The first Greenwood Summit had finished, and if one thing had become clear, it was that this Sindar-Silvan divide was real, the rift much wider than any of them had suspected. Bandorion and his faction of purists had been strengthened in some ways, for the picture of past glory and bounty struck a longing in the elder Sindar, a deep and heart-felt desire to return to those days in which country and king were everything, in which honour and service was all any young lord aspired to. These were the noble families that had followed Oropher himself to these new lands.
Yet that position had also been weakened, for the Silvan spokesperson, Erthoron, had spoken plainly and convincingly. He did not wish the opposite for them, he said, but the same for his own, Silvan people. All they asked for was the same recognition, the same right to be proud of their culture, without undermining the other cultures with which they lived.
But Bandorion, brother of Oropher, took things to the extreme and while many did not agree with that it was the only official stance that stood overtly for the renewal of that glorious Sindar identity. There were many Sindar that embraced their Silvan brothers and agreed that their military structure was as biased as it was unjust to the forest warriors, and they did not believe that leadership did not come naturally to the Silvan people, agreeing even, to the creation of a Military leader similar to the ancient figure of the Silvan Warlord. What did they have to lose, so long as the Silvan people were loyal? Of course Erthoron and the Silvans had demanded this position be offered to Legolas, and truth be told, none were quick to agree, stating simply that they would meet this Silvan, Thranduil's illegitimate son, before bestowing upon him such an important position.
No decision had, therefore, been made, for Thranduil had postponed it until Handir had returned to the woods, with Legolas as part of the escort. Once he had met the boy, once he had presented him at court and there was consensus, only then would they decide, and although there were many against his naming, there were more in favour of it.
That had been two weeks ago, and the halls had emptied once more, leaving the predominantly Sindar population at the fortress, with only a smattering of Silvans here and there. They were mainly teachers, servants and healers, or those that cared for their animals. But it would not stay like this for long, for in a few scant days, everything would come full circle. Thranduil's family, with the exception of Maeneth, would come together, for the first time, and with Handir's coming, so too would Legolas.
Aradan watched his friend as he paced the library where they had been reviewing the petitions and suggestions the Silvans had left for them to consider, but today, there was no rest for the king for he was distracted, and it was no mystery to Aradan as to why that would be. The moment of truth approached and where he had thought the king decided and resolved with respect to his son, now he seemed unsure, doubtful, worried that perhaps, the boy would not live up to the expectations that had slowly been building over the days of the summit.
From Elrond's missives, and Handir's own words, the child seemed competent, and he thought perhaps that it was more to do with how the king anticipated Legolas' acceptance or otherwise of his family, how he would treat his father, his elder brother. Would he embrace them? Would he despise them? Would he want nothing to do with Erthoron's dreams of restoring the Silvan forest to what it had once been?
There was also the question of his tender age. Seven hundred and forty four was nothing, indeed most novice warriors were at least eight or nine hundred years old. The responsibility may be too much for one that was not born into royalty, for one that had not been instructed in the ways of statesmanship and leadership.
With a quick glance at Rinion, who leant against a bookshelf skimming through a small, leather-bound book, he addressed the king.
"Thranduil," he called quietly.
"Yes?" came the far away voice.
"You are fretting," said Aradan somewhat boldly.
Thranduil turned and narrowed his eyes at his Chief Councillor.
"You grow impertinent, Aradan," he said, but the advisor knew that tone - he was not angry - he was irritated with himself for not hiding his agitation better than he had.
"Well?" prompted Aradan, his own eyebrow rising.
"They are due to leave around now, within the next few days. Handir will return and with him, his younger brother."
"Legolas, yes, or should I say the Silvan - as they are now calling him?"
The king huffed in impatience. "They claim him as their own and yet he is Sinda too. I wonder how he feels about that..."
"He will most likely reject that side of his blood," said Rinion, almost distractedly, "and I wager the only reason he will make the effort will be for his own, personal gain. How can you love someone you have never met?" he commented flippantly as he turned a page in the book he surely was not reading.
"You are so sure of that, my Prince?" asked Aradan.
"No, but it is only to be expected. Most elves would react just so - why are we to presume he will be any different to the rest of the lower-class Silvan warriors?"
"And why are we to do the opposite?" asked the king measuredly. "Do you know any lower-class Silvan warriors on a personal level?"
After a silence, the Crown Prince simply shook his head and said, "No," as if that had no bearing on what he had just said.
"I wish you would think before you speak, Rinion. You are Crown Prince, you cannot afford to be judgemental.
"I am not being judgemental, father. I am being realistic. It is true that most elves would take advantage of such a situation," he said, snapping his book shut and turning to king and advisor.
"Imagine. Poor boy from a working-class Silvan family - or rather single parent, a bastard child with a father complex is suddenly told he is the son of the king. Oh, he may have a moment of righteous anger, deny it is true but when he thinks about it," he stressed, looking his father in the eye without the slightest of self-doubt, "he realises all the advantages this may bring to him, and to his family. His friends and his own ego... He could rise in the ranks of warriors, he could court the fairest maidens, he would be respected - can you not see the danger of believing whole-heartedly that this boy will simply fall into your arms, that he will be loyal to you, to the kingdom. The question is, father," he said slowly and calmly, "why do you NOT doubt?"
Thranduil watched his son for long moments, and then turned to Aradan, who stared back at him blankly.
Thranduil sighed and turned back to the window and the dying sun.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "because I want to believe it, just as you do not."
Rinion joined his father at the window and peered through the glass at the every-day scene below.
"Yes," he said quietly. "That is the short of it, I suppose, and in that - we are both wrong," he said, "and we are both right."
Thranduil turned to his eldest child, a new light in his eyes. "Well done. You have given good council," he said with the ghost of a smile.
Rinion turned to meet his gaze, searching his father's eyes.
"Do not get me wrong, father. I have no sympathy for him but that does not mean my reasoning is incorrect, just as the opposite is not true."
"Then perhaps together, we can find common ground. All I ask," said Thranduil emphatically, "all I ask, is that you do not judge him unfairly and I, in turn, will not presuppose his merits, his good intentions. Is that enough for you?"
Rinion nodded. "It is enough," he said, and then turned back to the bookshelf with a short, somewhat defiant nod at Aradan.
Aradan was left wondering why he did that, for he had never set the king against his elder son and he was, of a sudden, indignant at the Crown Prince.
"Whatever the case," said the Advisor, tempering his irritation, "we will soon find out," said Aradan. "He may be indifferent, he may be angry too - for he must always have known his father was a Sinda. This in itself would be reason enough to reject that side of himself."
"Aye. All his life thinking he had been abandoned, or that his father was some kind of - pestilent outlaw. Amareth told him nothing, not even to put his mind at rest. I confess I do not understand that woman," said the king.
"She was scared, Thranduil - still is I think. You know, I always had the feeling she did not tell us everything, that she held back for there are parts of her story that do not tally. Why - why would she not tell the boy anything? What was she hoping to achieve with that? Would it not have been easy enough to tell him his father had died in battle? That way the child would, at least, have felt wanted."
"And when he reached Valinor, or Mandos and found out that was a lie? It is not the Silvan way, Aradan," said Thranduil simply.
Aradan shrugged his shoulders. "The fact remains that until we meet him, we cannot know for sure what he thinks, how he feels. His letter suggests he is not unwilling to embrace a family, at least I detected no animosity in his words."
Rinion huffed from where he stood, but he held his silence and Aradan bit his lip once more.
"No, there was none, and yet cold indifference can be just as bad as outright hatred, Aradan, this you know well," said the king.
"Yes, I do know. What worries me most is Bandorion's odd silence."
"Yes," agreed the king, "that is strange, is it not. I had half expected him to be petitioning to speak with me on the summit, to rage on this or that, but nothing - not the slightest of protests."
"Thranduil; you don't think he is - well - plotting something, do you? Is he truly capable of - harming the child, do you think?" asked Aradan, for truth be told this feeling had been growing steadily in his mind for the past few days.
"I do not think so Aradan. But there is the question of Lassiel's death," he said quietly. "We do not know who was responsible for that - but we both know the order may have come from him - my own uncle," he said somewhat bitterly.
Rinion turned to his father in outrage. "You jest, surely. You cannot believe for one moment that Bandorion would incur in - in murder!"
"We have just discussed that point, Rinion, and I thought we had agreed. I have reasons to believe it is a possibility, just as you have reasons to believe Legolas is a scheming Silvan who seeks nothing but his own gain from all this!" he shouted, sick of his son's inconsistencies.
Rinion stared wide-eyed at the king, his jaw working furiously but his tongue remained still.
"He would not - it is too much. I would expect it perhaps, from Draugole, but not Bandorion," he said, his voice more vulnerable now, less convinced.
"Thranduil. When they arrive I would suggest..."
"A guard, yes, I know. Will you see Celegon about our concerns tomorrow? Make sure he is discreet about it?"
"Of course."
"What happened to him, I wonder," mused Thranduil aloud. "What happened to my father's brother to turn him against me?"
"I do not know, my friend. But it goes to show, that being family is not always a good thing - or even a safe thing..."
And again, Rinion snorted.
TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTTSTSTSTSTSTTSTSTSTSTS
They departed at dawn. Glorfindel rode at the fore, with Dimaethor at his side, and behind him, Prince Handir and Mithrandir.
Flanking the Commander, his lieutenant, the Prince and the Wizard, was The Company, now seven strong with the recent incorporation of Elladan, or Rafnohtar as he had been named after his drunken escapade into the trees.
Melven brought up the rear for that was where The Company had sent him, and to his credit, the Noldorin warrior had accepted it with his now, customary blank face.
The Company had taken great pride in their appearance today, for they escorted a Prince of the realm. Their uniforms were pressed and clean, their weapons shining gloriously in the early morning sun, including Legolas' two spears that sat in a harness along his horse's flank for there was no room for them upon his back, where his quiver, bow and short swords lay in waiting, peaking out from behind his high pony tale, one thick braid lying over his shoulder and reaching down to his saddle.
Legolas rode at the fore of The Company, next to Elladan, to whom he would defer as his superior officer if need be, indeed Dimaethor had been named second to Glorfindel on the journey home, for he was more experienced than Elladan, and he knew the terrain into which they would journey far more intimately. It had also been Elladan's wish to ride with his new patrol, to concentrate his efforts in acclimatising himself to their ways, to their predominantly Silvan protocols.
"Where did you get that?" asked Rhrawthir, pointing at a lyre that hung from the side of Lindohtar's horse.
"Ah! A gift, a mighty gift from my friend Lindir of Imladris. We have become fine friends! he exclaimed."
"You will regale us with your songs then, upon the road?" asked Ram en Ondo hopefully, to which the Bard Warrior grinned as he nodded. "Of course, brother!"
Spirits were high for the rest of the day as they traversed the safe lands of Imladris. They were still two days away from the borders, and although Glorfindel kept a tight rein on the group, he would allow them the small comforts of travelling on the road, at least until they came into the foothills.
At dusk they called a halt and Legolas watched as Glorfindel deployed his warriors.
"Rhawthir and Ram en' Ondo, take first watch. Idhrenohtar and Lindohtar, second watch. Legolas, Elladan, third watch. Dimaethor, you rest for today, take the final watch tomorrow."
"Aye, Sir," he saluted and then moved away. Glorfindel caught Legolas' gaze and observed him. Legolas nodded that he had understood that tactic, tucking it away for future use and the Commander smiled approvingly.
Soon enough they were sitting and enjoying the spits of roasted game and fresh water, and then listening to the calming sound of Lindohtar's new lyre. Ram en' Ondo clapped at the song he had just finished as the others smiled indulgently at the gentle giant's almost boyish enthusiasm.
Glorfindel sat nearby, honing his sword as he listened to the warriors and smiled softly, and Melven too, sat a little further away, listening but not smiling, staring into the orange flames of their hearth.
As for Handir, he was lying on his bed roll, body propped up on one elbow as he wrote in a journal.
Mithrandir, watching them all, rose and fished out his pipe from his pocket, his sparkling blue eyes glancing over Hwindohtar.
"I am going for a smoke - will you join me, Legolas?" he asked, yet something in his tone told the Silvan it really hadn't been a question at all, indeed before he could answer, the wizard was moving away from the fire.
Sitting on a rock at the perimeter of their camp, he patted another one at his side as he lit his pipe and closed his eyes in bliss as the first cloud of thick, fragrant smoke vanished into his mouth.
"I know we have not set off on friendly footing, Legolas, and for that I am sorry," he said quietly.
Legolas was surprised at that, for it was as if another entirely different man sat beside him.
"I think we underestimated each other," answered Legolas.
"Yes, I will admit to that," he said pensively as he puffed again on his pipe, blowing out a shape that seemed to Legolas to be a worm, only it grew wings and flew away, dissipating into the evening breeze.
"You know of Aiwendil? The Brown Wizard?" he asked lightly.
"I have heard of him, yes. They say he is eccentric, and given to smoking dried mushrooms that addle his brain," he giggled. "Is it true?"
"Oh yes," smiled Mithrandir. "But don't let that fool you. He is wise in the ways of Lady Yavanna's creation, Legolas. He would teach you many things."
"Then I will visit him, when I can," he added.
Mithrandir turned his face to the child beside him. So beautiful in his youth, so fascinating in the natural wisdom he possessed. He had, indeed, judged him short, but now, now the child was growing on his soft side, the side very few on middle Earth ever had the fortune to see.
The moment was spoiled though, as the smoke tickled the back of his tongue and he coughed.
"Ai, confounded fumes!" he whined as he flapped his hands around his head and coughed again.
"You will excuse me," asked Legolas rhetorically, his voice a little strangled. "How you bear it..."
"I know, I know, Elrond nags at me constantly for it!" exclaimed the wizard. "Go about your business, boy," he said curtly, but there was a smile on the wrinkled lips and so Legolas nodded, and turned away.
"You should be sleeping," said Glorfindel from where he sat on the ground.
Legolas turned to him, watching as he sharpened his weapons. "I will," he said distractedly.
"What are you thinking?" asked Glorfindel.
"Where to begin?" asked Legolas. "So many things... " he trailed off.
"One day at a time, Legolas. Take it one day at a time," he said wisely.
"What," he began, casting a furtive glance at The Company further away, "what of the Qalma Liltie?" asked Legolas, worried, it seemed, that now they were leaving, that project would be dashed.
Glorfindel smiled and finally turned his face to Legolas, his sparkling blue eyes anchoring firmly onto the strange green irises.
"I wager you and I will not be parted for long," he said as he thought. "I will find a way to visit as often as I may, when our own borders are secure."
"You think that feasible?" asked Legolas as he sunk down beside the Commander, a hopeful expression on his face that suddenly made him seem as young as he really was.
"I will make it feasible, Legolas. I meant what I said. You are the son I never had and do not ask me to explain that for I cannot. It is one of those moments in your life when you just know that something is so, that no amount of reasoning will make any clearer. It is a matter of the spirit, I think," he said thoughtfully as he pulled the stone over the edge of his curved dagger. "It was the same with Oropher..."
Legolas smiled and then looked to the floor for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "It is such a strange thought for me, Glorfindel, to have a father... to have someone like you who believes in me, that feels pride at my achievements, that feels them as if they were his own."
"Well, get used to it then, for soon you will have two..."
A slight frown marred the beautiful features. "My father has accepted my existence, accepts me as his son and has named me Lord - but there is nothing between us. None of this means I will feel the same way about him as I do about you, Glorfindel."
"No, there is no guarantee. But I wish it for you, Legolas. I truly hope you can come to know your father, that you can come to love him."
Legolas held Glorfindel's gaze, thinking long and hard before he spoke again.
"Who can say, Glorfindel? What I do know, is that he is my king and as such, I will serve him as the warrior I am. I can guarantee no more."
"And that is fair enough. Give him a chance, and then do as you will. I will always be here, no matter what happens."
Legolas leaned into him, felt the strong shoulder beneath his head and then the strong arm as it wrapped around his back, a warm, solid hand wrapping around his bicep.
Is this what it was, he wondered, to have a father? To have this strong, solid presence beside him, one that did not judge, one that felt pride and love for him? The world suddenly felt lighter to Legolas in that moment, his burden of responsibility somehow lessened as he thought of the steadfast presence of this mythical warrior who had somehow, to his own great fortune, taken him as a son.
Whatever happened now with Thranduil, Legolas would hold to this, remember this, embrace Glorfindel as his father. Should things go ill between him and the king, Legolas would no longer continue to consider himself a bastard - he had a father in Glorfindel of Gondolin.
TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST
Three days later, The Company found itself on full alert as they travelled through the mountain pass. The weather had turned frigid and the prince sat huddled in the centre of their group, his body hunched protectively over his mount in a futile effort to stave off the freezing wind that buffeted them from all sides.
There was no talking, no light-hearted banter. They were alert, their eyes swivelling here and there, ears open to the slightest of discordant sounds, and when they finally found a rocky enclave within which they could set up camp, there was no fire, no hunting and no soft music from Lindo's lyre.
Handir sat hunched over himself, his face pale but his nose as red as any summer rose, and Legolas approached him and then crouched down to meet his eyes. He softly placed his own cloak over his brother's shoulders and wrapped it around him, before nodding and moving away.
Handir looked after him, regarding him for a moment, before the ghost of a smile graced his face and he pulled the welcome cloth closer around him, and allowed his mind to return to its musings.
The following two days passed in much the same way, in tense silence and soon they were descending the mountain, and green grass began to peak through the carpet of snow. The wind had ceased its torture and the sun was slowly melting the ice and snow that still littered the ground.
There was no sign of orcs, indeed Legolas' good spirits was always a trustworthy sign that they were safe for the moment.
Quiet conversation had begun once more, and Handir sat a little straighter atop his horse.
Melven listened to the warriors as they spoke of their things, simple impressions, things they would do when they got home, the food they hoped their mothers or sweethearts would cook for them - the kind of things he imagined friends shared with one another, the kind of things he had not spoken of for many centuries.
A wave of self pity slammed into him and his eyes lost focus, his mind visually reminding him of why he had turned so bitter, so defensive, so offensive...
A Noldorin warrior falling from his horse, a pretty maiden holding her hand up in silent farewell...
Damn them, he spat to himself. Damn them for leaving him, curse them both for abandoning him to a life of solitude and grief. What had he done to deserve it? he asked rhetorically.
A soft hand poised upon his own startled him and he jerked in the saddle, his eyes snapping to the elf upon his horse beside him, looking at him with eyes that seemed to know - know his pain.
Idhrenohtar's grey eyes stared at him and then the Wise Warrior smiled softly.
"You are doing well," was all he said, before trotting back to the rest of his companions.
He had been abruptly jolted from his dark thoughts and the shock of it, the unexpectedness of those clear grey eyes, had somehow made those thoughts more distant. He would think on it, decided Melven as he came back to himself, to his position at the end of the line, behind The Company, the last warrior. But strangely enough, where before he would have considered it a slight, now, it was almost an honour.
TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST
Thranduil's realm was alive with rumour and mounting expectation. With every day that passed, Prince Handir's escort drew closer to them, and with the escort, rode the Silvan, the king's illegitimate son, the warrior the Silvans claimed as their own.
The Silvan had already made for himself a reputation as a soldier, having become first a novice, and then a warrior in record time, achieving the status of Master Archer even before riding on his first patrol. Who would have said he was Thranduil's child? They said.
The statesmen and councillors spoke of the political implications, and the idle ladies spoke of his status, of what he would look like, of whether he sought a wife.
Further afield, in the forest, the villages spoke of his return, of the end of an era of necessary secrets in which they had protected the child from those that would seek to eliminate him. They spoke of whether he would be accepting of what they had agreed upon, whether he would take up the responsibility and become their warlord.
And amongst them, the Spirit Herders, with Golloron and Narosen at the fore, spoke of other, more abstract questions, for some months ago, there had been a great disturbance in the forest, one they could not explain, knew not the nature of. They were, however, convinced of one thing. That whatever it had been would soon make itself known - and for some reason, Narosen had been adamant that it had something to do with the boy, the Silvan.
It would be as Erthoron had said. The Silvans would travel back to the fortress to welcome Legolas, and then to speak with him, explain to him what they wanted. They would show the Sindar what it meant for the Silvan people to regain their culture, their spirit, their art and their dance. They would tell the Sindar how mighty an ally they had, and just how dangerous they could be as an enemy.