurried into the trees. Glorfindel frowned and turned to Legolas for an explanation, for he had meant for them to climb once they had arrived at the orc camp. Legolas allowed himself a smirk, explaining that they would navigate in the trees; it would make their approach quieter and allow them time to position themselves for the best possible angles. Glorfindel nodded his understanding, although truth be told he could not remember this tactic being used amongst the Silvan. He was either sorely outdated, or this was new.
Advancing on foot, the ground patrol soon arrived at the orc camp, and Legolas signalled to the rest of the troop behind them to stop, and remain silent.
Soon enough, they lay in wait behind the surrounding shrubs and watched. They counted thirty one orcs, some skinning their prey while others tended fires or cleaned weapons. Legolas took his hand to his temple in pain, as the sound of an axe thudded into live wood again and again, echoing around the glade as the tree was hacked at mercilessly .
Elladan looked at him in concern, laying a hand on his forearm, while Glorfindel waited for the right moment to signal their attack, his keen eyes spotting the well-camouflaged Silvans in the trees to each side of their position. He spared one last concerned glance at Legolas before turning his eyes back to the camp, deftly singling out its leader.
One of the two Uruk Hai squatted before the fire, warming its black claws, the orange light illuminating the reflective layer that covered its yellow eye, turning it momentarily red. It was distracted, and if the Silvan archers were as good as he thought they were, no sooner he gave the signal they would pick out their prime victims well, they would know how to prioritise their targets.
With the stroke of his hand, the Silvan snipers fired and sure enough, the Uruk fell to the ground, an arrow through its temple, one of the group's commanders dead even before they engaged. With an elven cry, Glorfindel lurched forward, Legolas and Elladan right behind him, one with a skilful swivel of a mighty Noldorin sword and the other flipping two short swords before him, their metal glinting with the promise of a swift and certain death.
The orcs roared and screeched as the elves ran into their camp, hardly having time to take up their weapons and parry the first blows that rained down upon them. Elladan moved to the right, immediately engaging a goblin, while Legolas ran straight towards the sentinel that was crying out to him, yet to get to the tree he had to cross the entire camp, and well he would know that there were crossbows amongst the orcish weapons.
Working up his speed, he placed his palms upon the muddy floor and deftly flipped forwards three times, before changing his movement less he be targeted. Twisting and then somersaulting, he finally reached the tree, the metal tip of a short sword piercing the orc's throat and running through its neck with a sickening crunch. Yanking it back out he spared a moment to place his palm against the bark, before turning to parry the swipe of a scimitar that sliced through the air before his face. The claw that wielded it soon fell to the forest floor, its owner roaring in pain and wrath, before a wet gurgle ended the painful noise.
Stabbing backwards, he gutted another, and then hauled his left knife over his head and swivelled it around him, gaining himself some space from the encroaching enemy, for he was alone after his desperate dash to the trees, although still within eyesight of Glorfindel and Elladan.
The commander signalled for the archers to descend, and with a cheer, they ran for their quarry. Soon enough, the group was slowly coming together, although truth be told, even had they wanted to, they would not have been able to get anywhere near Legolas, for his swords whirled around him, slicing here and there but never stopping as he flipped them here and there, distracting, confusing, executing so fast the orcs had no time to think.
The last orc fell to the forest floor and Legolas stood over it, swords poised behind him should he need to finish it off, but it had been dead before it fell and so, he slowly relaxed his stance and gave one, last look of utter hatred at his enemy before turning to the sentinel and smiling softly, and then nodding almost imperceptibly.
Glorfindel wondered how he did that, for his face had been twisted in an expression of intense hatred, an expression that was both terrifying and unnerving, and then his face had softened and smiled in blissful joy. He was night and day, dark and light, young, and yet inexplicably old, mused the commander.
"Clean up," shouted Glorfindel, snapping himself out of his own musings, wiping off his sword and sheathing it and then stretching his senses out in search of any further danger, but he felt none and so he joined the others as they piled the carcasses and burned them. There was an odd silence as they did so and the commander felt the strange undercurrents between the Silvan and Noldorin elves, even between Elladan and Legolas. It was the first time they had fought together, indeed Glorfindel had never seen him in action until now, and truth be told, he knew not what to say. He knew the boy would be good, but what he had seen today was beyond the ordinary; it had seemed almost impossible for one so young and only then did Glorfindel realise that now, in this very moment, he found himself standing before the greatest warrior he had ever known.
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Hours later, when reports had been given and orders issued, when the lords had bathed and changed for dinner, Glorfindel sat together with his guests in the lounge of his personal suite of rooms.
Elrond, Erestor, Handir, Mithrandir, and Legolas sat and savoured the pale sweet wine Glorfindel had offered them, the tell-tale absence of Legolas' head dress bringing a smirk to Mithrandir's weathered face.
"You have quite the issue with jewellery, lad," chuckled Mithrandir, and Legolas looked at him in misery.
"You have no idea, Mithrandir. I am not a prince, I am not even a lord save because my father has decreed it!" he exclaimed.
Handir sat forward, his own face somewhat peeved but for different reasons. "What is it you think a 'lord' is, Legolas, if not a political position?"
"Lords are born into high families, I was not," he answered curtly.
"That you were not brought up there is true, but that changes nothing. You are of that family, you cannot change that."
"No, no I cannot," admitted Legolas in defeat. "But that does not make it any easier for me to accept, Handir. I am a simple Silvan, born into a humble family. That is the education I have received and to wear a - a crown! -" he almost whined, "I feel ridiculous..." he trailed off.
Elrond spoke then, his voice somewhat ironic. "Strange then, that a humble Silvan, born of a humble family, should be chosen as a Protege to a Vala.... don't you think? Is that not recognition enough for a lordship?" he asked rhetorically.
Legolas looked to the floor, for said like that it did make sense, and he said as much.
"Perhaps, my Lord. It is just - strange and - unnerving to suddenly be deserving of things that others are not. These clothes, the fine metal, all these pretty things that so many do not have, will never have."
"You have never questioned lordship or rank before, only now when you have it. Does that not tell you something, Legolas?" asked Erestor.
Again, Legolas held his silence, for of all the reasons he had heard this evening, this was perhaps the most convincing. He was not being congruent with himself.
Glorfindel, realising Legolas would speak no more of it, picked up his wine and gestured to the table that had been prepared upon the veranda. "There is nothing like an invigorating battle to work up an appetite, right Legolas?" he asked jovially and Legolas smiled gratefully at the change of subject.
"Or," interjected Elladan, "a little gymnastics..." he trailed off with a sly smirk.
"Yes, both those things are true," said Legolas in mirth, "although it was not a great battle. They were caught unawares and in insufficient numbers," he said as he took his napkin and placed it over his lap.
"Indeed, Legolas here could have taken them all on single handedly," said Glorfindel lightly, enough to draw Elrond's attention.
"You have taught him well," said the Lord, his eyes lingering on his friend and commander.
"Be that as it may," continued Glorfindel cheerily, "he was already better than any warrior I have ever known, even before his first lesson with me."
Elrond scowled and Mithrandir's eyes sharpened at the sweeping statement that had been uttered so lightly, as if he spoke of the weather.
But before any of them could question him, the doors opened and the servants set the plates of food upon the table, bowing before they left the lords once more to their repast.
"He is ready for the test of short sword master," said Glorfindel past a flakey cheese pastry.
Legolas almost choked on his wine, having had the misfortune of swallowing while Glorfindel spoke, and Handir's eyebrows rose to his hairline.
"So soon?" asked the prince incredulously.
"Yes," was the flat reply. "He is already better than our short sword master instructor, it makes no sense to wait. Handir, can you procure us with the Silvan designs for these master decorations?"
"Of course, Glorfindel. I will document myself tomorrow morning. When is the test?" he asked, a slight smile pulling on his lips now as he glanced at Legolas."
"Tomorrow, before the evening meal. Lord Elrond, will you sign as witness?" asked Glorfindel.
"Of course, if it pleases Legolas," he added.
Legolas, who had been staring at the plate below him, turned his head to Elrond, and then glanced at them all. His face slowly lighting up into a deep and beautiful smile, his eyes sparkling with joy and pride. All thoughts of absurd protocol now completely forgotten as the satisfying feel of success settled upon him.
"I do not know what to say..." he whispered, and Glorfindel smiled back at him, for the child's beauty had always succeeded in melting his heart. He was strong and yet so vulnerable, proud and yet so unsure of his own potential. He possessed a natural empathy that drew one in, that fascinated any who took the time to look into his eyes. It ensnared, trapped you so that even if one wished it, could not forget him.
"Fight like there is no tomorrow, Legolas, earn that decoration and place it under the one you already bear," said Glorfindel "There will be more to add soon enough but for now," he paused and then smiled mischievously, "give us a good show," he said, staring at Legolas as he popped a breaded mushroom into his mouth.
Legolas' tentative smile turned wicked and he smiled back in silence. Surprisingly, it was Handir that spoke first.
"Well this will be interesting!" he exclaimed. "Who will he confront?" asked the Sindarin prince.
"Our short-sword master, Dolgaden. The other masters will judge his performance after the routine and then it will be decided."
"How many pass the first time?" asked Handir.
"Three out of ten. The rest may pass after one or two additional years."
Handir turned to his brother and smiled, his eyes searching the smiling, shining face.
"I am proud of you..."