Disclaimer: Do I really have to keep repeating myself? I don't own nowt but the plot and Galwyn. Everything belongs to Monsieur Tolkien. So don't sue me. Oh yeah, I own everything you don't recognise, like Legolas' brothers.
A/N: Hope you like this chapter, I'm trying to broaden it a bit and introduce lots of POVs. Please review and tell me if you like it!
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Under the cool shade of the trees in the Mirkwood palace's gardens that were bordered by the forest, Glorfindel was attempting to meditate. But no matter how hard he tried to clear his mind and release his spirit onto that higher plan where he could truly be at one with himself and the life around him, he failed, for unlike the quiet peacefulness of his home Imladris, the forest around him was full of tension and he could feel the presence of darkness that was beginning to infiltrate more and more strongly the light of the forest. With a sad sigh, he stood up on the branch he had been sitting on with his back resting against the trunk, legs stretched out, and jumped lightly down. His feet made virtually no sound as they made contact with the ground, and Glorfindel made his way back to the palace where his greatest friend lay, slipping in and out of consciousness while the healers performed what appeared to be miracles of their craft on the numerous wounds that punctured the Lord of Imladris' body. The handsome blond elf appeared wearier than he ever had, and the light that usually shone around him was dim. He had dark circles under his green eyes, which held none of their usual sparkle. His worries for the safety of his friend, and the loss of Vilya, weighed heavily on his mind, and he knew from the words exchanged with Elrond when he was conscious, that it troubled his mind also.
When their party had been attacked, it had taken all of them by surprise, and although they had heard their approach, they had not expected to encounter an enemy, and certainly not one of such strength. Glorfindel closed his eyes as he remembered how he and Elrond had stood together, calling up the strength of their powers to drive back the huge numbers of foes, but to no avail. Glorfindel had been shot in the shoulder blade by a luckily, un-poisoned arrow, but he had been rendered unconscious, and had it not been for the other two surviving elves carrying him away from danger, he knew he would not have survived. When he had regained consciousness, still in the forest, his first thought had been of his Lord, and despite the pain in his shoulder, he had taken the two survivors back into the now quiet forest to search for Elrond. It had been he who had found him, left for dead, lying broken and bloody, some distance from the clearing where most of the fighting had taken place. They had picked through the bodies of orcs and of the eight elves that had died protecting their Lord, in vain. Glorfindel remembered the horror and fear he had felt when he had seen his greatest friend, his light all but extinguished, barely recognisable from the cuts, bruises and swellings on his face. He had insisted on carrying Elrond's body himself, despite the pain in his shoulder, while the two young elves, bows at the ready, kept up as much of a guard as two elves possibly could. He recalled how pale the skin on his Lord's face was, from what he could see under the caked mud, bruising and dried blood. Elrond was pale skinned anyway, but he had had a deathly grey pallor that had chilled Glorfindel's heart.
Opening his eyes, the blond Noldor lord realised he had been standing stationary in the same spot for some time, and running a tired hand through his long hair, he started off again to the palace. Once inside, he made his way straight to the healing wing where Elrond lay, his skin not much warmer than ice, and still holding a deathly pallor, as his body and the healers fought the effects of the poison from the blades that had cut him. As he approached the corridor that led to the Lord of Imladris' chambers, he heard quiet voices talking, and turning the corner, he saw Thranduil, king of the wood-elves of Mirkwood, speaking with his three sons: Legolas, Lysandil and Daromir, the youngest. He reflected as he saw them together, how much they all resembled each other, as though they had all been made from the same mould. Each of the three had inherited their father's deep, sapphire blue eyes and pale blond hair, lighter than his own hair, which was a deeper gold in colour. Each was also, as their, father was, exquisitely handsome, and the combination of all their lights so close together created a deeper glow around them. As they heard him coming, all four turned and smiled, in a manner so similar that was quite unnerving. Glorfindel found it strange enough when he saw Elladan and Elrohir together, for they were exact images of each other, alike in every detail but their personalities; but to see four people of such similar appearance was even stranger. The three princes bowed as he stopped in front of them, and Glorfindel returned their gesture, before repeating it to Thranduil, who nodded in acknowledgement.
"Greetings, Glorfindel. I trust you are well today and your shoulder is not causing you any pain?" The king of Mirkwood's voice was quiet and melodious, and as he spoke, his eyes met Glorfindel's, searching them for any signs of pain.
"None at all, Thranduil, thank you. Your healer's did a remarkable job. It feels as if it had never been hurt." Glorfindel said, not sure whether the lie would be detected, for the arrow had gone deep into his shoulder, and the pain in the muscle it had punctured was often terrible. Thranduil did not say anything, but merely nodded thoughtfully, watching the elf Lord with some pity. He knew of the deep bond between Elrond and Glorfindel, and it pained him somewhat, for he too, had shared a bond with the Lord of Imladris, before bitterness over Celebrian, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, had driven a rift between them. Long ago, both had desired her hand in marriage, but in the end it had been Elrond she had chosen. Thranduil, full of bitterness towards the elf who had once been his greatest friend, had ceased all communications with Imladris for many decades, but then he had met and fallen in love with Telenriel, the sister of one of his most important advisors, who had become his queen, and mother to his children, before she had died giving birth to their fourth child, a girl, who had been stillborn. When Thranduil had heard of the attack on Celebrian, and of her passing to the west, very close to the time when his own wife died, he had known that it was time for he and Elrond to put their paths behind them, and recommence their friendship. Elrond, full of joy at Thranduil's change of heart, had agreed, and the two had started corresponding and undertaking annual visits once again, much to the happiness of the Lord and Lady of Lòrien. While their friendship was still not as strong as it had once been, and could not compare to that of Elrond and Glorfindel, Thranduil could easily gauge what the elf Lord before him was feeling, for he felt it too.
"Is he conscious?" Glorfindel asked quietly.
"No, I am afraid not. He awoke a few minutes ago, but he was suffering from the delirium of the fever, and we could not get a word of sense from him."
"May I see him?"
"Yes, of course."
"Thank you." He bowed to the group and was about to leave when Thranduil caught his arm.
"Let your mind be at peace, Glorfindel. He is stable; the fever will pass. We must just wait." Glorfindel smiled weakly at the elf who had been an unexpected support in his turmoil, and entered the chamber that had housed his lord and friend since he himself had borne him to the palace. There, bathed in sunlight that masked the dimness of his own light, lay the thin and fragile form of Elrond: a mere shadow of the elf he usually was. He was lying with his head resting on a pile of pillows, with the bed-covers pulled halfway up his stomach, so that a fair portion of his chest was visible, swathed in bandages that covered the poultices applied to minimise the scarring. Glorfindel noted that his lord appeared to be slightly less pale than the previous day, although there was still not much difference in colour between the bandages and his skin. He went over to the bed and sat in the chair that stood beside it, taking Elrond's nearest hand between his own, and wincing at its icy feel. He sat there silently, eyes closed, not saying anything, trying to reach Elrond's mind with his own, to help him back to health as he had done so many times for him.
Thranduil watched the blond elf lord seat himself before the bed, in the same way he had done every day since they had arrived at the palace. He sighed, almost inaudibly and pulled the door silently shut behind him to give Glorfindel some privacy. He knew what he was trying to do, and he also knew that with Elrond in his present state of fever-induced delirium, there would be no reaching of his mind. He shook his head, and looked up to find his sons looking up at him sadly, guessing his thoughts. He remembered as he looked at them, his three most precious possessions, what they had been talking about before, and, with a glance at the closed door behind them, gestured for them to follow him. They made their way silently towards Thranduil's study, and once there, they filed in and stood in a line before his desk as he sat down: Legolas, the eldest of the three on his right, Lysandil in the middle, and Daromir on the left. Thranduil steepled his fingers underneath his chin and turned his gaze on each of his sons.
"My sons, you know, of course, of the message I received from Gwaihir this morning. Gandalf has sent us tidings of a council that is to be held in Imladris. Galadriel and Celeborn are appealing for not only an army, should it be needed, but also a small group of elite warriors, made up of elves and probably some rangers, who will be responsible for the retrieval of Vilya. I wish to send two of you to the council where Gandalf will select the group, and keep one of you here to lead our warriors, should there be a battle against the evil forces." He paused and none of the princes spoke, knowing there was more to come. And indeed there was, for after a few seconds, Thranduil continued. "Legolas, you are the eldest, and my heir. I know you will be eager to attend the council, but I need you here. Lysandil and Daromir, you will represent Mirkwood at the council." He looked to his eldest son, and saw a flash of pride shine in his eyes at being chosen as his father's right hand man. Lysandil and Daromir looked equally pleased at being chosen to represent their people at the council. He smiled, knowing that he had made the right decision. He had been worried that Legolas would take his decision the wrong way, thinking he had been rejected as a representative for Mirkwood at the council, rather than realising the honour he was receiving at being chosen to remain with his father. "I trust you are all satisfied and happy with my decision?"
"Yes, father." The answer was chorused by the smiling trio, and they each exchanged happy glances. Thranduil broadened his own smile, and leaned back in his chair, pleased that all had gone as he had planned.
"Right, that's settled then. Lysandil and Daromir, you go and prepare for your departure tomorrow morning with an escort, and Legolas, I'd like you to stay here. I need to discuss some things with you." Legolas smiled at his brothers as they left, and they returned the gesture, each knowing that they would be able to speak together that evening. He turned back to his father who gestured for him to sit down, and he pulled up another chair to sit opposite him.
"I would like to thank you, father, for entrusting me with this honour."
"There was no uncertainty in my decision, Legolas. You deserve this. You need it even, for it will give you valuable experience in leadership. I trust you to do a good job in my name."
"I will not let you down father."
"I know. Now, there are many things I need to talk to you about…"
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A/N: I like getting reviews, and have changed my settings so anonymous views are welcome too! So go on, make my day and tell me what you think!
