Note: and here is a bumper chapter – I just could not decide where to leave it, so I didn't.

Chapter thirteen: The One That Hides

The young leader's mind had been cast into utter chaos, and he found himself struggling to order the events that had assaulted his normally logical thought processes.

Arhad was a brave captain, not given to fantasy. He was dour and cold, emotionless to all that did not know him better. He was efficient and often merciless, sometimes given to sarcasm and irony that had, at times, earned him a reputation as being somewhat – bitter. And wasn't he? mused Halbarad, for the man had lost his child, his only son, in the same raid that had taken Arador to the gates of glory.

It was not uncommon to have lost an heir, not for the Northern Dunedain, for ever since the Purge had started, the male members of their society were becoming fewer – everyone had lost someone dear, someone close to their hearts, be they brothers, fathers, lovers…

And here was Halbarad's problem – Arhad, of all people, had been the one to report an event that was, quite simply, impossible. What had happened to the man? What trauma had he endured that would lead him to such a belief?

He suddenly wished with all his heart, that Arathorn were there. The man was much older than he, wiser, and more experienced in the ways of elves. It was also the case that Arathorn was acquainted with the wizard Gandalf. Yet what was he thinking? Wizards were nothing more than spiritual men – like Minulbên – given to philosophical wanderings and questions that had no import on everyday life, nothing to do with survival.

He shook his head, chastising himself, for Gandalf would be capable of things Halbarad could not imagine – magic. Yet he had never seen it, and to believe it – he needed to know it was real – he simply could not relinquish the attainment of truth to the words of another. Yet if magic did exist, then he knew himself at a disadvantage with this, his wont for proof.

Whichever the case, as a leader, it was his duty to remain neutral, until such time that Arathorn could call a council and decide upon these, troubling questions. The speculation had gone on for far too long – it was time, time to pull together and agree upon their common cause, however uncomfortable that made some of the more prominent members of their society, no matter how difficult it was for him to finally confront his own fears.

While he pondered, his legs had unconsciously led him back to the healing tent, and to Gethron's side at Eldonar's bed.

Nodding, he sat some distance away.

"How is your son, Lord Gethron?" he asked.

"He has an arrow wound to the shoulder, and a cut to the stomach that will be painful," said the councilor almost distractedly.

"Has he said anything – about what happened?" insisted Halbarad, trying to keep his tone light.

"Nothing that I could comprehend, my Lord. He has uttered but a few words in his delirium. However I believe that something has harrowed him greatly, for he was most agitated. He begs forgiveness, and then calls for Menel – I fear, I fear what may have occurred, that he may have – erred in some way."

"Gethron, Eldonar is a novice, the purpose of Arhad's unit was one of learning – should he indeed have made some kind of mistake – it would be a logical occurrence – he is learning the ways of the Dunedain warriors."

"I know, Halbarad, I know, and yet seldom have I seen him so … emotionally distraught; it unnerves me – you know the boy – he is arrogant and exuberant and… all things popular in a lad his age..., and what if – what if they have done something to him – what if they are not the allies we suppose them to be?"

"Arhad's report was – strange, this I will confess. He speaks of a great host of evil, much bigger than any that have been encountered by a single unit. I wager he was overwhelmed with the odds, his mind not capable of recounting it as it truly happened."

"Perhaps," said the councilor skeptically, for he too, knew the curt captain. "Are the visitors to dine with us this eve?" asked Gethron.

"Aye, perhaps they will tell us of it, although they seem – distrustful."

"They cannot remain silent the entire evening – we will just have to read between the lines, ask the right questions," said the councilor.

"And that is your art, Gethron – together with Minulbên, I wonder if you can piece this conundrum together."

"We will certainly try, my Lord," he said, a spark returning to his shrewd eyes, at the promise of what the evening would bring. "And if elven treachery is revealed, I will have my satisfaction, my Lord. I will exact vengeance should they have harmed my boy…"

"Peace, Gethron. I do not believe that to be the case. Keep your able mind open and your wits sharp, for if they are distrustful, we of the Dunedain, are nothing but suspicious.

…..

"Nara said one of them has blond hair and bright blue eyes, and the fairest skin she has ever seen, even on a woman," chuckled Brietta as she helped Kennis prepare the lady's attire for the evening.

"And how did she come by that? They have hidden themselves away – she must have spied upon them…" said Kennis, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

"She wouldn't do that, - I wager it was but a waft of air that lifted the flap of their tent – now she also said, and don't miss this; the other blond has eyes as green as moss, and the body of a …."

"Brietta!"

Both women dissolved into light-hearted chuckling as their imaginations ran wild.

"What is this? – you forget your place," said Lady Ivorwen as she entered the tent, already dressed for the evening meal.

"We beg pardon, my Lady, 'twas but a moment of humour we shared," said a wide-eyed Brietta, bowing deeply and then keeping her head lowered in respect, for Lady Ivorwen was highly regarded by her people.

"A moment of humour that does not amuse me, Brietta," said Ivorwen sternly as she walked past the two women, and through an adjacent flap that led into the bathing area of the well-appointed tent allotted to Gilraen and Arathorn, a hidden smile upon her otherwise stern features.

…..

The water was still pleasantly warm, relaxing her tense muscles and sending her into a state of semi-vigil, yet she was conscious enough to continue with her musings, as she tried one more time, to control her emotions, to temper her rising anxiety at this, so far uncontrollable cascade of events.

She had not been present when her cousin Halbarad had heard Arhad's report – but it had not been necessary. There had been a mighty battle in the woods, one that by all accounts should have been impossible to survive. Yet the group of ten had returned with but superficial wounds, save for Eldonar and Menel. It was absurd, and no doubt simply not true, for she had heard this from the whispered gossip that was now running rampant in the second circle.

And yet she knew there would certainly be some truth to it, however exaggerated the numbers had become. Something strange had happened, that much was clear, for Halbarad had been absent all afternoon, and strange warriors had taken up residence in a guest tent not far from her own. Inside, were the five warriors that Arhad's itinerant group had picked up and seen fit to bring back – breaking the security barrier – trusting them enough to show them the location of their camp. Why? Who were these people?

Most seemed to believe they were elves, for the stable boys had reported that the halters on their horses had been of the finest worked leather, and one, specifically, had strange markings along the underside… Tengwar, perhaps. It would not surprise her, for although they had not dismounted, nor had they spoken, they sat tall upon their mounts, their bearings proud and strong.

Elves – warriors – strange occurrences in the woods. Her stomach flipped again and she breathed deeply to steady herself, the water now seeming a little too cold. Time to rise and dress, and to face whatever dinner had in store for her, for her family, time to distract herself once more from the inevitable train of thought her mind insisted on showing her, time and again. 'There is nothing special about this day,' she remembered saying to Kennis just that morning- how wrong she had been…

She wished that Arathorn would arrive, for although she trusted Halbarad, loved him, he was young and inexperienced. She was simply unsure of his capacity to act in this tense situation where the art of diplomacy would be king, and the best orator, the victor.

Wrapping herself in cloth, she stepped out of the bath, just as her mother ducked into the room.

"You must hurry – we must not miss anything that transpires this evening. Arathorn will need our input when he arrives."

"Yes, of course," said Gilraen dutifully, for there was no point in antagonizing her willful mother now, it would be counterproductive should she rile herself or Ivorwen, plus her mother was right, they needed the input; she, needed to know.

"And Aragorn?" asked Gilraen.

"Aragorn is washed and fed, and will soon be receiving his bedtime histories," replied Ivorwen, a small smile flitting over her stoic features, softening them for a moment.

"Minulbên sits with him then?" asked Gilraen hopefully, for her son adored the gentle, quiet philosopher.

"Aye, he does. He has a soft spot that man. He speaks to him of the stars and the clouds in the night sky – feeds him with too much fantasy, I dare say."

"Aragorn enjoys his lessons. He is fascinated by the heavens. Yesterday he learned of the big bear and the little bear. He already knows how to orientate himself just by finding them alone," said Gilraen proudly, a gentle smile on her face as she thought of her young son.

"That is good. I only wish the man would tell young Aragorn to draw something other than swords and trees, he is verily obsessed!"

Gilraen smiled, for it was indeed true; when the time came for artistic studies, he would draw – draw swords, or more specifically, the same sword over and over again. Sometimes he would draw colourful balls on its hilt, and others he would scribble swirly lines along the blade – an elven blade, of that there could be no doubt.

"Now, I do not say that is a bad thing," continued Ivorwen, "you know, some say that it was his stories that led Aragorn to…"

"Do not, mother. 'Tis not so and I have no patience for idle prattle."

"I know this," shot the woman, "yet that idle prattle comes from your people, Gilraen. You must learn to respect them," she said disapprovingly.

"Indeed, and they must learn to respect me," replied Gilraen, before breathing once more and calming herself. She had promised not to get herself worked up, and she was already failing miserably.

"Be that as it may," said Ivorwen as she stood behind the now sitting Gilraen to arrange her hair, "let us present to these strangers, the lady of the Dunedain," she said, collecting the thick silky locks and twisting them into ornate braids, fixing them one by one to her daughter's scalp gently.

It was times like these, the quiet moments when her mother braided her hair or helped with some such other chore, that Gilraen saw her as such, and not as the venerated lady she was, for Ivorwen was old and wise, gifted with the foresight of her ancestors – a true Dunedain woman, one Gilraen could only dream of one day becoming.

….

They were ready, and Legolas stood, looking down at Yaavan in his hands.

"I believe we should arm ourselves, Legolas. I can see the Dunedain are constantly armed and I cannot fault the wisdom of it," said Glorfindel, sliding his own sword into its ornate sheath at his belt.

"Yaavan cannot be worn on the belt, Glorfindel, it would leave me with a broken belt and my breeches around my knees…"

"Well Glorfindel would not complain," laughed Elladan as he secured his own sword. "Leave it; we are all armed, we will keep you safe," smirked the Herald, watching as a sour look blossomed over the king's face, just as he knew it would.

"I feel naked without it…"

"You cannot wear a halter and strap it to your back, Legolas, this is a dinner invitation and you are wearing a nice tunic, and of course Yaavan is enough to unnerve any who look upon her. You wear no cloak to conceal her – I believe the effect may be a little, antagonizing," said Galdithion, to which Gildor nodded his agreement.

"Very well," sighed Legolas, laying the sword down reverently and then covering it with his scant belongings. No one would take it, and if there were anyone bold enough to try, he would know, they would tell him.

Thus, with a swipe of the Herald's arm, the flap was open and the elves stood in plain sight for the first time since their arrival in the settlement. It was dusk, and the dark blue sky was clear and moonless. The natural luster of their hair seemed suddenly enhanced, as were the dazzling whites of their eyes and the glitter in their deeply-coloured irises – no, not human, not Dunedan, but distinctly elven, immortal warriors, singularly beautiful.

Two warriors stopped dead at the sight of them, their eyes slowly returning to their normal size, their hands moving surreptitiously away from the pommel of their swords. Dipping their heads in greeting, they moved on, talking quietly to each other. It puzzled Elladan somewhat, for these men had surely dealt with elves before. True it had been some time, but many of these warriors would be eighty or more, old enough to remember the old days when elves and humans rode together in their common goal to protect this land.

Of course they had not seen Legolas before, smirked Elladan to himself. And then when he thought about it – they five were a true mix of colours and facial features. None of them were similar in any way. Their hair colour and length, their noses, mouths, expressions, voices, physical complexion – everything was different save their height and their pointed ears.

So many questions were racing through his keen mind, questions he would attempt to answer at dinner – one that would be a challenge to his fledgling position as Herald – chief diplomat and representative of the elven High King. It was time to prove his worth and do his father proud. And so, setting his features, he strode forward beside Legolas, Glorfindel at the king's other side, and behind them, Gildor and Galdithion, hands resting casually upon the hilts of their elven blades, blades that would taste blood should any venture too close to their liege.

Their short journey on foot had cast the settlement into a buzzing, muted cauldron of gossip and conjecture, not that the elves were conscious of it – at least not as yet. They had stopped before a rather opulent looking tent where two ceremonial guards stood tall and proud in their polished armour, their pikes jutting to the heavens in an unmistakable message of warning. Herein are our lords, the lords of the Dunedain. Elladan pondered this, for here was pomp and ceremony – ancient attire and rich fabrics, elven weaponry and craftsmanship – it was hard to reconcile with their surroundings, their circumstances. The Dunedain had been a great people, had founded a great land and nation – his uncle's people. How the mighty are fallen, he mused, fallen yet not defeated, he added to himself, chastisingly, almost.

The two guards held the tent flaps open, and the five elves ducked inside, into warm candle light and the soft murmur of many voices, voices that stopped in unison as they were observed openly for the first time. Elladan held his eyes to the floor, as he knew the others would, for they had not yet been addressed, and courtesy demanded no eye contact until such time as they were invited to interact.

Halbarad understood this, and stood, his arms held out before him in open invitation, as their customs dictated of a leader greeting allies.

"Welcome, strangers. I am Lord Halbarad, acting leader of the Dunedain in my Lord Arathorn's absence. This," he gestured with his hand, "is Lady Gilraen, lady of the Dunedain and beloved wife of our Chieftain."

The introductions continued until the members sitting at the prominent end of the table had been introduced, their lines clearly stated, and therein lay the first challenge that Elladan would face that night – he must reveal their own lines, lest he insult their hosts. Indeed Halbarad and the entire gathering was staring expectantly at the dark-haired elf that stood a little further forward than the rest of his companions. There was nothing for it - no amount of immaculate reasoning would change this fact. He would openly identify them all, save that he would omit Legolas' kingship – it would not be a lie but a simple – omission.

"Well met, Lord Halbarad, Lady Gilraen. I am known to your lord husband Arathorn, for I am Elladan Elrondion of Imladris," he said with a reverent bow. Shocked stares were the only answer Elladan got, until slowly, one after the other, first the head of the table stood, swiftly followed by the entire party. The bow was returned slowly, and reverently, for here was a Noldorin prince, nephew of Tar Minyatur, no less, the nephew of their founding Lord, one who lived and died thousands of years ago and bestowed upon the Dunedain the gift of long life.

Elladan breathed deeply, an overwhelming sense of duty and responsibility suddenly assailing him – these were his people too – aye he was elven, an immortal of the line of Earendil and Elwing, but even so, they were close to him. This was what he had set out to discover; his own roots, his own loyalties, the part of him that would have been mortal, had he not already made his decision. It was as if he had suddenly discovered that missing part of himself and he belonged…

With the scrape of chairs, Elladan came back to himself and continued with his introductions. First gesturing towards the back, and to his lover; "Lord Galdithion of Imladris and the Greenwood, Lord Gildor Inglorion of Lothlorien, Lord Glorfindel of Imladris and Gondolin…"

Someone lost the wine in their mouth, mopping at the sprayed liquid that had landed on the table before him, and, most unfortunately, upon the velvet-clad shoulder of Gethron, who scowled at the man before turning his avid gaze back to the fore. It had been Arhad, realized Elladan, and suddenly, he realized that Gildor had been right, the man had assumed Glorfindel had been named after a great hero, rather than being one – he could imagine Galadriel's brother smirking in satisfaction behind him, Glorfindel's righteous satisfaction and the Dunadan captain's utter shock.

"Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin?" asked Captain Beldahar, his face a strange cross between horror and awe.

"Indeed, I am – old," said Glorfindel, not quite knowing how to resolve the situation. The High Constable was a warrior, an elf of great deeds upon the battle field, articulate as no other in questions of the military – but this game of diplomacy and politics was not to his liking – it was not what he excelled at.

"And to my right," continued Elladan, thus saving Glorfindel from further lame comments, "is Prince Legolas Thranduilion of the Greenwood."

The silence grew thicker, and for a moment, Elladan wondered if the Dunedain were starting to doubt them – for surely so many renowned elves could not be here, in this tent, sitting at the dinner table… It was but a fleeting worry that fled to the back of his mind, when Halbarad, visibly collecting himself and clearing his throat, broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Well then," he began, his voice too soft – vulnerable, almost. "This is a right royal party that honours us this night. Be you all welcome by the Dunedain," he said, gesturing with his hand to the table.

The five elves bowed and sat where they were shown, around the head of the table. Halbarad sat in the most prominent seat, flanked by Gilraen and Ivorwen to his left and Beldahar to his right, and then opposite the elves, Captain Arhad and councilors Gethron and Minulbên. They were trapped in a circle of warriors, politicians and lords, and Elladan rather thought their distribution to be most strategic.

"If I may enquire, Lord Halbarad," said Elladan lightly, "how are lieutenant Menel and Eldonar?"

"They are recovering satisfactorily with our healers, my Lord. Bethesda is our chief healer and cares for them personally," said Halbarad as he settled himself, watching as the elves arranged their tunics neatly behind them. His eyes were suddenly drawn to the mass of pale golden locks of the prince, the tips of which fell over the back of his chair, almost to the floor. Elladan knew only too well, the impact of Legolas' physical features upon those that laid eyes upon him for the first time, for had he not cast Imladris into utter chaos when he had first arrived for the Spring Festival? Indeed as the Herald's silver eyes rolled over the participants for the evening meal, he could see their attention wandering towards the king, before rapidly turning away as if they had committed some crime, as if they would not be permitted to look, or perchance be burnt should they look too long.

Wine was poured into a goblet before him and he reached out with his hand in eagerness. However, Galdithion cleared his throat as he too, reached for his wine, taking a gulp of it and holding the Herald's eyes, nodding only slightly before placing it on the table once more. It took Elladan a moment to understand what his lover had done, and when he did, he felt the urge to chastise him, nay beat him senseless – indeed perhaps he would later, in private. And so he drank deeply, now knowing there was no risk, and Halbarad watched, his shrewd eyes not missing the subtle play between the two elves, recognizing Galdithion's action for what it was.

"Tell us, then, my Lords, what brings you to our lands?" asked Halbarad as he sipped at his own wine, eyes riveted on the extraordinarily bright silver irises of his guest. The game had started and Elladan took a mental breath before answering.

"It has been too long since last we heard news of your people, my Lord. We have been concerned for some time at the lack of correspondence, and my lord father saw fit to send us out in search of answers," said Elladan calmly, knowing his words would not fully satisfy the young lord – indeed he was right, for the man held his gaze for a fraction longer than was necessary.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but there is surely some other reason, for Lord Elrond would not send out such elven lords and princes to carry out the duties of scouts…" said Halbarad coolly, Beldahar and Gethron subconsciously leaning forward just a little as they watched, and waited, hoping their young lord would not be overly direct.

Elladan had anticipated this, although perhaps not Halbarad's forthright manner – yes he was young, but not devoid of skill. He was bold and blunt, with a good dose of protocol to smooth it over, but he had also detected a vulnerability to him – something that had the man in a permanent state of self-defense.

"Indeed not, my Lord. We have other issues we wish to address with your leader. I believe he is due to arrive shortly, that we may bring these matters to the fore soonest," added the Herald. He had effectively told Halbarad that he would not tell him the rest of their agenda, that they would wait for Arathorn's arrival, and he now waited for the man's reaction.

"Yes, Lord Arathorn is reported to be within a day's ride, we do not have long to wait," he smiled somewhat falsely, before letting out a mighty "ahhh!" as roasted boar and skewered chicken began to appear upon the table before them. Wooden platters of vegetables and fruits and hot bread were placed strategically around the meat, and the people expressed their appreciation of the fine smells and careful presentation of the food that was being served. It was muted, but not the refined silence of Imladris, but rather a mixture of his father's Noldorin halls, and the effusiveness of the Silvan of the Greenwood.

"Welcome then, my friends, lords and princes from distant lands. We are honoured to dine with our allies this eve, and share in the bounties of Yavanna!" toasted Halbarad, to which

the people drank, but their eyes did not move from the group of elves. Elladan knew then, knew that the Dunedain would launch their verbal attack as soon as the meat hit his plate.

Legolas smirked at his own plate as he skewered some cut meat and transferred it to his own plate, helping himself then to the greens and fruits, and a hearty chunk of warm bread. Elladan knew not if he smirked for the joy of fine food upon his plate once more, one of the king's weaknesses, or whether he had read Elladan's mind, knowing that at any moment, Elladan would be forced to stay his own fork in favour of unwanted, albeit veiled interrogation.

"How does Imladris fare, Lord Elladan?" asked Gethron – "ah, but forgive me, I am Lord Gethron, councilor to the lord Arathorn," said the man, his smile just a little too silky for Elladan's liking.

"Well met, Lord Gethron. Imladris fares well, although news from other lands is not so optimistic, as I am sure you are aware," he began in his best, diplomatic voice, taking advantage of the moment to take a slice of the steaming pork into his mouth.

"Yes, our intelligence reports are of a similar nature. I assume you crossed the mountains and onto the Ashen Plains – you will have seen the devastation…" said Gethron, his eyes keen as he took a bite of his food, chewing it meticulously as he watched Elladan take a napkin to his mouth.

"We did, Lord Gethron, and I must say it surprised us, for the destruction seemed – excessive, as if it had been inflicted specifically for its geographical placement, shall we say." There, Elladan had made a first move to direct the conversation where he wanted it to go, instead of where he knew this shrewd councilor would endeavour to steer it.

"Some of us believe that to be indeed the case. Some postulate the Dark Lord has targeted that area for a purpose, yet the truth of it has yet to be established."

"Did you meet any resistance during your journey over the plains?" asked captain Beldahar lightly, obviously wanting to confirm that it had, indeed, been the elves who had massacred the moorhounds they had found, and Elladan saw no reasons not to do so.

"We did that, a pack of unholy beasts stalked us most uncannily, captain. You call them moorhounds, I believe," he said matter-of-factly, chewing on a crisp stalk of celery that had been filled with a delightful cheese he knew both Galdithion and Legolas would be gorging themselves on. He decided not to look though, for he needed to concentrate on this subtle war of wits that was now in full swing – he would not lose his focus for the simple pleasure of watching his Silvan brothers in gastronomical ecstasy.

"Moorhounds," spat Beldahar, as his kinsmen murmured their agreement. "Servants of Sauron – they slink in the mists – hidden by some sort of – magic, some dark art we have yet to fathom. There is a foulness to their claws that renders its prey witless, I pray you did not have the chance to find that out first hand," said the captain as he took a swig of his wine.

"Well, unfortunately, we were outnumbered and some of us were – affected by it, although not overly so, nothing a good night's rest could not rectify."

"You are lucky for your elven stamina, for that toxin renders a man almost paralyzed for hours, leaves a thumping headache in its wake and a weakness that lingers for weeks," said Beldahar, and Elladan knew the man had experienced it firsthand.

"Is there an antitoxin, Captain?"

"There is a substance that partially counteracts it – Bethesda can tell you more if you are interested – indeed I assume you are also a healer, my Lord, considering who your father is," said Beldahar.

"Indeed I am – my father will be most intrigued, and grateful for the knowledge your healer can provide," said Elladan, by now feeling rather proud of his efforts, for his strategy had so far kept the debate away from the more uncomfortable questions.

It was Halbarad who lent forward in interest, carefully watched by Gethron. "Prince Legolas, I would have you convey the best wishes of the Northern Dunedain to your liege lord King Thranduil," he said, and Elladan perceived a sharp drop in the noise level around the table.

"In his name, I thank you, Lord Halbarad. You and your people have the best wishes of the Silvan, Sindar and Avari of The Greenwood," said Legolas in a voice so smooth, so lovely it was hard to antagonize him, and Elladan recognized the strategy for what it was. Who would believe that very same voice was capable of great bellows and battle cries that set the skin to crawling and the eyes to watering?

"It has been many years since the Dunedain had contact with the great forest, the last time being, what, over forty years ago, I believe – forgive me, my Prince, but I was not yet born – captain Beldahar will remember it well though, do you not, captain?" asked Halbarad, passing the baton on.

"Indeed I did not venture there myself, but did collect the reports. They spoke of a darkening, of a poison of some sort that had started a blight that twisted the roots of the mighty trees and blackened the land – not unlike the events of the Ashen Plains, now that I think on it," said the warrior, lifting his face to Legolas expectantly.

Elladan observed, ready to intervene should the conversation take an inconvenient turn.

"The reports were correct, Captain, and that blight has spread over the last few years, so much that our warriors are hard pressed to patrol those lands, for there is an evilness to them, a willing, purposeful spell upon our forest that weighs heavily upon the soul – so much so that not all our warriors dare step inside the boundaries of the Mirkwood, as we now call that region, for fear they will lose their minds," said Legolas softly.

"Your news is dire, Prince; it is good that we speak of it, that we know our own plight is not as – singlular – as we had thought," said Beldahar, and seemed sincere in that – there was no scheming in his words, only the natural curiosity of a warrior.

Legolas smiled reassuringly at the earnest captain. "It is an inevitable part of war, is it not – the sadness that comes with loss – of family and friends, of land and – hope. It is the warrior's sprit that endures – be he or she warrior or no – it is this we must bolster, together, in order to bring Him down and reclaim what is ours."

The table was silent, and Gilraen's eyes were wide, as were Minulbên's. The man made as if to speak, but it was Elladan who beat him to it, the conversation needed redirecting – urgently.

"Captain Arhad, I trust you are somewhat recovered from our battle?" smiled Elladan as he ate a slice of meet casually, his toes curling inside his boots when he realized the potential for this conversation to go awry, too.

"My Lord, I do not believe I will ever be recovered from that," he said, and Halbarad chuckled.

"Well, if your report was not exaggerated, you are lucky to be alive!" he said, filling his mouth with meat and wine.

Elladan held his peace as he knew the others would – they would go along with whatever Arhad said, and elaborate as little as possible.

"We were lucky to have such great warriors on our side, my Lord. I have never seen such skill, such technique. Tell me, Lord Legolas, are those moves unique to your lands?" asked the captain, and Elladan was left wondering if the man had redirected the conversation purposefully. His suspicions were confirmed when Legolas began talking, and Arhad spared Elladan a furtive glance, one that was not missed by Halbarad, observant that he was.

"The end result is unique to a specific unit within our army, Captain, yet its multiple origins lie in almost all the elven cultures. It draws on Noldorin sword work, Silvan knife play, Avarin hand-to-hand, and then is meshed by the martial art form of Gondolin."

"The result is hard to comprehend," said Arhad enthusiastically, drawing Beldahar into the conversation. "When you watch," he began, gesticulating with his hands, "'tis as if you look upon water, for the movements are fluid, sometimes hard to follow for the speed of them. Movements are circular," he continued, his arms moving around as if he could show them what he meant, "circular and then linear – round and round, and then front to back. It is dizzying and requires much skill, I tell you."

Glorfindel was watching the man, no doubt thinking how similar they were in this, their passion for the martial arts.

"And you practise this art?" asked Minulbên carefully – too carefully, and Elladan was immediately alert once more, for the man's eyes sparkled with nascent understanding - of what he could not yet say.

"I do, as does Lord Elladan. I implemented it after many years of study and trial. Perhaps one day it will be incorporated into our mainstream army," said Legolas, knowing full well that it would – indeed it would be the basis of the new United Elven Army.

"I for one would be intrigued to see this for myself," said Beldahar. Perhaps once our Lord returns you will spar with us?"

"I would be delighted, Captain," said Legolas happily, smiling genuinely at the captain. "And I am sure Lord Glorfindel would, too – for there is no better swordsman," he said proudly.

"Aragorn, come back here now, Aragorn!"

Gilraen stood in alarm, as did Halbarad, and Legolas turned in his seat, his eyes immediately locking with the bright silver eyes of a young boy, standing in shocked stillness, his nightdress pooling around his bare feet. Swirling silver eyes met stunning green and neither could look away. The boy's mouth was lax but his eyes danced with emotions Elladan was not quite able to identify. This was the one they had come for, future King of men.

"Aragorn, go with Kennis, now," said Gilraen softly, but the boy stood stock still and Minulbên's eyes widened in what seemed like understanding, or perhaps it was confirmation. Elladan was drawn back to the boy, who took one simple step backwards, as if afraid and yet still, he could not look away.

Legolas was transfixed, his eyes weighing too heavily upon one so small, and Elladan was inclined to break the moment, but too late, for the boy spoke, soft and young, yet fluid and confident, and Elladan's skin prickled painfully.

"You search for one that hides…"

All conversation came to an abrupt halt as eyes darted between their young Lord and the Prince. Whatever had just passed between them had been transcendental, although why they could not have said.

After a moment, the boy spun on his heels and fled, a now flustered Kennis behind him. Gilraen looked to the table for a moment in desperation, before glancing at her mother in silent question. Ivorwen simply nodded and Gilraen was gone, not before casting a glance at the green-eyed elf, a look that Elladan did understand, for behind the woman' eyes, was shock, hope, fear, and anger.

Character list:

Elves:

Legolas – Hwindo – Hwindohtar – High King, Lord of the Forest, Protégé of Yavanna

Glorfindel – High Constable of the United Elven Army

Elladan – Herald to the High King

Gildor – Lorien Constable, half-brother of Galadriel

Galdithion – Greenwood Constable

Dunadain:

Halbarad – Acting Chieftain of the Dunedain, in Arathorn's absence

Gilraen – Lady of the Dunedain, wife of Arathorn

Ivorwen – Gilraen's mother

Aragorn – Heir of Arathorn, currently 6 years of age

Gethron - Councillor

Minulbên – Councillor and philosopher / stargazer

Brietta – maid

Kennis – maid

Zadnazir – ex Ranger, informant, proprietor of the Slaughtered Lamb in Crossmoor

Arhad – Dunedain Captain

Eldonar – Ranger apprentice

Calrenair – Ranger apprentice

Denhir – Ranger apprentice

Beldahar – Dunedain Captain

Bethesda – Chief Healer of the Dunedain