Author's note: (1) This story had plans for Lumornon and Lostariel's minor sidestory above and beyond what I expected... Apologies. (2) I could not focus on work today, so this chapter is [somewhat] edited and going up early. Thanks to the folks who gave me some perspective on the guard issue.


Part IV:
Chapter Twenty-Four


Soldiers' barracks
Later that night

Amonhir stood at the back of the mess hall nearest the doors that lead to the sleeping quarters. A number of elves—sent to him from various units by their captains—were settled in the room before him, some sat at tables, some leaned against walls or comrades, but all watching him in the dark but torch-lit space. Finally, Amonhir spoke.

"You are all here for one of two reasons. Either because you are being assigned to guard our queen and curtail her movements, or because you have been thusly employed at some point over the past five days and it is Lumornon's wish that you understand the seriousness of the situation, though you have since been moved to other posts."

He walked from one edge of the grouped soldiers to the other as he spoke, stopping at a side table and looking up at them sharply.

"Circumstances within the Elvenking's family have shifted and they continue to do so, and you are all aware of the event that preceded this, with our Lieutenant Felavel."

There were general murmurs, and a few bowed their heads in respect and grief.

"Additionally, many of you have known Legolas since he was a child, and some of you have known the Elvenqueen since you were children yourselves. All of you—except those very youngest among you—"

And he glanced at the two soldiers who had left the Elvenqueen's room unguarded during their impressively poorly-performed shift change the day before.

"—have watched Legolas grow under the hand of his mother for years, have seen the love that shone there."

They nodded.

"And all of you have some idea of what occurred in the family's quarters this past week, but not all of you to the extent that we should have shared, for it was Captain Lostariel and Lumornon's intention to shield Legolas from the judgement of his peers until the knowledge became public at the end of this inquiry."

There was silence but for the shift of a cloak, the crackle and popping of a torch on the side wall.

"As captains, we have been remiss," Amonhir continued directly, "in failing to explain the severity of the situation, the importance of your role as guards. However, your love for your queen is great, and your respect for the relationship she has with her son great, as well, and we should have known an honest explanation of your assignments would best serve all involved. Instead, we allowed the assumptions that have always underlain relationships and expectations in this Wood to guide you, in place of us, and that was wrong."

No one moved, for most had not heard Amonhir speak so much at once in centuries. He was a steady and silent presence, stood always just behind Lostariel. Amonhir, meanwhile, had cleared his throat and glanced at a torch distractedly, before returning his gaze to his soldiers.

"Before I proceed in explaining the extent of things to you, Lostariel has recommended I give you an exercise." He shifted uncomfortably. "You will have a moment to reflect upon a memory you have, of your queen and her youngest son, that has struck you."

A few soldiers were shifting now, too, crossing and uncrossing legs, wrapping cloaks tighter about themselves—this one an unusual request from Amonhir, who was more silence and well-considered action than directed meditation, or emotion.

"Come now, each of you," he interrupted their uneasiness. "You all know how much I lament Legolas' feyness, how many times you have walked in on me arguing with Lostariel about him in many a sundry place—we do not see eye to eye, Legolas and I, and everyone knows that."

There was nodding in the silence of the flickering room.

"But even I can admit he was a charming child, and that, even now, he has a still kind and bright personality—even if I find it obnoxious—and that he is a distinctly driven and skilled fighter, an asset to us. I can acknowledge that he and his mother made an inspiring pair, that they have lifted the hearts of our folk when we needed it most."

Amonhir stopped and cleared his throat, looking around at the soldiers who watched him in disbelief.

"I am deadly serious—Lostariel has asked this. Do it. You have one minute."

Amonhir leaned against the side table and crossed his arms; he watched them. He too recalled his own memory, and he saw as eyes drifted away from him and dropped to the ground in thought. The silence stretched on, but the mood in the room lifted until there was a lightness wound round them as eyes lifted one by one in a flurry.

"All right," Amonhir finally said, when all attention had returned to him. "Thank you."

There were nods and murmuring, and he continued: "Next, I am placing a copy of a report on this table."

He pulled a sheaf of parchment from the wool folder he had held behind his back the entire time, and he laid it in the center of the longest table near him, at the back of the mess hall.

"By reading this, soldiers, you are taking an oath of silence. You will not speak to Legolas of this; you will not speak to his family of this—you will speak to no one apart from those who stand beside you in this room of what you will read."

Wide young eyes, narrowed older ones, but nods all around.

"Additionally, you will do your very best to not allow the contents of the report to affect the way you look upon, think about, or treat Legolas, your worthy fellow in the King's Army. Is that understood?"

Overlapping and syncopated murmurs of "Yes, sir" and "Of course, Captain" rose like an abbreviated chorus of summer insects around the room.

"Finally," Amonhir said, and he held up a hand before any could move toward the table. "I understand that many of us share blood with the queen or with Legolas, one way or another. Therefore, after you have read this, if you find you are unable to objectively carry out your duties as a guard to the Elvenqueen, in the service of the protection of your king's son, I will understand, and you will be reassigned without reprimand."

More nods.

"So, think one last time on your memories of Legolas' childhood, think on the love of his mother."

A moment's silence more.

"And then queue here to review the report."

One soldier in the back of the room raised her hand slowly. "Yes?"

"Captain, most of us who have been called here, selected by our captains, most of us cannot read Sindarin."

Amonhir crossed to the table and picked up the report; he nodded to her. "I am sorry, Eglos; thank you for bringing it to my attention."

He leaned against the table and straightened the report before looking out at them sternly. He looked down again and then began to read:

"An account of the events occurring in the royal family's quarters, three days past the half moon, per accounts of the family and of Healer Anaron, Ithildim Anarion, Healer Aergwen, and Saida Eneliel

"Late in the evening of the indicated day, an argument occurred between the Elvenqueen Gwaerain and her son Legolas, upon his return from a short patrol with Captain Lostariel's Southern Unit. This altercation escalated into an assault that severely compromised Legolas' health. The account that immediately follows is comprised of information collected by Captain Lostariel in conversations with the Elvenqueen and in a partial interview with Legolas Thranduilion..."

The room had fallen completely silent, and no one moved as Amonhir read for some time, flipping the page only once before he finished the account.

"The rest is medical and less relevant to you," he said, dismissively dropping the report to the table and turning back to them.

He looked out at the soldiers before him and saw one supporting another, the one who had allowed Gwaerain to go to her daughter's grave today without supervision. Amonhir recognized, for the first time, that he had been an agemate of Felavel's, and that they had probably played together as children.

"I did not realize— I have never heard of something like— I thought she needed—"

"You will never hear me say this again," Amonhir assured directly, "but, in this, you are forgiven. Such a crime is unheard of amongst our folk. Without direction, how were you to know better, Edwen? Your mistake was grounded only in overkindliness."

He paused for a moment more.

"And, in truth, it would not have been so dire a mistake if Legolas' brother had not trusted him to return himself to his own guard appropriately."

He paused again.

"Grief and hurt—pity and compassion—" He looked at the guard now. "They compel us to act in ways we would never expect."

The guard nodded and sank slowly to the floor, and his friend settled down beside him. Amonhir glanced over to see those two whose over-eagerness to change shifts had momentarily left Legolas unguarded the day before. The younger one—Linneg, who was just finishing his training—looked pale and utterly mortified, while the other, Meord, had a high blush on his dark cheeks. Amonhir nodded to them and they dropped their eyes in contrition and in shame.

He turned to the room at large then, crossed his arms firmly. "Do you all understand, now, the importance of what it is we ask you to do?"

There was a general murmur of acquiescence and a bobbing of heads.

"And would anyone like to speak with me about reassignment?"

No one spoke.

"All right," he said stiffly. "Thank you, then. You will report to the Hall Guards' Common Room in two hours. Elednil, from mine and Lostariel's company, will be directing you in this. Ithildim and Saida are assigned to Legolas."

The elves started to leave, but Amonhir gave one final directive and the movement was arrested.

"You two, Linneg and Meord," he pointed at the young Hall Guards who sat still at the table, trying to appear as small as possible. "While you are dismissed from guarding, you have been tasked with the schedules. And by that, I mean you will be copying Elednil's notes into tables to distribute to whomever he asks you, whenever he asks. You write, yes?"

They nodded.

"Then he may use you any way he sees fit in carrying out his mission. Your captain has agreed that this is the beginning of an appropriate lesson for your carelessness. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," they both said immediately and in unison, and then they stood and bowed. Amonhir dismissed them all with an abrupt wave of his hand.

And then they were gone. He slipped the report back into its woolen case and then folded that up, tucking it in his belt.

The soldiers' mess hall eventually emptied, and the snow was bright under a cut in the cloud as Amonhir crossed the room to gaze out the window. He sighed and considered. Lostariel would be with Thranduil or Lumornon by now, reviewing the full report after delivering it to the Board; Elednil would be coordinating with the captain of the Hall Guard; and that left him to do—

Nothing. Too late to travel home, too early to turn in.

He sighed and stared out through the leaded-glass window, across the field to the tree line. There, he could see Ithildim, Legolas, and Saida suddenly emerging together, arms linked like a band of merry friends, though their faces were subdued and Ithildim and Saida were bent in across Legolas, whispering loudly, as if debating. Legolas' face was resigned and vaguely unamused as he leant back to accommodate them as they walked forward.

Amonhir thought, then, that he maybe did not always give Legolas the credit he deserved, for his exceptionally well-developed brand of very particular patience...

As the three youths passed the barracks' windows, Amonhir noticed Ithildim no longer carried the overstuffed pack he had worn when he had disappeared into the woods after Legolas' confrontation with his mother earlier that evening. None of them wore the cloaks they had worn throughout the day, either, and Saida carried what Amonhir now realized was Ithildim's empty pack slung across her, limp and empty.

They were some way past the window at which Amonhir stood when Saida extricated herself from the pair and waved a hand at Ithildim impatiently. She jogged off and called over her shoulder in a voice that carried far too much for someone trained in spywork (and far too much, too, for three people who looked very much like they were trying very hard not to look suspicious).

He watched Saida sprint away and duck into a side entrance of a supply shed between the Barracks. After a minute, she re-emerged with the pack full, and then she was off like a shadow and, this time, Amonhir could barely see or hear her—much more appropriate for an espionage apprentice, he wryly thought—and she was slipped away, back into the woods.

He turned back toward the last place he had seen Legolas and Ithildim. They had stopped a few yards down the path, talking quietly between themselves, and Legolas was chafing his hands beneath his gloves in the cold.

Amonhir stepped out of the barracks, scuffed his boot to make himself known, and cleared his throat. They immediately turned around and Ithildim looked for a moment as if he expected to be executed on the spot—

"Relax, soldiers," he said quietly, and he crossed the distance to them carefully, looked upon Legolas face-to-face for the first time in days. "I only hoped to escort you back to the Halls. Hm?"

They stared, and then Legolas turned his head into his shoulder and coughed, and Ithildim spoke for them.

Amonhir fell into step on Legolas' right and he watched surreptitiously as Legolas and Ithildim seemed to continue whatever conversation that had been having before his arrival with facial expressions alone.

There were some things about the two of them Amonhir did not try to understand. These were usually, however, very useful things and, thus, the very same things that had propelled the two of them so quickly to the forefront of the Defense Council's hopes and attention sixty-some years before.

Whatever the three of them were planning, though, Amonhir was, honestly, more inclined to ignore than explore, at this point.

Ithildim and Legolas sometimes made impressively brilliant decisions when they were together; they had also made a number of impressively poor decisions when they were together. However, when they were with Saida—or even just planning with her—he had never known them to step more than half a foot out of line, and, therefore...

Whatever they were doing now, he assumed it was more in Legolas' best interest than whatever protocol dictated for him. And, for all his critiques of Legolas in the field, he was still little more than a child (and one pulled, now, between family, kingdom, and duty). He glanced over at the two beside him, for Legolas had put slightly more space between himself and Amonhir, and he was pressed up against Ithildim whispering something in his ear.

He frowned and looked away… It had been difficult for Amonhir to shake the memory of Legolas he himself had called upon when he had asked the soldiers to reflect. It was decades old, maybe seven or eight. He and Lostariel had been home on rest rotation, but Lostariel was injured so Felavel had come to him with a request...

Legolas, small and lanky, just months into Youth Lessons, was hefting a child-sized practice knife before him. It was summer, and his mother sat on the poppy-edged wall near the training fields, alternating between weaving wreaths and fletching arrows as she watched. Amonhir was there alongside the child, working him over with Felavel, for she had asked for his steady hand in correcting her little brother's stance—some time in the past few weeks, he had developed a flaw on his right side that betrayed his intention before he even moved. They had been at it already for nearly an hour, and none of the corrections had stuck.

"We are going to slow it down now, Legolas," he remembered telling him. "We will go position by position, and you will not move from each until I tell you. We will watch you for weakness as you hold. Understand?"

The child had nodded and rubbed a hand at his eye, and he reaffirmed his hold on his knife, squaring small shoulders.

Amonhir could remember, then, the feel of the grass beneath his knees as he knelt—could smell the honeysuckle looped about the tight knot Legolas' mother had braided his hair into that morning—and he took the child's wrist in his; it was delicate and avian under his larger, grown hand. He turned the wrist and held it properly before him, dropped a hand to the child's back and prodded between his shoulder blades; pushed fingers at the base of his neck until he tilted his head appropriately and released the tension at his shoulders, and then Amonhir stepped back to stand beside Felavel and watch.

They moved through each part of the sequence over the course of a half hour, and then they did it again. The second time through, Legolas was tired enough that the fault showed clearly, and, once they had identified it, Amonhir stepped in and corrected—positioning the child exactly—before he stepped away.

The child did not move or shake, did not make a sound louder than the song of the light summer breeze about them—he hardly even squinted in the midday sun.

Legolas held that position for nearly a quarter hour before Amonhir allowed him to drop it. He shook out his arms and small self, then, from top to toes, and he looked up expectantly at Felavel, who told him to do it again at speed.

The child did it then, immediately and without flaw, and then Gwaerain had been there in a rush of pride, dropping to her knees on the ground and cheering. Felavel was smiling and Amonhir even found himself fighting a grin.

"I am satisfied, emlineg," Felavel had said then. "You are free. Go!"

Legolas had whooped, then; bowed to his sister and to Amonhir himself; and then presented his practice knife to Felavel, before turning to his mother and taking up her hands, squinting up into her face. Gwaerain beamed down at him, hazel eyes bright and alive in the midsummer sun.

She lifted him into the air as they walked away; she spun him like a bird in a whirlwind of unbridled joy, around and around and around. His small legs flew out behind him as they turned, and then she fluttered him down onto the wall holding back the poppies, where he swayed for a moment with the disorienting power of their play, and giggled. She looped the wreaths about him, and then they were off—mother in the lead, child on her heels. They were flown toward the creek like an undersized flock of strange water birds.

Once they were gone—and Legolas' excited cries had finally been lost to the woods—Amonhir looked over at Felavel with a bemused half smile, and she had burst into laughter like shattering glass.

A gust of wind came from nowhere, then, and he was shaken back into the present, back and away into a dark winter night, snow underfoot, the scent of summer months away...

They walked still toward the Gates, and he looked over again at the two beside him to see that Ithildim had laced his fingers with Legolas', so he warmed his hands as they walked. He cut his eyes toward Legolas and watched him covertly for a time.

Legolas, he decided, did not look well; worse than he had expected, really, even considering the circumstances. (And regardless of his lack of desire to outwardly express his fondness, Amonhir did care about his soldiers, if only—at a very base level—because he cared about the amount of time and energy he had already invested in them.)

Certainly, they had much revision of practice and protocol to do in response to the series of events that had led to this current tragedy but, first and foremost—if he did not want to lose the most promising team he had ever thrown himself into shaping, since he had trained Felavel herself—then they had some more immediate planning to do, too, for Legolas was wan and thin and sliding, and Ithildim was too close to him to watch him suffer and not suffer himself.

And Amonhir would not suffer the loss of the hope of these two, no matter how grating he usually found Legolas' demeanor. He would much rather grit his teeth when Legolas burst into inappropriate and untimely laughter than sideline a perfectly promising soldier because he was broken, or ill.

And so—as long as Legolas could endure until it was over—he expected he and Lostariel had some intervention of their own to enact.

They reached the Gates; Legolas opened them with a whisper of half-hearted words; and then they were across the river and into the Halls.


Meanwhile

There was a knock on the Elvenking's study door, and Thelion rose from his seat beside the king's modest fire to answer it. Thranduil looked up wearily from his cup of tea, which he had been studying as if it held the answers to all his problems.

At the open door stood Lostariel, and she clutched a thick sheaf of papers in her hands.

"I have compiled all we have learned from Saida, Ithildim, Anaron, Aergwen, the Queen, Lumornon," Lostariel reported tiredly, and she took a deep breath and continued, "Legolas' peers, staff in the halls, Piniriel's maids, any and all involved heart healers, and Legolas himself into a report for you. It had already been delivered to the Superior Board."

Thelion motioned her in and she stepped inside. The door shut heavily behind her.

"Come, Lostariel," Thranduil said then with a wave of his hand, and she strode to the table in the center of the room where Thranduil sat; he fiddled with the chain on the tea basket absentmindedly. "Sit," he finally said, inclining his head toward the oak chairs lining the small table.

Lostariel dropped the heavy report onto the table as she pulled back a chair for herself, and Thelion settled back into his chair beside fire.

"I have it scheduled for tomorrow after noontime," she reported quietly. "That gives enough time for the Board members to read the reports, enough time for someone to review it with Gwaerain, as well."

Thranduil looked up. "She has her last meeting with Aergwen's selected healers tomorrow, to assess safety for Piniriel," he murmured. "But after that..." He cleared his throat, steadied his voice, became a king. "We shall be prepared, Captain."

Lostariel nodded.

"Go on," he said.

She folded her hands on the smooth tabletop. "Amonhir has met with the soldiers selected to guard the queen, and they are now well-informed of the entire situation. Elednil should be meeting with them now to explain the process—he worked in trade for so long. Schedules make him giddy—"

Thranduil strained his tea and quirked a smile as she continued.

"—so the queen is in good hands. Saida has been informed that Legolas is her and Ithildim's responsibility. I am not concerned about either of them; they—"

"They would die for him, I know," Thranduil interrupted quietly. "Thank you, Lostariel. You have done well."

She nodded and waited for his command, but it did not come.

"Where do you go now?" he asked casually.

She startled. "To sleep, I expect."

Thranduil took a sip of his tea and fixed her with a look she had seldom seen from him, but it pinned her and she froze.

"If you would go to Lumornon, I would be most grateful," he said stiffly. "You both would benefit from some company, if I might be so bold."

Lostariel used all her willpower to avoid flushing, and she was pleased to feel, as she responded, that she was somewhat successful. "I would be happy to. It would be a balm to me, as well."

Thelion had stood and walked back to the door, opened it and waited for her to stand.

"You are dismissed, Captain. Thank you."

Lostariel stepped out the door and vaguely saw Thranduil pull the report to him and center it before him, straightening it carefully, as she left.

But then she was away, down the back passages to Lumornon's room, to knock on his door. He opened it in a nightshirt with mussed hair, and they melted into each other's arms before she had even considered whether or not this was a good idea.

He shut the door behind her and she slipped out of the outer layer of her uniform; she draped her jacket and heavy tunic on the back of his desk chair before dropping to the floor and rubbing her face in her hands.

He was before her in a whirl, a glass of wine in one hand and an oversized tunic in the other. He pulled her to her feet and offered her both, tilted his head to the side so they were looking upon one another, hazel eyes meeting bright in the lamp-lit room.

She took the tunic and turned away, slipped out of her last few layers and pulled his shirt over her head.

"Will you stay?" he asked, as she finally turned back around.

"May I?"

Their friendship was steeped in centuries and millennia, in vulnerability and professionalism, in fondness and an intense and unspoken trust.

She swallowed hard as he answered: "Please."

She slipped out of her trousers and toed off her shoes; she haphazardly pulled on the thick socks he had earlier pushed into her hands.

They stared at one another for a long moment, and then he was tugging her to the bed, and, clutching, they fell together in a heap.

.

They woke, in the morning, wrapped about one another. The weight of the quilt and the events of the day pressed heavy upon them before they had even blinked or rubbed their eyes.

Lumornon rolled into her for comfort as he stirred, and she let him. She slipped hands into his uncharacteristically unkempt hair, unbound and thick between her fingers; she pressed a kiss to his temple, rubbed a thumb across his brow, closer to him than she had ever been.

He smiled up at her and pulled her down for a gentle kiss. They pulled apart and hovered—nose to nose, they breathed.

He cupped her cheek, and she was crying.

They watched each other in silence, and she sobbed.

He pulled her head to his shoulder and then they were curled and breathing, preparing for the inevitable end, the release, when they could go back to fighting a Darkness that was identifiable and logical in its malice, not twisted and grey, not more full of longing and loss than it was evil intention—

Eventually, she unfurled and straightened, sat up and tugged him with her. She wiped tears from his cheeks and tried her best to smile.

"Tea before we report, Lumornon?"

And then they were up and getting dressed, and he was twisting braids into her hair faster than she could follow.

He pinned her cloak in place for her and then held open the door. Ithildim was passing in a hurry with a kettle in as Lumornon locked his door. Saida spun by them next, a bowl of porridge in each hand and a loaf of bread pinned under one arm. She smiled and looked away, continued on with head down.

Lumornon watched them go with eyebrows raised but he offered no comment. Legolas' door opened and closed at the end of the hall and they disappeared behind it, but it immediately opened again after a slight thump and what sounded like an altercation had occurred behind it—

Legolas' head appeared, hair not yet braided and blanket hanging from his shoulders like a robe. He clapped a hand to his mouth as he set eyes on his brother and his Captain, and then he waved cheekily before disappearing again. There was a moment of silence, and then a sudden burst of laughter came loud but muted from behind the pine door.

Lumornon glanced at Lostariel, and then they both started laughing, too.

"Amonhir told me, in the fall," she offered quietly, as they began their way to the dining halls, "that Legolas and Ithildim were running a pool, of sorts, amongst the youngest recruits."

He turned to her, shocked. "About us?"

"I think they may have just bet their way out of stable duty, until Summer."

He shook his head and took her hand before they were in the main corridors, where they would need to comport themselves properly, for they had not yet considered the ramifications of a declaration of any sort of intentions.

Still, whatever happened that afternoon, there was no going back from this.


Happy weekend! One more chapter until Part 5. Please let me know what you think. :)