Chapter 8: Of Muddles and Puddles
The fading drumbeat of hooves, a sharp intake of breath. The waiting wood-elves cried out, appalled, and the very trees lurched with their shock. Ninael glanced wildly at Alachon and Tasser, but his fellow Ñoldorin warriors were equally aghast; Alachon looked as though he were debating whether to follow the prince to the ground.
A scion of a royal house does not bend the knee.
Already, elves were making to kneel, the General of the Army at their fore, rivulets of some unreadable emotion running through his sharp green eyes.
"No, my lord," Legolas Thranduilion said quietly. "Stand."
A request, Ninael thought, not a command.
"We cannot accept this honour. You are regent, Your Highness," To Calemír's left, a Silvan lord with chestnut eyes and mahogany hair spoke urgently. "This is a breach of royal protocol."
"What is he saying?" Rína hissed at Ninael.
"I think its a warning," Ninael whispered back, his palms cold with sweat. "The prince undermines the authority of the Crown."
"It is not, Lord Riros," Legolas Thranduilion was saying. HIs eyes were so clear, clear enough that Ninael fancied he could see right through their grey depths, and in that moment Ninael knew what a fool he had been.
He did not know how to read Legolas Thranduilion at all.
The woodland prince lifted the glittering diadem from his brow, set it gently on the hoof-marked earth, and bowed low.
Suddenly, the only noise was the morning birds.
"General, I come before you not as prince, or as regent, but as a soldier, and ask that you pass judgement on my crimes, as military law sees fit."
There is mud on his hands, Ninael thought numbly.
Calemír tilted his head, carefully considering the prince. A one-eyed elleth to his right spoke to him in an undertone, Riros stared at her in disbelief; Calemír muttered something back, the elleth frowned. When the general finally gave the tiniest of nods, a muscle was twitching in Riros' jaw.
"I am guilty," Legolas Thranduilion began, the mellow tenor of his voice even and unfaltering. "Firstly, of leaving my post at an inopportune time, without instituting measures to fully account for my absence. Secondly, of disobeying my King's summons, and delaying my return. Thirdly, for dereliction of duty, for a kingdom should never be without an acting sovereign. I am guilty of these three crimes, my lords and ladies, and I beg your forgiveness."
Ninael's gaze crept towards Teleglos. The Sindarin lord's face was as white as his tightly clenched knuckles.
"I have heard you, Legolas Thranduilion, and these charges you lay against yourself," the general said heavily, for the first time using the prince's essë. "Do you agree to accept whatever punishment I may lay upon you, as I deem fit, as per military law?"
"I do, my lord. I ask only that you grant me one more chance to serve my people."
And only a fool would have thought that these words were for Calemír.
The sun inched a little higher towards its midday crest, drawing long shadows across the kneeling prince and the brooding general. Around them the trees were alive with agitated murmurs, and Ninael searched through them desperately. He saw dismay, even indignation, but there were those who looked down upon Legolas Thranduilion with a cool impassivity that Ninael found more frightening than all the giant spiders they had met put together.
Beneath the many-hued gazes of his people, Legolas Thranduilion waited quietly. He held himself very still and very straight, hands neatly clasped beneath his wide green sleeves, staring ahead at either nothingness or what appeared to be a tuft of haphazardly-sprouting heather.
"I don't know why he's doing this," Alachon growled uneasily. "Surely this isn't because of a few baseless rumours?"
"Rumours elves like you helped spread," Ninael said sharply, and felt his blood flush.
"You are harsh on yourself, son of Thranduil," Calemír said, at last. "The first and third offences you claim for yourself—your decision to leave the Woodland Realm was not an ideal one, but you were not on active duty at the time. You requested for leave, and it was I who granted it."
Ninael yanked his jaw off the ground, and suddenly felt a fierce swell of hope.
"Both you and I could not have foreseen the series of events that darkened our borders upon your departure. It came at a time when we would have benefited from your political acumen and prowess in battle, but then again, would we ever not? Lord Teleglos and the late Lady Rilithil were perfectly capable seconds, and the responsibility for this realm's protection does not lie with you alone. It is in truth unjust to fault you for dereliction of duty."
If this passing sentence, then he was Lord Elrond's grand-uncle. Ninael goggled at Calemír, still not quite sure his ears were functioning correctly, and discretely shot a puzzled glance at the prince. Legolas Thranduilion was listening intently to Calemír, head respectfully bowed. He was a study in humble self-recrimination, and as if getting an inkling of something, Ninael's eyes widened.
"Not a day went by when we did not receive a missive from you regarding troop deployment and internal policy," Calemír continued. "And when the King fell ill, you rode through the night to return to your people. That does not strike me as the actions of a negligent recreant."
Before Ninael's heart could fully bloom with optimism, Calemír's tone sharpened. "There remains the matter of your second offence. This I cannot comprehend—you disregarded the King's summons, with the knowledge that our situation was growing precarious, but you have also shown yourself not to be a cowardly elf. Explain."
"I attempted to call the Bruinen to heed, my lord," Legolas Thranduilion said tepidly, and successfully shocked the forest into silence for the second time.
This time, Calemír's own eyebrows rose.
"I acted rashly to save one of Imladris' children, and overextended myself in the manner of the feä. I was too ill to ride, my lord."
"Why did you not write to us of this?" Calemír said, appalled.
"I did not wish to worry the King," Legolas Thranduilion said. He added, "Though the rumours that may have reached you regarding the incident have likely rendered my efforts moot in any case."
It was an innocent enough sentence, but in it, Ninael heard the gentle reminder of the truthfulness of his account.
"Would Lord Elrond corroborate this that you say?"
Neatly, Legolas shook out his wide sleeves.
"He would say that I was very unwell," he said softly,
"I see."
Calemír paused briefly, perhaps to think, perhaps to let the prince's words sink in. Without spectacle, he passed his sentence. "I find Legolas Thranduilion guilty of defying a royal decree, and thereby flouting the authority of the Crown. Fifty lashes. Do any here object?"
Like an angry kitten, Ninael almost flew apart right there and then. Suddenly, Tasser was digging his nails into his wrist.
"Wait," the older warrior breathed. "Look at Lord Teleglos. Do you want to send your prince to the Halls of Námo? Idiot."
Lord Teleglos had gone almost as pale as his hair, but in a flash of rare wisdom, Ninael clenched his mouth shut.
"I am Núro Hutarion of the Seventh Division of the Infantry, Lord Calemír, and I have doubts as to the prince's story," an ellon called out from the branches above.
Calemír inclined his head.
"Who is this youngster?" Núro challenged. "From which House does he hail, so as to prompt the crown prince of Greenwood the Great to risk his life on his behalf?"
"The child is Lord Elrond's ward," the prince answered readily. "And I hope that I have not conducted myself so incompetently so as to give you the impression that I would endanger myself only for a child of noble birth."
"So for the sake of a Ñoldorin child, you forsake your own?"
Warriors parted like the tide, making way for a young elf-maiden, her fingers white around the hilt of her sword. She came to stand at the edge of a bough, spearing the prince with a bitter stare.
"My daughter loved you," she said, hoarse with grief. "Her first characters of Tengwar, she learned by candlelight, copying out your Celduin Verses. I know who she would have been waiting for the day the goblins came. And for what?"
The warrior turned her face away from them, her last words a low, guttural wail, "For what? This spring, she would have been as tall as the fig tree we planted, the day she was born!"
A shiver ran through Legolas; he drew in a deep breath, choking it down before it could register in his voice.
"I forsake no-one, Lady Nielinye," he said, gazing quietly up at her. "He needed help, and so I helped him."
"And there was no one else who could help him?" Nielinye said despairingly. "You let your people down because you couldn't stand not being the saviour for once? You can't save everyone, Thranduilion. You have to choose, and you chose wrong!"
"And them?" Legolas nodded at the fifteen Ñoldorin warriors standing silently behind him. "Did they choose wrong too? We are all of us kin, Lady Nielinye."
"Kin?" Núro had apparently updated his knowledge of the situation at hand. "Wasn't it said that it was a human child the prince rescued?"
Again, whispers of the wood-elves spread through the trees. Compared to the customary gentle rustle of wood-elven voices, leaves on leaves, it was an uglier sound, more dangerously edged. But then, even a single drop of ink in a glass of water darkens it irremediably.
He had known it might come to this, but as he looked up to the soaring trees, Legolas felt something in him hollow all the same.
"Yes," he said simply.
"A human child?" Nielinye said, aghast. "You passed over my daughter for a human?"
"Nielinye," Riros interjected neatly. "There is no one here who does not grieve for your daughter. There is no one here who does not grieve for each and every single one of the brothers and sisters we have lost to Gorthaur the Cruel. It is he who has taken her from you, not Legolas Thranduilion."
"Hasn't he?" Nielinye snarled.
"Lady Nielinye, his life is important too." For the first time, a trace of heat leaked into Legolas' voice.
"Not important enough!" An elleth spoke up, touching Nielinye's arm in sympathy. "None of us hate Men, Your Highness, but how can the worth of an eternal life be measured by any number of mortal ones?"
Alachon's blood pressure finally overshot his self-control; he neatly dodged Tasser's restraining arm, retorting, "So I suppose the prince should have let Lord Elrond's foster son drown?"
"Bah, it's all just an excuse for the prince to hide behind Lord Elrond's skirts!" someone else muttered.
"What impudence!" An archer lost her temper. "The first time His Highness donned mithril and rode to battle, he was wearing a child's braid still! Where were you at that age? Still running after bunnies and tripping over your own feet!"
"And he lounged about in Imladris while we were cut down and lost!" an ellon sneered, waving his bandaged arm. "If only you could see him for the coward that he is!"
"You are crippled, Lûg, not blind," another argued. "You have seen how the prince has led us, through the centuries! Besides, what kind of coward returns to what he was running from?"
"One who has realised that his shame would follow him to Undying Lands!"
"It was His Highness, Lûg, who allowed you a second chance after the red bridge incident," Teleglos said sharply, unable to remain silent any longer. "I would have dismissed you on the spot. Don't forget."
"Lord Teleglos, why do you blackmail your own warriors for the sake of one Legolas Thranduilion?" Lûg demanded, and even as Teleglos' silver eyes widened in affront, furious cries of protest rang out on his behalf.
"Lûg, do not shame your father's memory," Calemír thundered at last, and for a heartbeat his authority quelled the churning forest. "The prince may have erred, but he is still your superior, and his name is not one to be uttered freely by the likes of you! All of you! You should be ashamed! You are an army, not rabble! "
Even on the warpath, most elves had not completely abandoned their senses, and there was nothing as effective as embarrassment to silence an overly proud people. Discomfited, they began to recover themselves.
Then someone cried, "Lord Calemír, you defend a deserter!", and this time Ninael didn't manage to hold his tongue, and this time Tasser couldn't be bothered to admonish him, he was yelling back at the idiot elf just as fiercely, and the clearing descended into chaos once more.
"Helyanwë…"
As Riros pleaded for peace, the one-eyed elleth levelled a burning glare at those elves under command. Even with one eye, Hithuihil silenced a good half of those who met her gaze and made the rest abruptly rediscover the limits of their lung capacity.
"… Elyadme."
"Wait!" Nielinye seized the arm of the elf nearest her in sudden desperation. "Do you hear that?"
Perhaps the ability to silently and effectively communicate uttermost fury was an important prerequisite for becoming any sort of military leader, because as Calemír began stalking a slow circle around the clearing, a good number of elves suddenly recalled that they were, in fact, camped out on Dol Guldur's doorstep and behaving extremely stupidly.
"Ninniach…"
"Quiet, quiet, all of you! Listen!"
"… Eiliant."
The last of the would-be-mutineers turned to stare at the elf-prince, still kneeling at the center of the clearing. His voice was not very loud, but there was a stillness to it that sank right through the withering din.
"Eiliannel," he said, staring straight into Nielinye's eyes. "After the rainbow. On Yuletide day, six years ago, she told me she wanted to be a corsair when she grew up, and find all the hidden treasures beyond the Belegaer."
"You—" Nielinye struggled, trying for contempt, but it was no use. Her voice was already soaked through in tears.
"Lady Nielinye, you are not too harsh in your disappointment. I have not been true to the oaths I took as prince."
The words spilled from him with an ease chiselled from centuries, and each word singed his tongue. In their wake reared a flash of terrible rage that scorched and twisted and left him heartsick.
Why had he left at all? Because he thought he might be able to steal another year? Idiot.
He continued to hobble after what needed to be said as if through a thick fog.
Ninael's eyes never left the prince, his throat tight with fear. Legolas Thranduilion's voice was measured, steady, and so very faraway, as if they were standing on opposite cliffs, divided by far more than distance.
"Lady Nielinye, I cannot restore your daughter to you. But I vow, from this day till the end of my days, I will bear her name, to honour her, and remind myself always of the sorrow I have brought to my people."
He pushed up one wide sleeve to reveal a slender forearm, and suddenly one of his long white knives was in his hands, and this time Ninael cried out in dawning horror.
Belatedly, Ninael clapped his hands over his mouth, but he needn't have bothered. His voice had been drowned out by the cry of thousands.
The first drop of blood had already tumbled down Legolas' arm when Teleglos' hand seized his in an iron grip.
"Put it down," his friend was yelling at him over the renewed clamour of the army. "You will ruin that arm, you absolute buffoon, put it down!"
Don't be afraid, Legolas wanted to tell him. But Eru, how tired he was.
Calemír had crouched down on his other side and was trying to say something in low, urgent whispers, his green cat-eyes narrowed and dark with worry.
Calemír, Calemír, who were you trying to fool with that aloof, lordly air?
"Stand down, my lords," Legolas said softly.
"Just tell them, Legolas," Teleglos's voice was hushed; he was close to tears. "Whatever it is you're hiding, whatever it is you really went away to do, just tell them. Tell them, why won't you tell them?"
Legolas lowered his gaze, turning away from the blur of abruptly foreign faces.
"It is a small price to pay for lost faith," Legolas spoke quickly and quietly, barely moving his lips. "Calemír, Teleglos, leave me. Please."
Calemír leaned in, searching his face intently. "Your Highness, I must ask. Are you certain you are of completely sound mind?"
"He is not!" Teleglos snapped, as Legolas nodded.
"I do have some control of a blade, and this debacle has gone on for too long, General," Legolas said. "Unless you want a full-blown rebellion on our hands?"
As Calemír laid a firm hand on Teleglos' shoulder and wrenched him away, Legolas adjusted his grip anew.
Slowly, painstakingly, he began to score the Tengwar characters for her name into his flesh in flowing script.
The air was thick with the drone of voices, drops of sweat swirled into every stroke, and like an untethered kite, his mind drifted away.
To the first few strands of brave green grass, poking out from between colourless winter weeds.
To a little bluejay, curious about all the commotion, who hopped a few steps closer, bobbing his bright head.
To the sun, slipping in and out of clouds like the gold coin in a corsair's treasure.
Twice his hand slipped on the hilt, wet with blood. He dragged out the uphill-sloping accent mark on the first character for far longer than intended, and perhaps the three dots over the final character weren't entirely symmetrical, but at last, Legolas leaned back, dazed, as the knife tumbled loose from nerveless fingers.
Celduin Verses be damned, this was, without question, the most beautiful script he had ever produced.
Nothing but chicken-scratches, Legolas thought, trying to remember how to draw reasonably-sized breaths. He had received worse the day Thalon taught him to fly falcons.
"It is done," he said. "Again, I apologise to you all, that I was not here, by your side."
Before Nielinye could open her mouth and potentially undo all their efforts by demanding his head, red-haired Riros interrupted smoothly.
"Your Highness, how could you say such a thing, when your return is proof enough of your loyalty to this kingdom and your people?" The Lord Commander of the Infantry blinked his big round eyes, guileless as a baby snake. "For the past millennia you have served us well. May you continue to do so, in this time of great need."
"Fifty lashes is the sentence I give. Do any here object?" Calemír asked again, easily taking up the tail end of Riros' speech. One-eyed Hithuihil, Lady Commander of the Cavalry, surveyed them all in silence, in a manner that suggested that if anyone did object, they would find themselves sharply reprimanded again. At close quarters, with a spear.
Blood sleeted down the elf-prince's arm, the bluejay fluttered away, and the forest remained eerily quiet. Lûg's mouth was hanging open.
"Thank you, my lord," Legolas Thranduilion said, his voice remarkably even.
Ninael's eyes never left the prince's bloodless face, almost translucent in the green-tinted sunlight. Without success, Ninael tried to swallow his rising anxiety. He didn't know why the prince suddenly looked like he had just gone for a stroll through Námo's Halls, but fifty lashes would surely be the death of him.
He had underestimated the wiliness of the Commander General.
"You will receive ten lashes today, Legolas Thranduilion," Calemír said, in a tone of impartiality and great diplomacy. "But as you have duly noted, we are at war, and I, for one, have greater need for your skill than your blood. When the fighting ends, it is not too late for the other forty."
"Thank you, my lord," the elf-prince repeated. This time, there was no disguising the weary tremor in his voice.
His sleeve fell back as he swept a hand to his heart, baring the name of the dead child he now bore.
Legolas Thranduilion bowed in the deepest of obeisances, pressing his forehead to the earth.
It rained, and the air smelled like moss and mushrooms and green growing things. Inside the talan, three elves listened to the faint drip-dripping of water from the leaves, and waited.
"Perhaps he will not come," said Riros at last. The Lord Commander of the Infantry was pacing restlessly, his footsteps silent even on creaking timber. His red-brown hair was woven back in the braids of infantry soldiers; in the swaying candlelight, it looked like the grain running through polished mahogany. "I hope he doesn't."
Hithuihil carefully ran a line of wood oil down the length of her spear. "If the sons of the House of Oropher had more of a sense of self-preservation, they would not have chosen Greenwood the Great to be the seat of their kingdom."
Calemír smiled humourlessly.
Before one of the sweeping windows, a miniature pine tree was enthusiastically outgrowing its pot.
"A moment, my lords and lady," Teleglos called from outside the talan, a heartbeat before the guards announced: "The Prince Regent, His Highness Legolas Thranduilion! The Lord Commander of the Archers, Lord Teleglos Feldilion!"
Calemír and Hithuihil rose immediately. All three pressed a hand to their hearts, bowing low.
The screen lifted.
"Your Highness."
The heir to the throne had changed into jet-black robes, the color neatly hiding any traces of blood from the lashes he had just borne, even if it couldn't mask the smell. Calemír didn't like his pallor, or that his footsteps drifted in a way that could not entirely be attributed to elven grace, like a kite with a broken string.
Just how heavy-handed had his officers been with those ten lashes? Calemír stifled a groan. Once the King caught wind of the fact that Calemír had had his son flogged, he was going to be fed to Smaug.
With that particular brand of unassuming authority uniquely his own, Legolas Thranduilion crossed the room to settle into the chair at the head of the table. He had shed the diadem for good; candlelight warmed the plain pin of white jade that held back his golden hair.
Calemír appraised him quietly, and felt renewed shock wash over him. He fought to arrange his facial muscles into a semblance of polite calm. Was this truly the same warrior-prince who had left them only at the end of the last year?
Only after the prince took his seat did the rest of them take theirs. Young Teleglos plopped himself opposite Calemír with none of his usual insouciance, grinning in a way that made Calemír question the number of teeth elves should rightly have.
"Have the Ñoldorin warriors been settled?" the prince asked. When Calemír nodded, he continued briskly, "Report, General."
In truth, Legolas had heard much of Calemír's report already, from the birds and from Teleglos. Their situation was as cheery as could be expected, given that they were simultaneously rather spectacularly outnumbered and short on reliable alliances. It was a chronic condition stemming largely from the fact that they kept losing their people to the sea.
"How many dead?" he said quietly.
A crack slivered Calemír's green eyes. "Three hundred and forty-seven."
Twenty more than the day before. Some of the older elves could remember Ages when elves spoke of death the same way Men spoke of the sound of dancing sunbeams. Legolas could not imagine it.
"Ah." A small, sad sound.
"They will be remembered," Riros murmured. Hithuihil tightened her grip on her spear, as if imagining thrusting it through a black orc-heart.
"We focus on short and swift offensives, but Your Highness, we are slowly allowing ourselves to be pushed north," Calemír said heavily. "Lady Hithuihil's last charge bought us some more time, but it often seems as though we fight to delay the orc advance so villages can evacuate—not to win the war."
Calemír was about as prickly as a bobcat, but in his voice Legolas heard true grief, the self-reproach of a general unable to protect his people. And because Calemír was about as prickly as a bobcat, Legolas sharpened his tone.
"Well, we had better fight to win the war," he said drily, "I would hazard a guess that no one else will do it for us."
When a glint of that familiar murderous light had returned to Calemír's eyes, Legolas said, "I do not fault the approach you have chosen, General. Going head to head with an army sixty thousand strong is like dashing butterflies against stone walls."
"Is there no other way, Your Highness?" Riros said, as if hoping that Legolas was holding out on some grand scheme to eject Sauron from Dol Guldur like a piece of unwanted lint.
"Nothing that does not involve retreat." Legolas tapped the table pensively. The tail of a white bandage trailed from his left wrist. "And not until our allies join us on the field."
"We have allies?" Teleglos's mutter earned him scorching glare from Hithuihil.
"We do, Lord Teleglos," Legolas said mildly. "Lord Elrohir is due to arrive in two days, and Lord Glorfindel shortly after. From Lothlórien, the Galadhrim come. General—"
The prince broke off with a wince that sent Teleglos and Calemír surging to their feet.
"Perhaps—" Riros began.
"No," Legolas said firmly, tucking his hands back neatly beneath his wide sleeves. "General, what of the missive I ordered sent to the Master of Esgaroth upon the Long Lake?"
"We received his answer yesterday." The line of Calemír's mouth was tight with contempt. "The men of Esgaroth are busy planting spring wheat—although what men of a trading town have to do with wheat, I have no idea. He must kindly decline Your Highness' request."
"Request?" Legolas said, his eyes abruptly cold as the northernmost reaches of the Helcaraxë. "He is mistaken. I grant him the opportunity to save both himself and Laketown from being obliterated from the face of Arda when orcs tear through Esgaroth. Tell him that if he wants his town to be remembered as more than a collection of ashes, he will send men to guard the mouth of the northern forests."
"Yes, my prince."
"Focus on the battle, General. From now on, I will take over the perusal of all reports regarding the movement of grain, weapons, and other provisions. I have informed Galion to dispatch all missives concerning policy and internal affairs south—have any of his reports arrived yet?"
Riros nodded. "They are awaiting you in your talan, my prince."
"Your Highness, if I may," Calemír said. "I notice that Teleglos is still Lord Commander of the Archers."
Legolas smiled faintly. "He is indeed."
Silently, Calemír cursed the princeling. Elves were notoriously vague, but even so, no ordinary elf had a habit of dancing around the proverbial bush quite as many times. "Will you not be leading in a military capacity, Your Highness?"
"Do you have the wolf seal, General?"
In answer, Calemír opened a pouch at his waist and drew out a small figurine. Half a bronze wolf, alive as could be.
From inside his sleeve, Legolas retrieved the other half of the seal and held it aloft. For such a small thing, it was inordinately weighty, for whoever held the wolf seal wielded the power to direct the host of Greenwood the Great.
"From this day forwards, all major military decrees must be authorised by both halves of the seal," Legolas said. "But I will not lead the archers, General. Not only would it lead to some awkwardness in the structure of command, but Lord Teleglos seems to be doing a perfectly good job of it as is."
Calemír had never seen anyone look so ready to disagree with that positive an assessment of themselves, but Teleglos straightened sharply all the same. "I will strive to prove myself worthy of your faith, Your Highness."
"This is not because you are angry with those fools out there today, is it?" Calemír said suspiciously. "Because, if you are—"
"What the General means to say is," Riros interrupted, shooting Calemír an exasperated look. "Are you well, Your Highness? Have you recovered fully from your exertions in Imladris?"
"Of course," Legolas said solemnly. "And I will endeavour to come out of the forty lashes I have left looking more lively."
Four pairs of unimpressed eyes met his. Apparently having had enough of his nonsense, Hithuihil planted a cup of tea before him. "Drink."
Legolas peered up at her, reconsidered his objection, and quietly wrapped his hands around the cup, gently blowing at the puffs of steam.
"My riders will continue raiding orc camps," Hithuihil said. "I agree with the prince. As long as we do not have a clear opportunity to decimate their ranks, our current strategy is wise. We must not meet them outright on the field."
Teleglos' eyebrows furrowed.
"But as long as it resides in Dol Guldur, we cannot stem the flow of battle," he pointed out. "Everything else is just snipping away thorns—the roots remain untouched."
Legolas heaved a deep sigh, swirling his cup of tea. "You're right."
"He's right?" Legolas' agreement perturbed Riros so much that he forgot to append the prince's formal style. "Will we have to kill a Ringwraith ourselves?"
Calemír glowered at him. "Are you suggesting we can't dispose of a little smear of shadow?"
"Riros, Calemír, Eru above, no," Legolas said, alarmed. "That is a task best left to elves who have actual experience in successfully dispatching overgrown demon-spawn."
Author's Note:
Elrohir will have caughten up to Legolas by the next chapter, heh heh heh. Good. He needs more allies.
Hoping all of you are safe and well.
Translations:
Eiliannel: Rainbow (female)
Eiliant: Sindarin for rainbow, literally: 'sky-bridge' - fan-invented according to the lovely Parf Edhellen elven-dictionary
Elyadme: Ñoldorin for rainbow, literally: 'sky-bridge'
Essë: An elf's father-name, chosen by the father and given shortly after the elf's birth.
Helcaraxë: The "Grinding Ice", a Middle-Earth North Pole, which Fingolfin and his host crossed to return to Middle-Earth from Valinor.
Helyanwë: Quenya for rainbow, literally: 'sky-bridge'
Ninniach: Sindarin for rainbow