The Uncommon Tales
Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One
Chapter One: Archery Here, Archery There
The tale begins…
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Greenwood the Great's pathways rang of autumn's cool advance. The oft-used trails that meandered amidst the mottled oaks and silvery beeches had become scenes of nature's gaiety, as the fallen leaves skittered and danced on the wind. Many a Silvan Elf smiled appreciatively at the vibrant colors of the woodland's seasonal change; Greenwood had shed her cloak of emerald with the summer's passing, taking on instead vivid hues of gold, crimson, ginger, russet, and indigo. The migratory birds twittered and piped merrily in the branches, which were no longer the concealing haven that they had been throughout the summer months; the boughs and twigs were swiftly baring their bark to the wind, their brightly colored leaves to join the cheery dance on the pathways below.
At the end of one of those paths was a large, grassy clearing that hosted several archery targets of varying size. It was in this leaf-strewn glade that warriors of the Woodland Realm honed their skills with the bow and feather-fletched arrows. From the time young Elves were old enough to walk steadily and unaided, they learned the use of these weapons. The Greenwood was well known for her fine archers; it was said, in fact, that the Silvan Elves were the best marksmen to be found anywhere in Middle-earth. The development and perfection of such ability, however, required expert guidance and supervision. Thus, here at the practice field, Tanglinna was master.
Tanglinna had served as Master Archer under the obdurate King Oropher; but since the old king had been slain amid the horror of Dagorlad, Tanglinna now served Thranduil, Oropher's equally tenacious son. The Master Archer had instructed countless generations of young Sindarin and Silvan Elves for as long anyone could remember. Some of the best archers in Middle-earth had learned their craft under his tutelage. But none could best their teacher as of yet. He was an exacting taskmaster, and did not abide laziness or inattentiveness in his students. He was stern of visage, his grey eyes as sharp as a hawk's; also, he was more apt to bark out a criticism than offer praise. None dared to cross him except Thranduil, and even the king did not often gainsay him.
On this particular day, a gaggle of young archers was practicing the rapid-fire technique on the field. It was a skill that had to be mastered before they would be allowed to accompany their elders on simple hunting forays in the deep forest, for the seemingly effortless swift-draw method had saved many a life when the hunter became the hunted. Tanglinna watched his young pupils impassively, arms folded across his chest; his bow was cradled against him, as much a part of him as his arm or hand. He stood several feet behind the Elflings, well knowing that arrows would fly awry when this particular skill was practiced. Usually, the fledgling archers were so intent on pulling the arrows quickly from their quivers that they did not take time to aim.
All of the young ones were dressed in belted tunics of muted green with brown leggings tucked into leather boots; the outfits were comfortable and unrestrictive, perfect for archery practice. They were not, however, loose-fitting or sloppy—the supremely disciplined and orderly Master Archer would never have permitted such attire. The younglings also wore armguards on their bow arms, and their quivers were fastened behind them for convenient use, the feathered practice shafts standing above their slim shoulders. Each Elfling had his strengths and weaknesses; Tanglinna watched over them all, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Young Brethil Bronaduion always managed to whip the arrow from his quiver quite well, but then he would pause, his tongue clamped between his lips, as he carefully nocked it and slowly took aim. Glavrol was one who never bothered to take care as to where his shafts flew when released. His arrows struck the trees, the ground, disappeared into the forest beyond, and even on occasion hit the target, though Tanglinna was well aware that such occurrences were purely accidental. To the Master Archer's immense amusement, the trees actually began to murmur in dismay whenever the dark haired youth took up his bow and arrows.
Tavor was technically the best in the class, something that he never allowed the others to forget. Since Tanglinna decidedly frowned on his cockiness, he was certain not to brag until they were far from the archery field. Mithereg was improving greatly, and Tanglinna knew he would be the first to master his skills with the necessary poise and seriousness that Tavor lacked. Talagan tried very hard, but his long hands were more skilled on the harp string than on the bowstring. Nevertheless, the Master Archer knew that the youngster would one day become as adept with the weapons as he was with his beloved instrument.
The last student in the class was young Prince Legolas. Tanglinna watched as his king's youngest son whipped an arrow from his quiver. The shaft immediately slipped from the slim fingers, and flew end over end to land in the grass a few feet away. The princeling froze in place, and the Master Archer could imagine the look of humiliation and annoyance on his face. Tanglinna's shoulders shook slightly with barely discernable amusement; he well remembered similar expressions on Thranduil's own face. Indeed, it was with an eerily familiar dignity that Legolas' back stiffened, and another arrow was whipped from the quiver—only to sail through the air and sink into the ground beside the first one. The prince's hands clenched at his sides in frustration, and he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other before moving once more into a shooting stance.
Tanglinna shook his silvery head and moved to stand at the youngling's shoulder. "You are not grasping the arrow correctly, nin caun," he said quietly. He did not wish to draw unwanted attention to the princeling; that would undoubtedly embarrass Legolas to no end, and that was not Tanglinna's intention. "Here is where you take it," he murmured. The strong, slim hands of the elder adeptly guided those of his young charge.
Legolas frowned—again, a familiar expression—then straightened his back once more and drew another arrow. This time it didn't fling itself from his fingers, and he smiled in pleased relief. Tanglinna said nothing, but instead moved on to Brethil. While the others had already shot through two bundles of arrows, Brethil had only worked his way through one. To his credit, all of the Elfling's shots had landed expertly near the center of the target, while those of his peers had mostly flown astray, but precision was not the purpose of this particular exercise. Tanglinna drifted to stand over Brethil's shoulder, and as he had done for Legolas, he lowered his voice to a discreet murmur.
"Brethil, this is the rapid-fire technique. You need to be fast. Accuracy will come later."
The young one turned to look up at his mentor, his brows knitted worrisomely over pale grey eyes. "I know, Master Tanglinna," Brethil sighed, shaking his head and tugging on his long, nearly white-haired braid, "but I am having trouble setting the arrow to the string quickly, and I thought that since I am taking so much time at that then why not take time to aim accurately as well? If enemies were attacking me I might at least manage to hit one with a well-placed arrow. Glavrol will have fired many arrows to my one, but they would all miss, most likely. Tavor and Mithereg would fell the enemies undoubtedly. They are very good, aren't they?" He gazed at the two in undisguised admiration. "Talagan could sing the enemies to sleep with his harp and lovely voice, and Legolas, well, he might get fairly good at throwing the arrows at them with his hands." He cocked his head to one side as he watched Legolas practice. The young prince was flinging his arrow in the air less often now. "I think—"
"Enough," Tanglinna broke in, knowing very well that the youngling's monologue could last for hours if it wasn't checked. Truly, he had often thought that Brethil should trade names with Glavrol, whose name meant "to babble." No one in Greenwood babbled better than Brethil. "Enough. You must shoot faster. Now." With that admonition, the Master Archer turned and paced away, forestalling another onslaught of words from the younger Elf. He heard Brethil's slight sigh, and after that, the ponderous twang of another arrow's methodical release.
Mithereg and Tavor were having a subtle, friendly rivalry. Tavor's face was glowing with a triumphant smirk, clearly stating that he was winning their little competition—that is, until he became aware that Master Archer's eyes were fixed on them. Tavor blinked, schooling his features to more appropriate neutrality and nonchalance. Mithereg, unconcerned about Tanglinna's stare, brushed a stray strand of rich brown hair from his eyes and grinned at Tavor. He then proceeded to send five perfectly aimed arrows into the target in rapid succession. Tavor's self-assurance faltered just a bit as the victory slipped from his fingers.
Talagan made a small noise of joy as he managed to hit the target three consecutive times. Tanglinna turned, nodding to himself with pleasure at the progress that the young musician had made. Then he grunted, merely barking out his usual "Again!" The brisk directive caused the chestnut-haired harpist to start in surprise, his green eyes widening at his instructor's curt acknowledgement. Then, Tanglinna turned his attention back to his prince.
Legolas was also doing better, having managed to send a few of his arrows flying into the target. His face shone with elation as he turned to see if anyone had noticed. The Master Archer narrowed his eyes as Brethil smiled at his friend, nodding encouragingly. That one was just beginning on his second bundle of arrows while Tavor and Mithereg were on their sixth, Talagan on his fifth, and Legolas his fourth. It seemed that "fast" wasn't in Brethil's rather extensive vocabulary.
"Now, Brethil!" Tanglinna called out, by now unconcerned as to whether the Elfling would be embarrassed by the rebuke. "Faster!"
Greenwood's prince found himself grimacing in sympathy for his meticulous friend, until he noticed that Old Sourpuss' disapproving gaze was suddenly turned upon him. Legolas frowned to himself, turning back to the target. He and the others were doing much better than they had been, he thought. Why did Tanglinna always look like he was disgusted with their progress? He was never pleased with them, it seemed.
Someday I will be the best archer in Greenwood, the princeling thought, yanking an arrow from the quiver. He was determined to show Tanglinna what he could do, for he was now certain that he had practiced quite enough to be rather good at it. Even Old Sourpuss will have to notice! The arrow flew true and landed in the target a few inches from the center. Legolas didn't allow himself time to gloat, although a satisfied smirk touched his lips as the second arrow flew in the wake of the first one. The second shaft, however, missed the target completely, and landed in the brush beneath the trees beyond. The prince winced and looked about sheepishly before grabbing another arrow.
King Thranduil covered a smile and shook his golden head before moving into the clearing. His feet were silent as he crossed the autumn-browned grass, his eyes on his future warriors. He was very pleased with what he had witnessed; they were all trying very hard to master this most necessary skill. The king had seen many, many generations of young Elves practicing under the Master Archer. Too, he could well recall his own time spent with the slim practice bow in hand; fingers stinging and sore, with Tanglinna an ever-present apparition standing at his shoulder, watching and gauging every move, every flaw, and every perfect shot.
Now, it was Thranduil who came to stand at his Master Archer's side. Tanglinna, who had been aware of his king's presence for some time, acknowledged him with a nod of his head, his eyes never leaving his young charges.
"How are they faring?" Oropher's son asked, his voice pitched low enough to be mostly drowned out by the thudding of the shafts hitting the targets.
Tanglinna made a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Thranduil smiled appreciatively. The Master Archer would never change, something that the king was intensely grateful for. Within the preceding century, Greenwood had experienced the most terrible upheavals she had ever seen in her long history. Dagorlad was little more than a hundred years past, and its horrors were still fresh in Thranduil's mind. He had seen two-thirds of the Elves from Greenwood and Lothlórien cut down by the Enemy's brutal resistance. King Oropher, the first Lord of the Woodland Realm and the father of Thranduil, had been among the first of those to fall, pierced to the heart by black-feathered shafts. And my beloved Astalaewen died only two years ago… Thranduil sighed inwardly at the memory and pushed it away. Indeed, the Woodland Realm had undergone great turmoil in recent years. That was why the king so valued Tanglinna's steady temperament; it had long been a point of stability in a storm of events that Thranduil was helpless to prevent or control.
"Going hunting, aranhîr?" Tanglinna asked without turning, having noted out of the corner of one eye his king's brown and green riding leathers.
"Yes. We will be riding east today." A slightly roguish smile touched the Elvenking's lips, and the slate-gray eyes flared briefly with rare delight.
Tanglinna smiled as well. He was vastly amused at the childlike joy he saw in the king's expression at the prospect of spending a few days on the hunt. Thranduil was no better than the young Elflings at times. "Is Curulin accompanying you?" Tanglinna asked, thinking of his colleague, Greenwood's merry Master Huntsman. At Thranduil's nod, Tanglinna grinned slyly. "I wonder what song he will sing for you this time," he remarked quietly, his eyes sliding to his king. He saw the twitch of amused remembrance on the Elvenking's lips.
"Bronadui is coming as well," Thranduil said, his gaze flitting to the son of the warrior he had named. Brethil was making his ponderous way through his second bundle of arrows, and was nearly ready to begin a third. Thranduil shook his head slightly and hid a grin, knowing that the youngling's painstaking ways were cause for much frustration on Tanglinna's part. "As are Marthul and Amarthiach," he continued.
Tanglinna gave a considering nod. "'Twill be a cheery company, it seems. Who among the young warriors do you intend to take?"
"Síralaith and Nevenneth," Thranduil replied, then added somewhat impishly, "as per your recommendation, of course."
The Master Archer did not even crack a smile. "Of course," he said matter-of-factly.
Suddenly, their attention was drawn to Legolas. The princeling grinned wildly, throwing a fist in the air in triumph as his two last arrows sank into the target. He turned to fetch another bundle of arrows, and as he did so, his sparkling eyes caught sight of Thranduil. The child's face lit from within, obviously thrilled to see his father. Legolas started to drop the bow on the ground, but when two pairs of eyebrows shot up in rapid disapproval and reprimand, he trotted over to the elder Elves, his slender bow kept dutifully in hand.
"Ada!" he chirped, bowing slightly as he remembered his manners. His grin threatened to split his beaming face, and he seemed about to burst with exhilaration and pride. "Did you see me? Did you see, Ada?" Legolas asked excitedly, flinging himself into his father's waiting arms. The princeling was young enough to get away with ignoring royal decorum most of the time, and he was rewarded with a fierce hug.
"You did very well, Little Greenleaf, very well indeed. You will make a fine archer one day," Thranduil told his youngest, smiling broadly.
Tanglinna harrumphed, and crossed his arms over his chest once more. "You should have seen him just a bit earlier, aranhîr," he said, turning slightly to stare down at the young one, who released his father, his cheeks reddening. "He was trying to teach us a new way to use the arrows."
Thranduil raised one dark brow in query. Legolas' face flamed even more, and he lifted his chin and stared up at the Master Archer boldly, imbued with courage by his royal father's presence. "Just watch me," he declared, then moved to grab up a bundle of arrows and take his place before the target once more. As before, his slim back was stiff and proud.
"I wonder where he gets such overweening pride," Tanglinna muttered to his king without the slightest timidity. "It wasn't from his mother, I am certain."
Thranduil suppressed a smile as he crossed his arms over his chest, watching his son preparing to send another volley of shafts across the clearing. "Perhaps it is from his grandsire, who seemed to think that overweening pride was the only way to counter a very sarcastic and demanding Master Archer who was never satisfied," he replied dryly.
Tanglinna snorted and narrowed his grey eyes, but a small smile touched his lips at the memory of the Woodland Realm's first king. Oropher had been difficult at times, but his people had loved him, and he had been a good king despite his willfulness. "It would appear to be a family trait," the Master Archer commented, his eyes riveted on the slain king's youngest grandson. Legolas' face was set in grimly determined lines as he glared at the target, slender fingers twitching as he prepared to yank an arrow from his quiver.
Thranduil secretly hoped that the child would succeed fantastically. He wanted to see the neutral expression on his Master Archer's face slip a bit. In fact, Thranduil decided with a fiendish grin that he felt like tweaking Tanglinna. "Perhaps you might let Legolas join us on the hunting trip," Thranduil said softly into the elder Elf's ear, hoping to avoid alerting his youngest as to his scheme; Legolas did not need the added pressure. "If he makes the shots."
Tanglinna glanced at his king, his brows quirking in annoyance. He knew exactly what Thranduil was up to. "You know the rules, aranhîr," he replied coolly. "This skill must be mastered before they are allowed on hunting trips. Your youngling is far from achieving that."
"All the same, I am the king of Greenwood, and I say that if he makes the shots then he goes," Thranduil answered staunchly.
"And I say that he will not make the shots, so there is no point to this conversation," Tanglinna fired back. With that, the two elders looked to the object of their debate, and they waited in thick silence for Legolas to begin.
Legolas' sharp ears had picked up most of their quiet words, and he felt a thrill of joy. A hunting trip with his Ada! His first hunting trip! Today! He knew he was too young for the hunting forays, but all the same, he desperately wished to go. He could picture himself atop his horse, riding out with his father and the others, his bow slung across his back like he'd seen on some of the older warriors, his quiver filled—not with dull tipped practice arrows, but with real arrows, with real points, sharpened to a killing edge. Hunting sounded so exciting and wonderful, and now he might be able to go with his Ada…if he could just make the shots. Legolas drew himself up, preparing to draw and fire the two arrows in quick succession as he had before. Just as his arm shot back to grasp the first, however, Tanglinna cleared his throat loudly.
"Five arrows in the target, my prince…and they had better be fast."
Legolas halted in mid-motion, the words jarring his concentration. He didn't notice the exasperated look his father shot at the Master Archer. All he could think about was the fact that the other fledgling warriors had noticed some of what was going on. They had all turned to see that the King had joined them, and after bowing respectfully, they had moved from the practice range to stand clumped together like little wide-eyed birds. Now, they were all watching intently to see if Legolas could do what was asked of him.
"He'll never do it," Tavor whispered to Mithereg. The former, who had been bested at last by the latter, was still smarting from the loss, and so was feeling rather ungracious.
"He might," Talagan said in his musical voice, his eyes hopeful. "He has gotten much better just today."
Glavrol nodded, knowing that the prince had landed more in the target then he had. Most of his own shafts were lost in the brush, and a few jutted from groaning trees. The Elfling grimaced and silently promised the trees that he would do better in the future.
"He will," Brethil said with a nod. "He is very determined to be good at this, and you know how stubborn he is. With the King and Master Tanglinna watching him, he will be even more determined to do it right. But," he cocked his head to one side, "that will make him even more nervous and he might not do as well as he would have if they weren't watching him. Have you ever noticed how much Master Tanglinna looks like a hawk? He is very fierce, isn't he? And the King—"
"Shut up, Brethil," Tavor and the others hissed, then quickly covered their laughter as Legolas turned to glare at them.
The young prince gave his peers a good hard stare before returning his attention to the target. Five arrows! Two he could manage, but five? His bottom lip thrust out in defiance, and his bright eyes narrowed. He needed to prove to them all that he could do this. If he could manage to shoot two with speed and accuracy, then how much harder could five be?
"I can do this," Legolas murmured to himself. He drew a deep breath, straightening his back and settling into an archer's stance as he had done so many times that day. "I can do this." His father would be very happy and very proud of him, and Master Tanglinna would be— The princeling flashed a nasty smile at the ground as he checked the spacing of his feet. Tanglinna would be very shocked, and not at all happy. "I can do this!" he repeated.
The blond head shot up, and the fingers of his right hand flexed in preparation. Then, in a flurry of fluid movement, he was shooting the arrows. One right after the other they hurtled through the air.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
The first three shafts landed solidly in the target, and Legolas felt a brief thrill of elation. His fingers closed about the fourth arrow and swiftly nocked it, then sent it flying. It too hit the target, but his hand was already on the fifth arrow. The princeling whipped it over his shoulder toward the bowstring, just as he had done with the previous four…but this arrow slipped from his grasp and went sailing through the air. It landed upright a few feet away, the arrow's hardened tip buried in the ground.
"He really is getting very good at throwing them with his hands," Brethil commented brightly.
Legolas stared at the arrow in disbelief. He blinked several times, hoping that it was merely his sight that was at fault. Surely he hadn't missed on the last arrow. Surely he hadn't flung it from his fingers again in such an undignified and ungraceful manner. Surely he hadn't missed on the last arrow!
But there it was, the feathers pointed at him as if in blatant accusation.
"No," the young prince whispered under his breath, no longer feeling the bow in his hand. "No."
Tanglinna glanced at Thranduil, the bland expression on his face all but shouting "I told you so." Then, as was customary, the Master Archer grunted his acknowledgement, and followed that with a carefully neutral remark.
"Not quite five arrows in the target, nin caun."
Legolas looked at his father, his eyes filled with utter disappointment. "But I got four," he said, his hand gripping the wood of the bow. "Four! Can't I go, Ada? Please?"
Thranduil drew in a breath, held it for three beats of his heart, and exhaled softly. Legolas had evidently heard at least part of his conversation with Tanglinna. Drat the selective hearing of the young, the king thought wryly, remembering quite a few times when he had overheard "adult" conversations in his own far-gone youth. Thranduil covered his disappointment with a gentle smile and held out a hand toward his hopeful son. "Come here, little Greenleaf."
As Legolas did so, his bright expression wavering between hopeful anxiety and woeful uncertainty, Thranduil let his ash-hued eyes slide briefly to the side to take in Tanglinna's response. The Master Archer's face was nearly expressionless as he gave a slight shake of his silvery head; however, Thranduil thought he detected a fleeting glint of surprised admiration for the accuracy of the youngest prince's shots, and perhaps even a small measure of disappointment that the child had not been able to meet the requirement. Despite his stern manner and unrelenting demands for improvement, Tanglinna truly did want his students to do well. In fact, as the king well knew, archery was one skill that no Elf of the Greenwood dared lack in, and so Tanglinna would press his pupils toward perfection until the day they received their warrior braids. And even after that, Thranduil mused.
Legolas slipped his small hand into his father's long-fingered grip. "Please, Ada?" he asked again, his voice barely a whisper, his silver eyes huge in the early morning's sunlight.
Thranduil gave his youngest child's delicate hand an affectionate squeeze. "I am sorry, little Greenleaf," he said in a quiet, sympathetic voice. "You did very well today, but you did miss the last arrow." The king's heart stung at his son's wronged expression, but he kept his tone low and steady. "I am certain that if you continue practicing as you have been, you will soon be able to accompany me."
In all truth, Thranduil knew that Legolas was far too young for such a hunting expedition. While they were at times great fun, and though they were rife with the joy of camaraderie and friendly competition between the warriors, hunts also held any number of dangers. The fleet-footed stags were fiercely protective of their females and young; wild boars were wily and unpredictable, and therefore made fairly risky prey. An untried warrior could easily fall victim to glistening antler points or flashing tusks. It was not merely accuracy and the master of the rapid-fire technique that Legolas lacked; it was the confidence and maturity that only time and more practice would bring. A hunter could not afford to hesitate for any reason when faced with a charging, maddened beast, and Thranduil knew that his little Greenleaf was far too young to have acquired the instinct necessary to cope with such a fearsome situation.
Legolas, however, did not have his sire's experience or foresight. He could not think beyond his own failure, and the opportunity he had lost as a result. His head drooped forward, a curtain of golden strands falling between his crestfallen expression and his father's gaze. His slim fingers clenched about the smooth, familiar weight of his bow, which he still held clutched in his treacherous right hand. The other hand lay limp and dejected in Thranduil's grasp. And slowly he nodded, his eyes boring miserably into the trampled grass before his booted feet.
Thranduil gave another inward sigh and drew his child closer, still gripping Legolas' little fingers between his own large ones, and he laid his other hand on the princeling's slim, tense shoulder. He knew that anything he said would likely fall on ears deaf to everything but the dull roar of sore disappointment—selective hearing, indeed—but he felt compelled to explain more clearly to the child why he was not to be allowed on the hunt. "Legolas, nin meliôn, you will be ready soon enough," he said softly. "I understand your frustration, little one. Truly, you are doing very well!" There was no response, and Thranduil continued, "I realize that it seems unfair to you, but there are good reasons for the rules your teachers set down for you. Your brother and sisters chafed beneath them, as did I when I was your age—" At that, Tanglinna gave a snort, but Thranduil ignored him and resumed, "But they are necessary. I think of your safety above all else, my son, and that is why I cannot let you go on the hunt today. Do you understand?"
Legolas remained silent, and nodded his bent head once more because it was expected of him. Thranduil sighed aloud then, knowing that his little princeling would not see the wisdom in this for some time to come. He hugged the child to him and ran a hand down the back of Legolas' blond head, then tugged playfully at the intricate braid. "Perhaps one day Master Tanglinna and I will take all of you to hunt squirrels," he suggested with a grin, his gray eyes lifting to sweep over the other younglings, who had stood in respectful silence during the low conversation between the king and the prince.
Tanglinna shrugged noncommittally in response, but the Elflings' responses were much more enthusiastic. Tavor and Mithereg grinned delightedly at each other, plans already blossoming in their minds. Glavrol, too, seemed pleased at the thought. Talagan chewed his lip and glanced uncertainly at his target, which boasted only a few arrows (as most of them had found resting places in the brush beyond the target). Brethil, of course, looked like he wanted to say something, but he shut his mouth at Tanglinna's warning stare.
Thranduil was glad to see the effect on the younglings, and he turned his attention back down to Legolas. The child still stood with his eyes downcast; it seemed that even his father's latest offer could not reach him. "Well, Legolas?" he asked softly, as Tanglinna directed the other Elflings to continue their practice. "Do you like that idea?"
"Yes, Ada," Legolas answered quietly, not looking up. He noted the movement of a small bug by his left foot, and followed its progress with his eyes, for he did not wish to meet his sire's gaze. Despite Thranduil's explanation and proposition, the princeling's failure still smarted, and he stubbornly refused to be consoled.
Thranduil shook his golden head slightly, clearly seeing much of himself in his youngest child. He swiftly knelt before Legolas and placed a long finger beneath the Elfling's chin, raising his son's silveron eyes to lock with his own. "You truly did well today, iôn nin," he said with a reassuring smile. "I am very proud of you." His gaze flicked aside to regard Tanglinna's continuing work with the other young archers. "As is Tanglinna, although he may never say as much directly."
Legolas' rounded features creased in confusion; obviously, the concept that Tanglinna was proud of him was utterly foreign. Thranduil continued, "The Master Archer may not say aloud what he feels, young one, but much is revealed in his actions and expressions. You need only take heed of them, and you will learn what he is not saying with his tongue. Look now, and tell me what you see."
The princeling turned and followed his father's gaze. Tanglinna was once again trying to explain to Brethil that he must shoot faster if he wished to accomplish his goal. The son of Bronadui and Lady Glaurhunant drew in a breath and began to expound at great length as to exactly why he had not yet mastered this skill as well as his fellow Elflings had. Thranduil, for his part, shook his head in amusement, and his mind traveled for a moment to the day ahead. As he had remarked to Tanglinna, Bronadui would be accompanying the hunting party. Thranduil was always glad for the quiet, gentle Silvan Elf's presence. Bronadui possessed a lightness of heart and an optimistic outlook, which he had passed in some small measure to his only son.
Legolas watched with unusual scrutiny as the Master Archer showed Brethil how to pull the arrow swiftly from the quiver, place it to the string, and release it, all within the space of a heartbeat. Pull, place, pull, release. Pull, place, pull, release. Even in his miserable, angry state, the young prince was beginning to see past the mild annoyance evident in the lines of Tanglinna's lean face. Strangely, Legolas could see, at least in part, the deep-set patience that marked every gesture and word. He could not quite subdue a grin as he picked up Brethil's steady stream of commentary. I'd have told him to shut up by now, Legolas thought. But the Master Archer said nothing of the sort, instead allowing the words to run their course before he spoke to the youngster once more. Brethil nodded in response to Tanglinna's instructions, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on doing what was asked of him.
Also, Legolas heard Tanglinna's quiet mantra of "Pull, place, pull, release." The Master Archer recited it in rhythm with Brethil's shots, until the Elfling chanted it as well. Pull, place, pull, release, pull, place, pull, release… Finally, Brethil had gotten it!
Tanglinna moved on to stand by Talagan, but Legolas clearly saw the flash of satisfaction in the silvery eyes, the nod of the head; and the prince understood that these were likely the only praise Brethil would receive for his achievement. But they were enough.
"Do you see it now, little Greenleaf?" Thranduil murmured, having noted the Master Archer's subtle approval as well. "He sees each accomplishment, and though he may not remark upon it audibly, he has noted it. He is proud of you all." The king turned his son to face him once more, and rested his fingers against the child's soft cheek. "And I am proud of you, my son, very proud indeed. Never forget that."
Legolas nodded, and Thranduil gave the princeling a warm smile as he stood. "Good," he said, tousling the blond hair. He glanced over his future warriors once more, nodding his satisfaction at what he saw. They would all be an asset to the Woodland Realm one day. "I must go say farewell to your sisters," Thranduil told Legolas, turning his attention back to the princeling, "for the company is to depart ere the Sun climbs very much higher. I shall see you in a few days, little one." And with a pat to Legolas' head and a fond smile of farewell, the king turned and strode out of the clearing, disappearing into the forest as swiftly as he had come.
The princeling sighed slightly, and turned to watch as Tanglinna moved to stand behind Mithereg and Tavor. It took every ounce of control Legolas had to stifle his giggle at the Master Archer's expression; Tanglinna stood with arms folded, his eyes narrowed to slits of displeasure, looking for all the world like a hawk bent on carnage. The reason was readily apparent: Tavor and Mithereg were once again attempting to best each other, instead of concentrating on the task at hand. Tavor was attempting to keep the satisfied smirk from his handsome young face, without much success, and Mithereg merely grinned unabashedly. Tanglinna cleared his throat loudly, startling the two younglings, and Mithereg at least managed to look chagrined at the Master Archer's raised eyebrow. The two continued in their training dutifully, ever mindful of Tanglinna's watchful glare.
Legolas dropped his gaze to the ground as the overwhelming disappointment swept through him yet again. His Ada's words had been very kind and had helped somewhat, but when all was said and done, the prince was still not going to be allowed on the hunt. He wished practice were over, so that he could go and sulk in private, where no one could see him. He could barely bring himself to nock another arrow to his bowstring, so disheartened was he.
At last, the sound of arrows thudding into targets died away, and the Elflings moved forward to retrieve their arrows. Legolas yanked the wayward fifth arrow, the sign of his defeat and humiliation, from the ground. He stared at it morosely, then wiped dirt from the dull metal tip and shoved it into his quiver. Stupid arrow, he thought angrily. The other four, the ones that had flown true, seemed more a mockery than a real accomplishment. Stupid arrows, all of them, the princeling amended.
Just as Legolas finished stuffing the last of his practice arrows into his quiver, Brethil moved over to join him. "You did really well, Legolas," the younger Elf murmured, placing a comforting hand on his friend's arm. "You really are getting very good. One day you will be at least as good as Master Tanglinna." Then, he glanced over at the Master Archer, who was quietly scolding Tavor, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Or better."
Legolas felt a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at Brethil's sincere face. "Thank you," he muttered, knowing that he could always count on Brethil to make him feel better—or, at least, to try. The prince accompanied his friend over to his target and began to help Brethil retrieve the arrows. "You did very well, too," he commented, taking in the careful placement of the red practice shafts. "They're all near the center, at least."
"Yes, they are," Brethil agreed, running one finger over the feathered shaft in the middle of the painted bull's eye. "But Master Tanglinna is right. I was very slow. I will be lucky if I ever get my warrior's braids." He sighed morosely, fingering the long, single braid that hung over his right shoulder.
Legolas smiled at his friend as he stuffed the arrows into Brethil's quiver. "Of course you will get them," he said quietly. "We all will. We will stand there in front of everyone, looking so brave and grown-up—like warriors!—and our fathers will braid our hair, and we will be given our real weapons." The prince smiled longingly, thinking of what his real arrows would look and feel like. "They'll all be so proud. It will be a wonderful day. And do you know what the best thing about that day will be?"
When Brethil shook his head, Legolas grinned and draped a hand over his friend's shoulders. "We'll all become warriors together, on the same day, at the same time. Brothers forever."
Brethil smiled widely, his eyes sparkling. He had never had a brother before, and the thought that his friends were to become his brothers for forever was tremendously exciting. "I guess I had better practice some more, then, so I can be your brother forever, too," he said. "I would like to be able to shoot a squirrel. They are very fast. I hope your Ada really will take us all squirrel-hunting, like he said." Suddenly, his face brightened. "We have caught fifteen of them now, haven't we? That was not so easy, either, and we managed to do it. So maybe I will be able to shoot one." Just as quickly, his expression fell. "But I would hate to shoot any of our little squirrels. They look so cute with their bushy tails curling and flicking. Their eyes are so bright and black, aren't they? It really is a shame that they have not learned to do their tricks yet."
Legolas grinned at his friend's enthusiasm. "They just need more practice. Like us." His gaze fell on Tanglinna once more. It really isn't all his fault I couldn't go on the hunt today, Legolas thought to himself grudgingly, but if he hadn't made that rule about the five arrows, I probably could have done it! The thought stung at the prince's pride, and he wished he could somehow get back at the Master Archer for making the test so hard…
Suddenly, a supremely naughty idea came to Legolas' head. His grin widened, and his eyes glimmered mischievously. Brethil, who was watching his friend's expression, made a face. "Legolas, what are you thinking?"
"Master Archer Tanglinna wasn't very fair to me earlier, was he?" Legolas muttered, mostly to himself. The grin did not go away; if anything, it only widened, as his plot was hatched out in his mind.
Brethil's expression sank. "You're going to get us into trouble, aren't you?" he asked resignedly.
Legolas did not seem to hear. "Come on," he said excitedly. "Let's go get Tavor. I have an idea."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Later that evening…
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Thranduil inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp tang of the autumn air. The scent was one of aging leaves ready to fall to the earth, and of sleepy trees ready for their winter's rest. The Elvenking smiled up at the thinning canopy stretched above him and his small hunting party. Through the fluttering, vibrantly colored leaves he could see that the cloudless blue sky was fading to lavender with the Sun's descent in the west. The massive oaks thrummed their greetings as Thranduil rode in their midst, rustling their boughs and causing the shafts of reddening sunlight to dance across the leaf-littered forest floor.
The dark-haired warrior riding to Thranduil's right hummed a smattering of pleasant notes, then raised his fair voice in song: "Lino nin muinderi yavaso lintimë túliel, an Yavanno aglar nutul tenn'hiniel!"
Thranduil's smile widened; the words were part of the refrain from a very old, much-beloved hymn to the Giver of Fruits. Sing, my brothers, of autumn swiftly approaching, for Yavanna's glory descends unto her children! "Most appropriate, Curulin," the king remarked, glancing over at his Master Huntsman. "Certainly an improvement from the last time you accompanied me on the hunt. I still do not understand what inspired you to begin singing that ridiculous barrel song."
Curulin's warrior braids danced around his face as he ruefully shook his head. "I had heard a troop of Elflings singing it that morning, aranhîr nin. It became lodged in my thoughts, as is the tendency of all such nonsense."
"Will not speaking of it accomplish the same?" another of the hunters asked, chuckling from behind Thranduil and Curulin.
"Nay, Marthul," another answered from further back in the party, "he must hear its tune." On the heels of those words came the very melody they were discussing, floating up to assault the ears of the two at the head of the company.
"Síralaith!" Curulin muttered darkly, his brows furrowing as he tried to prevent the song from infiltrating his thinking again. "Aranhîr, permission to eliminate the youngling's ability to hum?"
Thranduil stifled his laughter and twisted around to direct a cool glare toward the humming Elf near the rear of the party. The humming cut off immediately, and Síralaith had the grace to look abashed. "Let us not torment the Master Huntsman," Thranduil told them all, giving the entire party a pointed look. "Surely you have all had such songs trapped in your minds at one time or another; for instance, I understand the bow-making song is quite memorable."
A chorus of groans met the statement, and Thranduil turned back to face the pathway ahead, satisfied. Curulin's appreciative smile was somewhat strained; the bow-making song had apparently found a place in his head as a result of the king's comment. Just so long as he does not begin singing it, Thranduil thought with a sidelong glance at his Master Huntsman. Curulin's voice was lovely, true, but he had a penchant for singing whatever songs came into his head, and he had been known to grace those around him with the most absurd tunes imaginable.
The hunting party continued along the path, speaking and laughing amongst themselves. They were twenty in number, together with their king; all were mounted on proud horses free of saddles and bridles, for Elven beasts needed no such restraints. The hunters were clad in green and brown riding leathers, including Thranduil, though the king's outer tunic was interwoven with crimson and gold embroidery as befit his station. The cool weather did not overly affect them, but each wore a dark green cloak clasped at his throat. Their quivers bristled with arrows, and their bows were tucked securely to their backs, ever in readiness for a swift shot. All bore Elven-made swords at their sides; these were not to be used in the hunting, however, but were merely a precaution that no warrior of the Woodland Realm dared lack. A few among the party also carried long spears.
Thranduil listened to his companions trade jests and stories, smiling at some of the more amusing ones. Some of the tales were older than their tellers, dating back to the days of the king's own long-past youth. Still, he enjoyed the younglings' good humor. He had chosen his hunting party carefully, including some of the best hunters, some of the best trackers, and so on. Bronadui, Brethil's father, was typically quiet, but when he did choose to speak, it was with bright humor that never failed to bring a smile to Thranduil's face. The youngest members of the company, Síralaith and Nevenneth, had but recently entered their majority; they had not quite cast their youthful mischief aside, but Tanglinna had assured Thranduil that the two had perfected their aim and would be an asset in the pursuit of a fleet-footed deer.
Too, they bring out interesting reactions in my older companions, Thranduil admitted to himself. He gave his Master Huntsman an amused glance. Such as Curulin. The Elven warrior had been hunting for the king's table for nigh on a millennia, and was regarded as one of the most skilled bowmen in the Greenwood. He did have quite a wicked sense of humor, but it was rarely glimpsed by the young, for Curulin had no children and was not entirely comfortable around Elflings—no matter their actual age. Thranduil rather enjoyed the discomfort Síralaith and his ilk caused Curulin; it deterred the Master Huntsman from wholly becoming "a grumpy old Elf," as Legolas had described him on one occasion.
As always, thoughts of his youngest son sent a deep thrill racing through the Elvenking's heart. His smile brightened considerably, taking on the rarest sparkle of joy. My little bird, he thought affectionately. Little Greenleaf was every bit his mother's image, from his sweetly rounded features to his inquisitively shimmering eyes. And oh, when the little bird is unhappy, Thranduil mused, recalling the morning's archery incident, that may be an echo of my frown, but I see pure Nandorin fire in those eyes. Astalaewen, my beloved, you would be most pleased!
A hint of sadness crept into the king's smile. Nearly two years had passed since the untimely death of his cherished queen. Astalaewen Luiniglin, the Greenwood's blue-eyed Lady, had ridden from the gates with a hunting party—much like the one Thranduil found himself in at the moment. But she and her companions had been set upon by a large contingent of the filthy creatures that had begun to roam anew the areas between Erebor and the Iron Hills, and even the outraged cries of the forest itself did not bring aid swiftly enough. Two days later, Thranduil had found his lady love's motionless body, her life snuffed out by her own hand in her refusal to submit to capture.
My brave blue-eyed falcon, the king remembered sorrowfully. Did you look on as I and your kin ran your attackers to the ground and slew them all in plain sight of their foul tunnels? Did your spirit rejoice to see the black blood that stained the earth on your behalf?
The only reply was a rush of wind in the trees, a gust of cool air that carried a host of brightly colored leaves from their tenuous moorings and whisked them about in an intricate, riotous dance, before finally allowing them to settle to the earth to join their fellows. Thranduil watched the whirling leaves, lost to his thoughts. A line of small leaves tinted deep indigo coiled its way to the ground, caught in one of the breeze's eddies. The dark hue of the fluttering foliage brought a myriad of memories to the king's mind. Astalaewen's hair…thick, warm, the deep hue of a gardener's prized soil, and twice as rich… Greenwood's fair Lady had possessed the lean, fearsome beauty of her Nandorin forbears, and the unusual blue tint in her eyes had earned her the moniker Luiniglin, Blue-eyed Gleam. Fleet of foot and mind, with lethal aim and deadlier wit, Astalaewen had perfectly complimented her imposing royal husband.
But she was never so beautiful—or formidable—as when she was caught in the throes of childbirth, Thranduil mused, much as he had during the births of each of his children. The Elvenking's bright eyes slipped shut as he recalled his fiery falcon's tired laughter upon seeing the squirming infant she had but newly delivered into the world—their last, a son, who would be named for the summer's greenery that peeked through the window of the birthing room. "Ah, my golden eagle, is it not enough that you hold the headship of the Greenwood? Must you also claim the heads of my children? As though two golden-haired babes out of three did not a fair allotment make!" Thranduil nearly laughed aloud at the memory; for out of their four children, only one—Mithgilhíri, the secondborn, a daughter—had been gifted with her mother's dark locks. The others had inherited their father's deep gold, a fact that had at once pleased Thranduil and entertainingly frustrated Astalaewen.
A low voice at his side brought the king out of his memories. "Nin aranhîr?" Curulin asked, a faint note of concern in his tone. "Are you well?"
Thranduil opened his eyes, quickly reorienting himself. He realized that he had been alternating between a smile and a grimace for the past few moments. "Yes, Curulin. Memory lingers potently in the Greenwood, that is all," he assured the Master Huntsman.
Curulin nodded slightly, and only a dark flash in his eyes betrayed his sympathy for his liege's loss. The Silvan Elves of the Woodland Realm had dearly loved their queen, likely in an even greater measure than they honored their king. Astalaewen's loss had struck the Master Huntsman to the heart, as it had every other Elf in the Greenwood; but none had suffered as had Thranduil. The king had walked as though in a daze for weeks afterward, hardly eating, unable to sleep, slowly wasting beneath the weight of sorrow. The fear had lingered long among those in the Elvenking's service that he would succumb to his grief and follow his queen into the Halls of Mandos. Indeed, most believed that Thranduil had survived solely for the sake of his four children, whom he loved even more fiercely and passionately than he had before his queen's death, if that was possible.
Of a sudden, all thoughts of his family were driven from Thranduil's mind. The trees had begun to whisper of danger swiftly approaching. The Elvenking stiffened and halted his steed, flinging up a hand to indicate that the rest of the party should do likewise. All chatter immediately ceased, and the hunters glanced about warily, wondering what could rouse such a reaction in the middle of what seemed a calm forest on a bright autumn day.
"Aran brannon?" Curulin murmured beneath his breath, all merriment suddenly forgotten.
Thranduil replied in a like low tone, all the while stabbing the nearby stands of trees and other foliage with a sharpened gaze. "The trees have begun to speak of imminent threat, Curulin. They warn me that peril draws nigh."
The Master Huntsman's hand tightened on his sword's hilt. He, too, now discerned the woodland's warning, but the Greenwood had always sung most clearly to those of the House of Oropher. "From where, aranhîr?" he asked softly.
Thranduil glanced up at the boughs quivering above them all. His steely eyes narrowed at the leaves' continued mutterings. "From all around. The threat hems us in."
Curulin drew his blade, motioning for the others in the party to do the same. He briefly gestured to indicate what Thranduil had learned from the forest, and was pleased to see that any expressions of dismay were quickly overlaid with determination. They would see to it that their aran was kept whole. Even young Síralaith and Nevenneth nodded grimly, their dark eyes snapping with resolve.
"Aranhîr," Curulin murmured, "we should attempt to reach the clearing ahead, where we can better defend ourselves. We are too enclosed here, unable to swiftly come to each other's aid."
"Agreed," Thranduil returned, sliding his own blade from its sheathe. The hilt fit into his grip with the welcome familiarity of an old friend's embrace, and with a soft click of his tongue, he spurred his stallion to a rapid canter. Curulin's advice was sound, for an encircling enemy was best met in an open area where the defenders could more easily guard each other. Alas that there are no rock faces to be found close at hand, Thranduil mused. If they had a solid wall to their backs, the hunting party could concentrate on fending frontal assaults only; as it was, however, they would be forced to repel attacks from all sides. It was a potentially deadly situation, one that would have to be dealt with as prudently as possible.
The Elven steeds glided over the forest floor with grace and speed borne of ages of sensible breeding. Thranduil's own stallion was called Hrîwith the Wintry, a mighty creature of dappled gray coat and pale tresses. The hunters' blades and spearheads flickered crimson in the waning sunlight filtering down through the Greenwood's waving boughs. The Elvenking's gaze tightened imperceptibly as he continued to listen to the trees' troubled murmurs; the slender saplings, in particular, were uneasy. The clearing Curulin spoke of was not far, but every passing moment brought the unknown threat nearer.
At length the party swept from the path and into the clear, checking their steeds' swift paces as they reached the center of the grassy arena. Thranduil quickly turned Hrîwith about, commanding the stallion to be still for a moment as the rest of the company arranged themselves in a ring, facing outwards so as to meet the foe on all sides. Curulin was at Thranduil's left, and Amarthiach, another seasoned warrior, guarded the king's right. Thranduil narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly. "The foe is nearly upon us," he hissed to the others. In truth, the mysterious enemies were so close that the Elvenking could hear their approach; he no longer needed the forest's assurances that peril was close at hand, for his sharp ears confirmed that very fact.
Amarthiach bared his teeth in a most Silvan expression of disgust. "They are mounted, aran brannon nin," he murmured. "And they are many."
Thranduil knew as much from his own acuity, but he was never one to be deterred by sheer numbers. "Orcs do not normally ride," he remarked, almost casually, scanning the treeline for the first glimpse of their pursuers.
"Nay, they do not," Curulin agreed. "Men, perhaps?"
Amarthiach gave a snort of grim laughter. "Men with a severe wish for premature deaths, aye."
"If there are archers among them, victory may not be so simply attained," Thranduil said, reaching behind and retrieving his longbow from its snug resting place at his back. His rune-scribed blade he slid back into its scabbard, ready to be drawn again in an instant if needed. "We shall be firstly occupied with deflecting their shafts."
"The archers will be our first objectives, aranhîr," Curulin said, taking his own bow in hand and sheathing his blade.
Thranduil quirked one dark brow. "Any objectives will do, Curulin, so long as the objectives are struck well."
"'Between the eyes or down the gullet,' as Master Tanglinna once said," young Síralaith offered from the opposite side of the hunters' defensive ring.
A smile ghosted across the king's lips. "Just so," he murmured, drawing one of his speckle-fletched arrows from the quiver slung across his back. The shaft was smooth and straight, the tip fire-hardened to a lethal point. The sounds of the approaching enemy were drawing nearer. They would soon enter the Elves' keen field of vision. Woe to them, Thranduil thought humorlessly, nocking the arrow to his taut bowstring and preparing to draw it back. He had a brief flash of memory, and stifled a chuckle at the image of his youngest son flinging the last arrow into the air. Little Greenleaf's disappointment had been palpable, but the thought of any Elf attempting to defend himself by throwing the arrows like darts was nearly enough to double Thranduil over with laughter. What a story I shall have to tell my little ones when I return, the king thought grimly, suddenly fervently glad that Legolas was not with him.
"They come, aranhîr," Curulin stated calmly, drawing back on his bowstring, preparing to release a deadly shaft into whatever came forth to attack. The air was thick and charged with anticipation, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.
The assault came swiftly, with mounted figures exploding from the line of trees like a horde of crows bursting from within the branches of a shaken tree. The enemies were swathed from head to foot in filthy robes and head wraps—Easterlings, Thranduil realized in disgust. In one fluid movement, he drew back on his bowstring and released the arrow into the turbulent mass of attackers. The feathered shaft flew forth with speed and skill, to embed itself in the breast of a charging Easterling. The man howled in pain and fell back, his steed rearing in panic. The king did not pause for an instant, but instead set to whipping the speckled arrows from his quiver and sending them spearing into those Easterlings nearest him.
A veritable swarm of Elven arrows sang through the air, cutting down enemies as they drew near. Thranduil heard a great commotion to his rear as the Elves on the opposite side of the defensive ring found themselves beset by mounted assailants. The party was dangerously surrounded. Twenty or so men already lay dead, their horses milling about in confusion and terror, but more appeared to take their slain fellows' places. Many of the Easterlings wielded makeshift shields of wood, somewhat blocking their bodies from the deadly shafts, and so the defense was not as effective as it might have been otherwise. The Elves had taken no losses as yet, but Thranduil was well aware that it was only a matter of time before an enemy blade found its mark in the confusion. The king felled a pair of Easterlings to his right and briefly thanked Elbereth that the men did not have archers among their number; dodging enemy arrows would have made it nearly impossible to fend the massive hand-to-hand attack.
Suddenly, a rush of wings overhead disturbed the king's concentration. Thranduil instinctively ducked as a flock of birds swooped down low, nearly striking the Elves' heads in passing. The king straightened up and directed a swift glance at the sky. A drove of thirty hunting hawks, brown-feathered with pale underbellies, wheeled about and plunged down toward the hunting party once more. Each bore a small sack of some kind in its talons—no, Thranduil realized, peering up at them, the sacks are tied to their legs. Inexplicable showers of yellow dust streamed from the small pouches and floated down to settle on the Elves and their mounts. The king shook his head to dislodge the particles from his hair, glancing about to re-orient himself. "'Tis merely a diversion!" he called out to his party, and breathed a silent prayer that none had suffered injury as a result of the distraction.
A chorus of sneezing met the king's call, and he frowned, uncertain what to make of the unusual sound. Elves rarely had cause to sneeze, and certainly not in the midst of a life-or-death conflict. Thranduil dared not look back to see how the others were faring, however, because the Easterlings had gathered themselves for another vicious assault. Again, the longbows sang their deadly tune, and a myriad of feathered shafts hammered outwards to knock Easterlings from their mounts. For some reason, more of the arrows missed their marks than met them, and most of the men who fell were only wounded. Thranduil was too distracted to take proper notice of the lapse. He was occupied with fending the brunt of the assault; it had become swiftly apparent that the enemies were singling him out for attack. Thankfully, Curulin and Amarthiach remained at their liege's flanks to defend him against the influx of assailants.
The hawks dove again, forcing Thranduil to lean to one side in order to avoid their sharp talons and beaks. The interruption, though brief, was a costly one, for it allowed three Easterlings to rush past the hail of arrows. Murder was in their dark eyes as they hurtled toward the Elvenking. Thranduil knew he could not draw three shafts swiftly enough to dispatch all of the attackers in time. He slid his blade from its sheathe with a ringing sweep, keeping his bow in his left hand and wielding the sword in his right.
Only one of the attackers, however, would reach his intended target. Just as Thranduil braced himself to meet their assault, Curulin's steed leaped into the path of the leftmost Easterling, and the Master Huntsman's blade bit deeply into the foe, effectively ending his attempt on the king's life. Simultaneously, Amarthiach buried his sword in the gut of one of the remaining two, and Thranduil swiftly finished the third. He nodded once to his companions in gratitude for their intervention, then gave his horse's mane an errant sweep of a hand to brush away the perplexing yellow dust that had fallen from the hawks' pouches during their last dive.
The world seemed to waver before Thranduil's eyes, and he shook his head to ward off the alarming wave of dizziness that washed over him. He accidentally inhaled some of the pale yellow powder puffing into the air from Hrîwith's mane; an acrid tang filled his nostrils, and a sneeze burst from his lungs before he could stop it. By all the Valar, Thranduil thought, coughing spastically while trying to bring an arrow to bear on the approaching enemies, what is this? He heard a choked cry of alarm from the other side of the Elves' defensive ring, followed quickly by a gasp and the sound of a body striking the ground.
"Aranhîr," Curulin gasped out, drawing near to Thranduil's side, "the enemy has broken the ring. Síralaith and Aldamon are fallen, and the company reels nigh on collapse." Another cry split the clang of battle, and the Master Huntsman's eyes winced. "Marthul has fallen, my lord. There is a foul trickery at work here!"
Thranduil drew in an unsteady breath. His head felt lighter than the fletchings on his arrows, and he was having difficulty concentrating. "We must retreat, then," he heard himself saying distantly.
Curulin's features darkened, not at the words, but at the unfocused look in his king's eyes. "Nin aran," he said forcefully, grabbing Thranduil's arm to capture his lord's attention.
The Master Huntsman did not have a chance to speak further, however, because at that moment, the air above their heads was spliced by the beating of wings. Thranduil's gaze jerked skyward just in time to receive a direct shower of the yellow powder. It seared his eyes and nose, forcing a volley of reflexive coughs from his burning throat. He blinked furiously, eyes streaming tears, and attempted to regain his bearings. Unfortunately, the world seemed intent on swimming disorientedly around him, and the stinging in his eyes made it all but impossible to see much beyond vague shapes. "Curulin," Thranduil gasped. It is a drug, he realized dizzily. He heard Curulin's convulsive sneezing and choking nearby; the warrior must have taken a heavy dose of the powder, as well.
The sound of battle was lessening around them. A slurred cry of pain reached the Elvenking's ears, and he knew that his company was succumbing at last to the drug being rained down upon them by the hawks. The Easterlings were closing in their targets. Thranduil began to call out to Curulin and Amarthiach, but of a sudden, Hrîwith staggered sideways, nearly throwing the king from his back.
The dust is affecting the horses as well, the king thought faintly. "Nay, Hrîwith," he murmured, just as the stallion gave what seemed an apologetic whicker and folded up beneath Thranduil. The Elvenking had just enough presence of mind left to throw himself from the steed's back and roll away, so as to avoid being crushed beneath Hrîwith's collapsing bulk.
Thranduil lay still, breathing in harsh gasps, unable to move or speak. The yellow powder had done its work well, for the king could barely summon the strength to keep his eyes open. A blurred, shadowy mass loomed over him, and a deep voice said something unintelligible. The king attempted an irate glare, but all he could manage was a faint frown. Then, the sky narrowed to a small point of light before his eyes, and the darkness moved in and claimed him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Acknowledgements:
Tanglinna, Brethil, Bronadui, Glaurhunant, Tavor, Glavrol, Mithereg, Talagan, and Legolas' "little Greenleaf" nickname belong to TreeHugger.
Síralaith, Marthul, Amarthiach, Nevenneth, Astalaewen, Mithgilhíri, Aldamon, Hrîwith the Wintry, and the yellow powder drug belong to Katharine.
Curulin is sort of co-owned by Tree and Kate.
The bow-making song and Legolas' "little bird" nickname belong to JastaElf.
Everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien.
Drop a note on the review board and tell us what you think! Remember, this is a co-authorship, and Tree and I will be responding individually to reviews in the next chapter… so feel free to direct specific comments, questions, compliments, and complaints (hope there aren't any ^_~) to either one of us! Thanks!
Next chapter… the Tricksy Trio sets to work on Legolas' revenge plot, and the Very Bad Man™ makes his debut! Everyone crack out the flame-throwers! ^_~