tawarwaith

Buiad Úbara [Unwilling Allegiance]

Through the soil stretched the veins and arteries of the forest, a tremendous network of conduits, varying in girth from the span of a warrior's calf to the macilency of the finest strand of elven hair. These unseen tendrils carried the flow of life that enabled the great trees to stand high among the living elements of Arda. Tawar breathed for Arda, shaded her, held fast the thin blanket of dirt that served as the skin of the earth and softened the contours of its rocky bone, and both provided for and protected the Children of Iluvatar, First and Second Born. The interlocking capillaries and vessels linked the green life in an unending system of nerves, a reticulum of the archeus, filaments of living consciousness not constrained by isolation into singular entities but rather comprising the mind of the most ancient, sage, and overlooked of all the creations of Yavanna.

Eru's Younger Children seldom even acknowledged the fact that these entities possessed life, and failed utterly to understand that there could be awareness in anything so unlike the form of Man. Even elf-kind had a tendency to relegate non-speaking beings to a lesser role, seeing the forest and the host of plants it housed as owning a more utilitarian sentience, part of the background, a comfortable structural support for their existence. It was much easier to think of this huge organism as merely a burgeoning flora created to supply their needs; a part of the Valar's Making of the World to fit it for the coming of the First Born. And so they taught themselves and their young to believe.

Few had the insight to even imagine another scenario; unable to contemplate that the Quendi had been awakened as much to protect the green essence with their voices and songs as to enjoy its bounty. Who among the First Born had considered it their task to ward off the destruction of the forests until the coming of Anor and Ithil, ensuring the continuation of Arda as fit for the advent of the Second Born as well? In fact, none among the Eldar were likely to consider the Ebennin [those born after the elves] as worthy to become the stewards of the earth, and could only look upon the changes their coming launched as something to fight against and prevent if possible, for as long as there was breath to breathe. Perhaps it is a trait of all oldest children everywhere to perceive themselves wiser by virtue of primacy, always the heir apparent rather than the herald.

If so, this was a characteristic not developed in Legolas, first-born of Ningloriel, or Tawar, first-created of Yavanna. Between these two was shared a common understanding of the necessary symbiosis of their respective kinds, and if anything Legolas tended to revere the forest's spirit and treated the human inhabitants as a part of Tawar. And so rare had such an outlook become that Tawar in turn cherished the Wood Elf, and spread knowledge of its champion's actions and well being through every fiber and thread of its rooted soul, from one end of the Greenwood to the other and beyond. Even into the heart of Thranduil's stronghold where stood the Sentinel.

It had become the practice of Fearfaron to spend the opening and closing hours of his days at the Sentinel, for there he would be first to encounter any messenger seeking entry into or departure from the stronghold's inner courtyard. The humans did not always make it to their destination, he knew, overtaken by spiders or Orcs along the way. He had no way to tell how many, or, indeed, whether any of his letters had reached Legolas, and had himself acquired but one from the fallen prince, and none since his last appearance in the Realm, over two years ago. He kept this hopeful vigil nonetheless, confident that sooner than late word of the wild warrior would return to him. Besides, he felt closer to his foster-child there, where Legolas had spent so many elfling hours in silent and peaceful contemplation of his world among the trees.

Lindalcon, too, was often at the knees of the grandfatherly beech at tinnu, for only then was he free to wander from his duties in the fortress. True to his word, he had relinquished his demand for appointment into the guard, and as such was not required to be long hours in the training grounds honing his skills with the bow. Instead, his mother had secured him an apprenticeship of sorts to one of the older Council Members, a distant relation through his father's people. There Lindalcon was set numerous tedious tasks designed, in his mind; to cause him to favor anarchy over governed rule.

To say the elfling despised the cavernous cut-stone chambers and artificial light of oil lamps would be to drastically misrepresent the depth of his disgust. Lindalcon positively suffered under the servitude, caught in a miasma of recording the Councilors' droning speeches and conducting unending research to support them, using texts so faded he occasionally made up the words just to speed his task along. He more than longed for the feel of fresh air, the smell of brown earth and green wood.

The comfortable companionship of the Sentinel and Fearfaron was his primary destination as soon as each day's session adjourned. There he could relax; glad to be once again near an elf who was not afraid to speak to him of his father. And in the presence of the aged tree he felt a kinship to Legolas, who had sheltered there through much of his youthful years.

Lindalcon had come to understand, in a smaller sense, what it must have been like for the former prince to live in the royal household. Not that the screaming arguments of Ningloriel and Thranduil were duplicated, quite the opposite. His mother ran her new accommodations with the same quiet calmness she had always exercised in their modest talan in the city. Indeed, her son was amazed at how easily she took up the task of ordering the daily affairs of the King's House, and how quickly the resident servants responded to her new authority. In fact, all were exceedingly grateful for her steadying influence on their King, and glad of the new air of peacefulness that permeated the mountain fortress.

All save Lindalcon the Usurper.

The adolescent seethed at every look the Woodland King directed toward his mother, despaired at every smile she returned, and raged against even the most fleeting of physical contacts between them. Lindalcon still could not comprehend how his own mother could so soon forget his father. How could she turn away from the love they had shared? How could this odious and temperamental Sindar King compare with the compassionate and loyal devotion his father had always given? Could his own mother truly feel the possession of wealthier housing and higher social station was worth the sundering of her eternal bond with Valtamar? If so, this could only mean her love for Valtamar had been false, and that was a truth he could not encompass, for it made his whole life a lie.

Meril and her son were seriously at odds over the matter, and no pleas she spoke could justify her betrayal to his satisfaction. Her reminders that nothing could now undo Valtamar's death, and that he would wish for them to find some manner of good from the catastrophe meant nothing to Lindalcon. Upon hearing this argument, the elfling asserted that, had his mother been the one to die, Valtamar would never have sought a replacement, and certainly would not have traded their family for a chance at prestige and power. Lindalcon could not believe his father would want his link to his family destroyed, no matter what might befall him.

The deciding blow had come when Thranduil had interrupted one such argument, admonishing the youth never to speak to Meril in so insolent and disrespectful a manner ever again, and drew her out of Lindalcon's room and away to his. Since that day, he had avoided them as much as possible, taking meals with the others apprenticed to the Councilors, or with Fearfaron, and slipping into his own rooms to sleep without bothering to let his mother know he had returned.

It had hurt him terribly the first time he returned late and she had not been there waiting for him, a mixture of anger and relief washing over her features.

The carpenter helped as he could, which was to say he listened to Lindalcon wail and rant against this terrible injustice against Valtamar. The youth could only remember, this was all of his father that remained, an idea frozen in the young one's mind of a doting parent and fierce protector, eternally courageous and true. Their family had been perfect, their life idyllic, their future secure in the boundless bond between his parents. Meril's new status threatened to utterly disperse the visions her son was so desperately clinging to as he struggled with his grief.

Fearfaron felt for the elfling, but knew there was no remedy for the anguish he was undergoing other than age and wisdom. Even with these inimitable teachers, he felt it would be all Lindalcon could do to master the most basic semblance of resignation and stoic acceptance. The carpenter found he was unable to encourage forgiveness and understanding, uncertain if he would be able to manage those himself, were he in a similar situation. Instead, he simply offered friendship, and this grew from their shared outrage over the rest of the population's ability to so quickly forget the Lost Warriors and from their common interest in the fallen archer.

They seldom spoke of their fears for Legolas' fate, which accrued as time continued and no word from him arrived by messenger. They had to be satisfied with the accounts of his activities from the woodsmen, and after a year the report came back that the wild elf had left the central forest to venture ever closer to Dol Guldur. Fearfaron and Lindalcon could not share their horror at what this might mean for their friend. Instead they reassured each other, constructing flimsy rationales for his long absence and pretending they were utterly sound.

While Fearfaron could not sense Tawar as Legolas now did, he yet was more attuned to the trees than many of his kith and kin in the Greenwood, it being his trade to handle wood and walk in the arms of the trees in the deeps of the forest all his days. There had been times during the last two years when he had become suddenly overwhelmed with worry and dread as he stood by the Sentinel, convinced that some dire danger was besetting his adopted son. Only twice had he felt anything of a positive nature from the ancient tree. Most of the time, the Sentinel just waited and watched, as had been its way for centuries out of time.

Four days after Legolas learned the truth about Malthen, then the old beech very nearly rended itself into kindling as the shock wave of the wild elf's grief and rage rolled through the Greenwood's nerves and reached the stronghold. Fearfaron had wept in despairing terror as he watched the frenzy of the hardwoods, writhing and scraping their limbs in outrage while not a wisp of a wind moved through the still summer air to account for the reaction. The carpenter had feared to touch the Sentinel, dreading he would learn that what he prayed against had come to pass: Legolas was dead.

The bizarre disturbance set the whole community on edge, and great was the audience in the Council's Chambers the following day as the Sylvan folk sought an explanation.

Now Thranduil was apprised of the curiously ominous windless thrashing of the forest and had seen for himself that the reports were true. He was not raised in the ways of the Woodland folk, however, and so he found nothing overly portentous in the event. He immediately suspected the Masters of Dol Guldur, for nothing as simple as an infestation of spiders or a stray band of Orcs would promote such an unprecedented reaction among the trees. The Sinda ruler had none of the superstitious nature he scorned in his subjects, and found no need to search for additional reasons for the Greenwood's distress. Prophecies and portents, he found, did not make the struggle any easier, and in his opinion created a tenancy among the Danwaith to hold back, to endure fate rather than strike out against the evil.

Throughout the long night, Thranduil heard the pleas and prayers of his subjects begging the Valar for protection for the Sylvan folk from the dread doom they feared must be approaching.

Unlike the carpenter, the King would be the last to ever suspect the explanation would involve his former heir. Unlike the citizens of his Realm, Thranduil did not associate with the woodsmen that sometimes came to trade goods, and thus he had heard nothing of the emergence of a protector of the humans in the southern regions, Tirno, a fighter of renown against Orcs and Wraiths alike.

Yet his subjects had heard these tales and through them knew their disgraced prince yet lived. A fair number wondered if he was somehow involved.

Following Annaldír's Release, the Wood Elves had begun to take notice of Legolas' activities with greater excitement. They began to question how it could be possible for one elf alone to accomplish these things, and had gone to the Council for answers. There had been plenty of lines of old script the elder Eldar were only too willing to ascribe to this new champion, and the Sylvan folk began to hope that their forest would be released from the spreading Shadow of evil.

It was expected of their King to attend this Council, Thranduil knew, rather than summoning the Councilors to his throne room as he normally did. An appearance within the confines of their power was required to assure the population of his proper respect for the Council's authority in interpreting the more philosophical and esoteric aspects of the Wood Elves' existence. He would have to suffer through the reading of possible prophecies that might be forewarned by the unusual agitation in their home. He sighed, aggrieved to have to endure the endless hours of arguing and debate, as one group after another ascribed either dire or beatific fortunes to the strange occurrence, brandishing scrolls and ragged old tomes alleged to back their cases.

He had already dispatched extra patrols to seek out and hastily report back regarding any corresponding movement of the Orcs outside his boundaries near the Central Mountains. This, he was certain, was behind the event, and nothing more. That was more than enough reason for the Greenwood's travail of creaking fury.

From his balcony Thranduil watched the steady influx of elves into the stronghold's inner courtyard as minuial approached. They clustered in restrained apprehension, waiting impatiently for the Council to convene its session. While there was no reason he knew of to demand it, as most of the Woodland folk preferred the evening twilight, the Council always convened as the first sunray broke over the horizon.

Which none of them have ever seen, I would wager, he mused.

The tension lifting off the gathered throng had quite spoiled his appetite for breakfast and marred his quiet indulgence in Meril's companionship before the day's duties began. They were seated together there as on any other day for the past five years. Thranduil sighed in irritation.

"You will need to tread lightly today, my King," the royal consort gently warned and reached across to squeeze her hand over Thranduil's where it rested upon the table between them.

"I have been dealing with such nonsense for centuries," the sharp edged words fell from his frowning lips as he stared at her and removed his hand. "Are you now presuming to teach me the ways of my court, Meril?"

The Danwaith inu was unperturbed by the caustic reprimand, however, and presented a serenely patient smile as she shook her head.

"I would have you heed the ways of my people, no more."

"That, also, I have done for time out of counting."

"In that case, perhaps you should spend a small amount of this day's allotment of time to listening. Or do you not consider your subjects' thoughts and impressions worthy of your acknowledgement?"

Rather than feeling wrath or rage for this outburst, Thranduil actually smiled appreciatively. Meril never spoke idly, and this was her way of telling him there was gossip in the city of which he should take note. She knew something. Well, that is an understatement; she finds out every bit of dubious blethering passed from lip to ear in the Realm. he thought. He expected her to enlighten him at the evening meal, and her request took on new layers of interest. She wanted him to hear what her people were saying now, how the gossip was changing in light of the previous day's activity.

"You will not attend?" he queried.

"Nay," she shook her head, "I have much to do this day, as summer draws closer to its ending. Soon I will have even less freedom, and so I mean to enjoy these warm waning days under Anor's rule."

Thranduil gave her a small smile and took her hand back within his own, carrying it to his lips to impress the slightest of caresses upon her fingertips. With a less frustrated mind the Woodland King rose and left the balcony, entering their shared suite to ready himself for the ensuing conclave.

These were not his old bachelor's chambers, kept during his years with Ningloriel. Neither were they Meril's previous accommodations, situated in the guest's quarters of the stronghold. Instead, the King had ordered the renovation of an entirely different part of his fortress, utilizing several rooms hitherto relegated to visiting dignitaries. This apartment comprised a voluminous cluster of high-ceilinged caverns, adjoined through a cleverly constructed series of archways linking room to room, from the outer receiving parlors to the inner circle of the couples' private grotto. These portals were artfully concealed in the foremost domains, limiting admission to the secluded boudoir to all but a select few servants.

The couple's suite opened out onto the balcony overlooking the magnificent walled gardens. In the midst of the drear of the half-lit woods, this was a brightly sun-drenched oasis of Anor's glory, and numerous plants grew here that could never survive the eternal shade of the canopy's cover. A winding stone stepway had been cut into the outer surface of the rock for convenient access, an unprecedented act, for previously such contrivances had been viewed as breeches of safety. But Meril disliked the long trek through the fortress required to reach her garden haven, and so Thranduil had ordered the work. Beyond the walled terrace, the gallery allowed a clear view of the stronghold's courtyard and gates.

The apartment had become a haven for him, something of a personal surprise, for his original intent had been to secure a place for his new mate and their offspring far from his own chambers. Those he scarcely frequented anymore, abandoning them almost totally after the first year of their cohabitation. For where Ningloriel had been derisive and argumentative, scathing in her disgusted recriminations whenever he attempted to touch her, Meril was willing and even adventurous in their amorous endeavors. And while Thranduil had enjoyed his share of lovers over the bitter centuries of his marriage to Ningloriel, those had never been other than outlets for carnal lust.

With Meril, there was something more.

Meril graced her station with a calm dignity the source of which had at first completely flummoxed Thranduil. She was, after all, just a common Danwaith, not born of any noble line or even of any prestigious family. Her people were all warriors, and while there was nothing but fierce courage reported about them, still this did not seem to account for the sense of authority with which she carried herself.

It had soon become apparent however, that her contentment lay in the prospect of becoming a mother again, and bearing the heirs to her people's lands. This she took to be an honorable fate, a way to lessen the desolation left by the loss of Valtamar. Her acceptance of her role had been virtually immediate, and seemingly the dissolution of her bond to her dead husband was not a troubling matter.

This made the King vaguely uneasy. Thranduil was positively pleased with her attitude regarding children but considered that perhaps there were areas of Law and Custom he should reinvestigate. He could not fathom how such disregard for so serious a matter as a marriage bond could be possible among one of the usually ritualistic and symbol plagued Danwaith.

While he thought on these things the King had dressed and left for the Council Chamber. As soon as he reached the main hallway, he was nearly run down by the speeding form of Lindalcon, hastening to his post. Thranduil snatched at the elfling's arm, but the youth was quick and evaded the grasp, acknowledging the encounter with scarcely more than a cursory glare over his shoulder.

"Slow down!" the King ordered, but Lindalcon ignored him and kept going. Furious at such insolence, Thranduil sped after him, and in less than five strides had caught up a fistful of the elfling's flying hair and yanked him back hard. This made Lindalcon cry out and he grabbed at the hand holding him thus, trying to pry himself loose. "Do not behave as though you neither saw nor heard me! When I speak to you, answer!" Thranduil growled.

"Let go! I have to get to the Council, leave me be!" Lindalcon shouted and turned to pound against Thranduil's arm with his fist.

"Stop at once! I will have a respectful apology from you, Usurper, or assign you a new post in the stables!"

"That would suit me well, I despise your stupid caves!" Lindalcon shouted and attempted to land a kick in a very sensitive area. This maneuver failed, for Thranduil easily stepped back, smirking as Lindalcon then overbalanced and nearly upended, remaining upright only because of Thranduil's grip of his tresses.

The King pulled him back to surer footing by his hair, causing another jarring snag, and Lindalcon screwed his eyes tight to keep the tears of humiliation from falling. Thranduil laughed.

"What, does that smart, elfling? Fortunate for you that your mother is a loving parent and convinced that old Elda to take you on, for you are far too flimsy and delicate to ever have lasted as a warrior. Why, I believe you are the first male in her line not to take up the bow, is not that so? How grateful your father must be to know he will never meet you in Mandos' Halls, if he ever gets there." he mocked.

That was too much for Lindalcon. With a sudden rush of enraged energy he pulled back and landed a solid hit bearing the full weight of his gangly adolescent form into the King's stomach. A loud hiss as all the air fled Thranduil's lungs sounded in accompaniment to his release of the elfling's hair as he bent awkwardly over to steady himself. Lindalcon took the opportunity to complete his previous foot action and was mightily pleased at the pained sound and low crouch this initiated from his adversary.

"Do not ever speak of my father! None of this would have happened if not for you! You sent him there to his death! You are the kinslayer, not Legolas!" the youth screamed into the disabled regent's ear.

While the attack had come as a complete surprise, Thranduil recovered quickly and before his assailant could flee he had hold of Lindalcon's slender neck with one hand and unsheathed a fine mithril dagger with the other. He pressed it close to the youth's ear and squeezed around the throat, a menacing gloat upon his features.

"That is treasonous talk, Usurper! Think carefully of Legolas' fate, for a similar one can be arranged for you. It is only for your mother's sake that I allow you here at all," he said with reptilian coldness, and laughed at the fear spreading through Lindalcon's eyes as he struggled to gain breath and clawed at the hand sealing his airway. Thranduil shoved him back with a disgusted curse, releasing him, and stood over the gasping elfling sprawled on the floor. "Now, I believe you have something you wish to say to me?"

Lindalcon massaged his sore neck carefully and gazed up with a mixture of dread and loathing at his regent. He felt his eyes filling and knew that even if he succeeded in preventing a spill he could not keep the tears from invading his voice, and how much pleasure that would give this vindictive charlatan of a stepfather. He swallowed and cleared his throat before trying.

"I apologize, my King, for my rude behavior," he spoke the wavering words and inwardly cringed to see the malignant triumph in the older elf's sneering smile.

"How simply done," he quipped, "Had you any sense under those locks that is what you would have done forthwith. Then, you would not have to be punished for being late, as well as for your unwarranted accusations." With that unpleasant promise of further torment, the King adjusted his clothing and sheathed his dagger. "Oh, and do not bother to go to your mother regarding this matter; I intend to inform her fully as soon as the session is adjourned." Thranduil casually stepped over the elfling, who scrabbled back against the wall to get out of the way, and strode off down the passageway.

Slowly Lindalcon righted himself, sniffing hard to prevent the further embarrassment tear tracks would lend to his appearance. Which was a shambles, he realized, as he tried to brush off the dusty dirt from his leggings and tunic, unable to reach the worst of it in back. And my hair must look a horrendous tangle.he sighed and he tried to smooth it back in place, with little results. There was no time to go and repair his dishevelment; he had been late already before the unfortunate incident occurred. If only he had stayed at Fearfaron's talan through the night, as the carpenter had suggested, this would not have come to pass. There was nothing to be done, he would have to go to the Council just as he was and bear the curious and disapproving looks from his colleagues and his mentor.

With a heavy heart and an equally ponderous breath Lindalcon set off in the King's wake, no longer bothering to attempt a rapid arrival. He could not believe what he had just done, and feared what his punishment might entail. If the King held to his assertion of treason, he might even have to face several hours in one of the stronghold's black cells. Lindalcon shuddered in revulsion and terror; he had heard these dungeons existed but had never had the nerve to go exploring and seek them out. It was not knowledge he wished to confirm first hand.

He shook his head. Surely his mother would never allow that to happen. She would talk the King into clemency and spare her first-born that torture, at least. But he knew he would never be able to convince her of his justification for so behaving to his 'protector'. She considered his plight a great honour, and admonished him to show courtesy and gratitude for the many benefits being the King's stepson accorded him.

And never does she believe me when I tell her of the coldly ruthless looks the King sends in my direction when she is not around. He plays the indulgent and long-suffering father figure everytime she is near, but turns on me completely the moment we are alone. How I despise him! he thought. He groaned dejectedly as he imagined the hurt and anxious expression his mother's face would hold when the fact that he had not only been rude, but had actually struck the King was revealed. Not for the first time Lindalcon wondered how Legolas had ever survived the weight of Thranduil's hatred for so many years.

He had reached the Council chambers while fretting over these things, and could hear the quiet intonation of one of the Eldar reading from a scroll. It was the opening incantation, and he dared not walk in as it was being spoken. As soon as the invocation was completed, he slipped through the archway and attempted to unobtrusively edge his way over to his mentor, hugging the shadowed walls as he went. As he progressed, he gazed upon the crowded room and was amazed to see so many elves in audience, despite Fearfaron's prediction that this would be the case. Lindalcon was pleased to see the carpenter there as well, and sent a reassuring smile in answer to the worried brows raised in response to his rumpled attitude.

A hand snatching at his collar, attached to the person of his mentor, halted Lindalcon's motion and the irked Councilor frowned in distaste at the improper conduct and manner of his protégé. The old Elda said nothing, however, and released the elfling, motioning with his chin for Lindalcon to attend him. The Councilor pointed to a table holding an armload of scrolls and two great books, and with a sigh the apprentice took them up, attempting to order them according to the Elda's preferred hierarchy. Together they approached the dais whereupon the King was seated this day.

"My Lord King, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. If I may begin by saying the concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," the ancient Elf stated formally. He had been alive and a member of this Council since before Oropher's time as King, and now he was simply called Iarwain, the oldest. Iarwain never failed to emphasize the distinction between the Sindar rulers and their Sylvan subjects.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," Thranduil returned the correct reply.

"As you say, my Lord," the Councilor bowed his head in respect. "Now I ask you to hear the thoughts of your subjects regarding the extreme distress of our Woods at yestermorn. Here are the words of Hûngalen [Green-heart], my forebear from the time before the rising of Ithil:" he held out his hand and Lindalcon plopped the required text upon his palm. Iarwain unrolled it with carefully exaggerated aplomb and began to read.

"'Heed the movements of the forest, for the trees know much that occurs in distant places and will share this knowledge with the Laiquendi.'

"And further, he speaks of additional vigilance:

"'Should the trees be disturbed for reasons not of nature, be sure the reason is truly not of nature, but of the Black One seeking to corrupt the lands.'" The old elf returned the scroll and kept his hand out, awaiting the next. As Lindalcon struggled to disentangle it from the stack, another Councilor stepped forward and raised his hand, palm outfacing, the manner in which a request to interrupt the speech was made. Thranduil acknowledged this demand, much to Iarwain's ire.

"With your indulgence, my Lord, I think these words are clearly understood and none will dispute that the signs of yesterday are not events of natural cause. Permit me to read to you this text of prophecy from the First Age:

"'In days of peace will come the stench of war's breath, and the Darkness will strive against the Tawarwaith.' Now, I say this reference is directly to our situation," he said and stepped back.

Thranduil scowled. Had not this thick-skulled Elda simply repeated the first Councilor's claims? Yet the room was filled with soft murmurs from the ordinary folk who were in attendance, and a sharper edge had somehow found its way into the atmosphere within the cavern.

"I see that this is so; and let me assure all here that I have already sent out troops to reconnoiter the movements of the Orc host befouling our Central Mountains. They will encroach no further, and my warriors will foil whatever evil plot they have devised," the King reassured, and received an unexpected response. A great uproar of disapproval arose among the Councilors and the common folk alike.

"You must call them back!"

"How could you do this without consulting us?"

"You dare interfere with the fates? You will drive the beasts straight towards Tirno!"

"He has crossed the prophecy!"

"Aye, we do not even know where Tirno is at this time!"

Now Thranduil's confusion doubled and his irritation deepened.

"Silence!" he shouted and rose up to command the elves' attention. With some grumbling they settled down again, and waited for their King's justification for his hasty action. "I know not why this disturbs you good folk; it is the principle purpose of my reign to protect the Greenwood and her inhabitants from those accursed creatures. Surely this is the way to heed such a prophecy," he said in exasperation.

"This text does not use the name 'Tawarwaith' to refer to the Sylvan folk in general, my King," spoke Lindalcon's mentor with patient albeit condescending tones. "The words indicate Tawar's champion. We believe this warrior has arisen among us and is now trying to stem the evil that threatens to awaken even the dark pits of Utumno."

Thranduil observed the way the elves signaled their agreement with Iarwain and their dismay that the King did not understand these things. He recalled now that the Councilors had already advanced this idea some years ago, and received assurances from him that no new military action would proceed beyond their borders without first knowing what was happening to the lone warrior in the southern regions. He had ignored it as more of their symbolic religious prattling, never considering the 'forest champion' to be an actual living elf from his Realm.

"Tawar's champion," he spoke the words with guarded care, though they were bitter on his lips. "Who is this warrior, and why does he persist in such endeavors singly, when the King would readily assist any who stand against the Darkness?" he demanded, and was again thrown into confusion, this time by the depth of the silence that filled the great chamber. New and deeper lines of frustration creased his forehead as he met the eyes of each of his six Counselors, yet none spoke. The expression on their faces, however, filled the King with foreboding. His heart tilted with a sense of having prophesied his own future in those simple words, and he feared to hear the answer to his query, already suspicious as to the truth.

A movement in the assembly drew Thranduil's eye and he watched as a tall and willowy elf came forward all the way to the dais. His eyes were gleaming in what appeared to be triumphant pride, and he could barely suppress the gleeful smile struggling to transform his sober countenance. The elf was familiar, and the King realized he was often hanging about by the courtyard gates, but he knew not what name he bore.

"My King, may a humble carpenter speak in this forum?" said Fearfaron, for it was he.

"Of course, all may say here what they feel needs to be heard. The more welcome will your speech be if you can remove your King's ignorance," said Thranduil carefully, feeling more and more like a rat in a trap. He had no choice now but to play this out, having set the course of the discussion himself.

"I will gladly answer your request, my Lord," came the spirit hunter's answer and he made a deep bow as apology for the disrespect of admitting the King's lack of knowledge to his face.

Yes, perhaps just a bit too gladly, thought Thranduil with displeasure, and silently swore to know all he could of this craftsmen before tinnu.

"Yet, I would ask you to say again, that all may understand your intentions. Do you mean that the Tawarwaith has your endorsement, and even may count on the aid of our archers in future?" Now he lifted his eyes and met Thranduil's and the two gazes warred for supremacy in the chilling brightness of their respective glares.

At last Thranduil inclined his head, never averting his sight from the carpenter's deceptively placid features. "I would support any who fight against the Darkness; this has always been the primary objective of my sovereignty. If this Tawarwaith is such a one, then he will have my backing," he said, and again his own words had the ring of doom to his ears, and he frowned, certain he would long regret his hastily misspoken thoughts. "Now, tell me of this champion."

Fearfaron inclined his head and smiled, and his gaze strayed to the side and found Lindalcon, who was decidedly delighted and could scarcely be still.

"The Tawarwaith is called by many names, Sire. To the humans inhabiting the central forest he is Tirno-en-Tawar, and so many call him Tirno. Others prefer just to say Tawarwaith, as is used in the old texts. Some there are that name him Hecilo, yet these are not his friends. I call him by his given name: Legolas."

In the silence that followed, Thranduil sat down again upon his chair and observed his subjects keenly. The fallen prince clearly had garnered a measure of support in the five years since the first Warrior's Release, a surprisingly hefty majority, in fact. It was a clever bit of manipulation, and the King was unable to determine who was behind it; that was more disturbing than the actual subterfuge. Somehow, he had been cornered into defying his own order of banishment. Not only that, he had publicly promised assistance to a creature he had hoped never to encounter or acknowledge ever again.

Even from Aman, Ningloriel's mocking laughter reached him.

Tbc

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