As Captain of the Court Guard, Govon's days were fuller than ever; as well as his own training, he had to oversee his new command and take advice from Bregon and Esgaron concerning his new duties.

One upside was that, since his days now needed to start earlier, and citing his reluctance to disturb his sister when leaving for work each morning, he had the reason he needed to move out of the family chambers without hurting her feelings.

'For the duration of my training, and the expedition,' he'd said. 'Besides, you're always complaining about my weapons chest being in the way,' and Merlinith had grudgingly accepted it.

Perhaps she assumed he would be moving in to the barracks, or perhaps she was finally starting to realise that Legolas was more than simply a friend, but she never actually asked Govon where he would be living.

'As long as you let me make supper some nights for you, you and your friend, I suppose it will be all right,' was all she had said on the matter.

So Govon was working harder and training more and adjusting to his new command, each day full and interesting, and at the end of it the knowledge he was going home to Legolas, an arrangement that suited them both admirably.

One morning a few days before they were due to depart for the meeting with Imladris and just as a silken, silver dawn lit the skies, he was woken by a repeated, insistent knocking at the door.

Legolas stirred in his arms, waking, calling out that he was on his way, but when the prince finally left the bed to investigate, the knocking had ceased and he returned with a folded note and a surprised expression.

'Melleth, it's for you.'

Govon took the note and read it. 'Ha! I knew this morning would come! His majesty King Thranduil Oropherion requires my attendance at the sparring chambers before the seventh hour. I am to bring my own weapons.'

'I had hoped he would forget,' Legolas said as Govon began to rummage around in his weapons chest.

'Can it be that I know your father better than you do?' Govon asked, glancing up with a smile. 'He knew to send here for me, too, and informs me that my captains have been told I will not attend my duties this morning by royal request.'

He found what he was looking for; a twin-scabbarded sword belt and the weapons to go with them.

'Have you the sandalwood, Legolas?'

'Really, melleth-nin? Now?'

'As you've noted yourself, the fragrance lingers everywhere… but if I mix it with the honing oil, I can at least claim it's for care of my weapons, so to speak!'

He caught the oil, unsheathed the swords and wiped them over quickly.

'Let me help with your hair,' Legolas said, standing behind Govon and quickly pulling the top section of hair back, dividing it into three parts he could plait to keep Govon's face free from falling strands. 'Father never braids; he sometimes catches his hair back to fight, but often he uses it as a distraction. And he uses his person, also; he fights stripped to the waist, after the manner of the old heroes.'

'Thank you, melleth. We've heard the tales, on the practice ground. I'm lucky Bregon's been sparring with me of late, too.' He dressed swiftly in his training uniform and turned to give Legolas a hot, longing kiss. 'I'll be back to put that sandalwood to better use before you know it,' he said.

Thranduil disrobed slowly, handing each item of clothing to Arveldir with dignity and ceremony. The black and silver robes of office, the gold and grey long coat, the silver jerkin.

'My king, is this… necessary?' Arveldir asked. 'Wise' had been the first word to mind, but he had shied away from it. But really, Thranduil could have walked from his throne room through the private corridors in just his shirt and breeches, had he so wished.

'Yes, it is.' Thranduil removed his shirt and handed it over. 'This is part of my mental preparation.'

'I beg pardon.' Arveldir bowed and carried the king's raiment to lay the clothing on top of a chest near the entrance.

'See if Govon is here yet. Inform him I am preparing, but allow him in.'

'As my king commands.'

Legolas sat on the edge of the bed staring at the open weapons chest. The scent of sandalwood and honing oil filled the room with their dual message of love and strife…

…Adar never lost these sparring contests, it was a matter of pride to him. True, sometimes the twin-sword made for exhibition duels rather than fights, but he was obscurely worried… his adar and his melleth. He knew who he wanted to win; he just hoped his father never found out. Of course, there would be no witnesses, and his father was generally magnanimous in victory. But the idea of Govon being patronised by Adar galled him.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a knock at the door and Tharmeduil's voice.

'Hurry up! You'll miss it!'

'Miss what?' Legolas scrambled into clothes, and threw the door open to find, not only Tharmeduil, but Nestoril and Iauron there as well.

'The fight! Don't you want to watch?'

'Of course I do! But I can't. We might get into the throne room and as far as the side entrance of the sparring room, but…'

'Nestoril has a plan,' Tharmeduil said. 'Get your boots, hurry up!'

Bewildered, Legolas shook his head but found his footwear while Nestoril explained.

'There is an observation chamber. Long ago, the kings would watch their warriors sparring without their knowledge. It is largely ignored now, as your father prefers, shall we say, a more hands-on way of assessing his warriors? Follow me.'

She headed towards the throne room and down a narrow corridor at the side to a doorway that led to a stair. At the top, a short passage led to a door outside which she stopped.

'We must keep our voices down, else they might hear and be distracted.' She took a key from her pocket and smiled. 'In case of emergency, the Healer-in-Charge has keys to all the rooms in the palace. Even yours, Iauron, so you had better make sure you tidy up!'

The door opened quietly and Nestoril led them inside. The chamber looked as if it had been cleaned recently; although a little dust softened the ledges, the floor was swept and the seats clean, but all eyes were drawn to the viewing window and the sparring circle in the chamber beneath.

In the centre of the circle, Thranduil was warming up, stripped to the waist and his long hair shining and loose and flying. He was spinning and turning, using his two matched swords as balance and counter-balance as he worked.

'Scrawny,' Iauron whispered.

'Lean,' Nestoril corrected. 'Lean and honed and tight and taught and…' She flushed as three sets of eyes looked at her in astonishment. 'Just as a king should be,' she added.

A creak and a click from below, and the door opened to admit the king's opponent.

Everyone stared.

Legolas found his face lifting into a delighted smile while, at his side, Nestoril swallowed.

'Oh, my!' she said. 'I hope you don't let him go out looking like that in public, Legolas?'

'Ai, by the Valar, Nestoril! Had I seen him looking like that, I would never let him go out at all!'

Somewhere between leaving Legolas and arriving at the sparring chamber, Govon had changed. His uniform was gone and he was barefoot. He was naked apart from his double sword belt and a short leather kilt that wrapped and crossed across his hips, leaving his lower abdomen bare.

And then there was the body paint.

The scar on his shoulder was ringed with green and blue, edged with ochre triangles representing arrowheads circling it, indicating how he'd gained the mark. The arc of scarring over his left hip was visible, the beginning and end of it hidden beneath the bands of the kilt, but this old injury, too, was highlighted in blue and green and ochre and went under the waistband, and Legolas found himself hoping the paint was edible so that he could explore the rest of the artwork with his tongue.

Govon bowed, displaying more green and blue and ochre on his back; the exit wound for the arrow, a crosshatching of colours at his right side where Govon had once broken ribs in battle. As he straightened up from the bow, his hair swung away from his upper arms, and revealing something that made Nestoril gasp and Legolas stare, his heart thudding.

Govon had painted two bands across his biceps in green and ochre, and even from here it was obvious to see that the blue script between the bands spelled out Legolas' name.

'Bit of a traditionalist, your sweetheart, isn't he? Iauron muttered. 'Mind you, dressed like that, even I can see the attraction…'

'He's mine!' Legolas hissed. 'Keep to your female partners, Iauron, or I'll have your liver on a stick!'

Thranduil finally finished his warm-up and looked Govon over.

'I thought you said your father was a purist, Govon?'

'A Silvan purist, my king.'

'Decorating your battle-scars, this I understand,' Thranduil said, raising a sword to point at the band of paints on Govon's upper arm, the tip coming to rest rock-steady a hair's breadth from the skin. 'But this tradition is not known to me.'

'It is the name of my fëa-mate, that my body may be returned to him in honour, should I die in battle,' Govon said. 'A precaution only.'

'I am pleased to hear you do not expect to die today,' Thranduil said. 'But I also hope you do not expect to win.'

'I think he already has,' Nestoril whispered to Legolas, who was too stunned to answer, still taking in the fact that Govon had acknowledged him his fëa-mate to his father.

Govon gathered himself, hands across his body on his sword hilts. He leapt into the air, spinning as he drew the blades and landing to face the king on one knee, the swords crossed before him in salute for a moment before he rose

Thranduil allowed himself a small smile. This was promising to be very different from the formal dance of postures and form he and Bregon had performed; Govon was announcing himself as a true opponent… so this Captain dared claim Legolas as his fëa-mate, would he? Briefly Thranduil wondered if Legolas knew it… the temerity of this one, though, turning up in war-paint and scars and with so much flesh on show…

The king crossed his own blades in salute and then whirled into action. The twin swords flashed and blurred, but Govon met stroke for stroke against the double assault of Thranduil's swords with but one of his own weapons, the other wheeling round in a swipe Thranduil almost didn't see until it was too late, only just managing to block. He arced his swords out, seeking space to recover while Govon sought to get through the defence, always pressing, prodding, weaving his blades, apart and together, a strange, cool light in his eyes that Tharanduil mistook for dispassion at first. But as the bout continued, Govon's blades seeking him over and under and around his guard, and as sweat made runnels and streaks in the blue and green and ochre body paint, the king realised it wasn't dispassion; it was determination.

What? Was this wild wood-elf actually challenging him?

In a way, Thranduil was pleased that Govon would brave his king's wrath and bring his best efforts to the bout (…time to step out of reach of the testing, teasing blades, to use the weight of the swords to sweep him round and give him a few seconds respite…) but it annoyed him also, that Govon had not simply assumed the king would have the victory.

'I feel I should warn you, Govon, I do not intend to lose,' Thranduil said, redoubling his efforts and capturing both his opponent's blades between his own in a classic basket-weave ploy.

'Ah, but, my king, I came with the intention of winning.' Govon smiled over the braided sword blades, reminding Thranduil more of a hunting warg than an elf. 'There is a difference between the two perspectives.'

Thranduil's control over Govon's blades held, and he pushed home his advantage, silver-steel eyes locked on Govon's feral hazel glare as the king pushed forwards and Govon reluctantly gave way, forced down onto one knee.

'Indeed there is, Captain. But which of us has the upper hand now, do you think?'

Up in the observation chamber, Nestoril covered her mouth with her hands to stop a squeal of excitement. Iauron was muttering to himself, almost living the fight. Legolas could barely watch, could not tear his eyes away from his lover, anguish and pride swamping him.

So caught up in the bout were they that they didn't realise they were no longer alone until a soft, known voice spoke from behind them.

'What is going on in here?'

Tharmeduil, less mesmerised by a fight of which he already knew the outcome, recovered first. 'Hello, Lord Arveldir. We're watching the fight; it's really rather good, isn't it?'

'That depends who you want to win, I think,' the advisor said drily.

Thranduil pushed down against Govon's blades, wanting to teach him a lesson, wanting to show him who was master here; Govon held him back, refusing to give any more ground despite increasing pressure on every muscle and sinew of his arms and wrists, his powerful thighs bracing against the strain, his determination holding out over the pain.

But very slowly, the rough sand of the practice circle grating and sliding painfully against his grounded knee, he was pushed fractionally back.

The king's eyes held triumph in them, his mouth lifting in a small smile of victory. There could be no recovery now.

'You have fought well,' he said. 'We can call it a draw, if you like.'

'My king is generous,' Govon replied, his mind racing, ticking through his father's lessons… there was something… it wasn't possible with lhaing, or with lhaing against straight blades; the curve of the cutlass diluted the effect…

But straight blades against straight…

Govon took a breath in, filling himself up with air, breathed out…

…and twisted his left blade edgeways on to Thranduil's, releasing the lock on it. As the pressure eased on his right-hand sword, he swept it free, once more flattening the left blade to keep the king's weapons engaged as he rolled to the side, pulling Thranduil's swords with him so that the king lost his balance and fell forwards, sprawling on his royal face on the rough sand of the sparring circle, his swords skittering and ringing out of his grasp. He felt a cold, sharp point at the back of his neck.

'Now we can call it a draw, I think,' Govon said.

Nestoril jumped up and down with glee; Legolas found he was being pummelled and congratulated by both his brothers, as if it was solely his doing that Govon had won. In his imagination, he vaulted over the ledge down into the practice room and caught Govon in his arms…

But the reality was that none of them were supposed to be here.

Below, Govon removed the sword point from Thranduil's neck and bent to offer his hand to help the king to his feet.

'I apologise, your majesty,' he said. 'But at least you know that I am able to defend you at need.'

'Indeed.' Thranduil accepted the hand, brushing himself off and trying to regain his dignity. 'You truly fought admirably and, it must be admitted, you won.'

He eyed Govon thoughtfully for a moment before swinging away to collect his weapons. 'My son has chosen well, I think. But understand this…' The tips of both swords were suddenly at Govon's throat, '…if you harm him, if you hurt him, there will not be warrior paint enough in all of Mirkwood to decorate the scars I will bless you with!'

'King Thranduil,' Govon said softly. 'I would sacrifice my life to protect you and any of your family. But for Legolas, I would sacrifice my fëa.'

'Indeed?' said the king, lowering the swords. 'And when were you going to make him aware of that fact?'

Govon grinned and bowed.

'If my king will excuse me,' he said, 'and since by your thoughtfulness I have the rest of the morning off, now is probably as good a time as ever.'