Chapter 10

Hope

            Another half-millenium had passed, and Mithrandir once again was making one of his periodic visits to Rivendell.  He tried to never let more than a century go by without journeying to that haven.  He came in part for respite, in part to consult with Elrond about the increasingly parlous state of Middle Earth.  And, of course, he was always glad of the opportunity to check on the welfare of Anomen.  Even though Anomen was no longer an Elfling, Mithrandir still considered himself to be his guardian.  The Istar sensed that his protégé would not reach full Elfhood until he could truly name himself.  The wizard could not know when that would take place, but until it did, he would continue his informal supervision of the young Elf.

            This visit Mithrandir had an additional youngling that he wanted to look in on.  Elrond had recently taken in another foster-son, a human this time and a mere toddler.  Elrond had given out that this child was called Estel.  In that, mused Mithrandir, the child had something in common with Anomen: Estel was a pseudonym that captured a truth.  Both Mithrandir and Elrond knew the significance of the child's name, as did Estel's foster brothers, each of whom would do his utmost to protect Middle Earth's nascent Hope.

"Mithrandir, mae govannen, mellon-nîn."

Mithrandir acknowledged the greeting with a grateful smile.  "Elrond, you look well.  Your newest son must not be keeping you up nights."

Elrond smiled ruefully.  "Estel sleeps soundly enough.  But he is somewhat lacking in cleanliness.  He seems to attract grime and its attendant smells.  He also is incapable of wearing a tunic without tearing it, and he is no gentler on his leggings.  My other sons complain that he is always dirty and scruffy, but he himself seems untroubled by that fact.  Washing holds no appeal for him, and one must practically call in a troop of warriors when it becomes absolutely necessary for him to be scrubbed.  Only for Arwen does he willingly bathe.  Ai! She is now in Lothlórien, visiting Celeborn and Galadriel, and she is unlikely to return for two decades at least, by which time it is to be hoped that Estel will have outgrown the need for supervision whilst bathing!  Meanwhile, it usually falls to Anomen and the twins to hunt Estel down and drag him to the bathing room when he becomes too rank for the other household members to bear."

"Would that Estel causes you no worse grief than this!  But tell me, how does Anomen take to the task of tracking and catching a grubby child?  Anomen has always been so fastidious.  I have never forgotten that, when I encountered him in the woods of Imladris, he was hungry and cold and his clothes threadbare, but he had somehow contrived to stay clean."  Mithrandir laughed at the memory. 

Elrond allowed himself a chuckle.  "I think you will laugh all the harder if you ever have the opportunity to see how Anomen reacts when I tell him that Estel needs a bath.  Anomen is quite good at keeping his countenance no matter the situation, but even he will admit that Estel is the one creature who can bring a look of horror to his face.  Indeed, I have seen Anomen face orcs with greater equanimity!"

The mention of Orcs caused Mithrandir to suddenly become serious.  "Yes, Orcs," he said softly.  "Unfortunately, Anomen has had all too much practice in keeping his countenance whilst confronting those foul beings.  Their numbers are assuredly increasing, and they grow bolder.  Greenwood is daily assailed, and even Lothlórien may soon be hard put to secure its borders.  But in the end it is not the Orcs that I fear.  Something drives those evil creatures, and if Middle Earth is ever to be rid of them, the power behind the Orcs must be uncovered and defeated."

Elrond nodded somberly.  "What you say is true.  But for this night at least, let us celebrate your arrival with no thought of what lies beyond the borders of Imladris.  Anomen will be glad to know that you have returned.  Come.  I will take you to him.  He is with Elladan and Elrohir at the archery grounds."

"The archery grounds?  Do they still engage in competitions?"

"No, Elladan and Elrohir have given those up.  They were never able to best Anomen."

"Not even in a fair match?"

"With Anomen, there is no such thing as a fair match.  Did you know that he began practicing two-bladed hand-to-hand combat a century before the twins did?"

"I think," the wizard said thoughtfully, "that with a different upbringing, Anomen could have become a cold-hearted and unstoppable assassin.  It is thanks to his mentor that this has not happened," the Istar continued, bowing toward Elrond.

            "His two mentors," corrected Elrond as he returned Mithrandir's gesture of respect.  Mithrandir quietly nodded his thanks.

The old friends by now had arrived at the archery grounds, where a group of young Elves were gathered on the far side of the field.  As soon as Anomen noticed the older Elf and the Man, he broke away from his peers and began to stride swiftly toward them.  As he reached the midpoint of the meadow, however, Anomen froze at the sound of hooves pounding and a child shrieking.  His eyes darted toward the forest, the source of the uproar, as a powerful horse broke from the treeline, galloping straight toward him.  It was a stallion that had hitherto been ridden only by Glorfindel, but clinging to its back, shrieking with joy, was Estel.

Too far away to intervene, the horrified onlookers watched as the stallion raced toward Anomen, who seemed rooted to the spot.  "Two of my sons are about to die," Elrond thought in disbelief.  "Anomen will be trampled, and Estel will be flung from the horse and dashed against the ground."  If only Anomen would regain the use of his limbs, he at least might be able to save himself by leaping out of the path of the stallion.  Elrond and many others raised their voices, shouting at Anomen to take flight, but Anomen stood upright and alert yet motionless.  At the last minute, Elrond thought he saw Anomen tense, as if he were finally about to spring aside.  Instead, with the horse on the verge of trampling him, Anomen reached up to seize hold of its headstall and vaulted effortlessly over and up onto the stallion's back.  With one hand gripping the reins, the other clutching Estel, Anomen leaned forward and spoke soothingly into the ear of the horse.  It slowed and then, although prancing with agitation, gradually came to a halt.  Elrond and all the others looked on in amazement.  Softly, so as not to spook the still-nervous horse, Elrond and Mithrandir approached.  Elrohir and Elladan also quietly drew near.

When Elrond reached the stallion, Anomen handed Estel gently down to him.  Then he dismounted himself and turned the horse over to the twins, who led the stallion back to the stables.

"Ion-nîn," said the still-shaken Elrond, "whenever did you learn to mount a horse in that manner!?"

"Oh," replied the young Elf with a sly grin, "about half a millennium ago I was looking for a way to pass the time after you ordered me to stop sledding on shields.  You will recall that you told me that such a skill would be useless in battle.  I trust I have proven that this skill is of greater utility?"

"Yes," conceded Elrond dryly.  "You have indeed made your case—although I hope that the next demonstration will be far in the future.  Come, Mithrandir, you and I had best return Estel to his room and make inquiries as to how he came to be in possession of such a steed."

The two friends turned back toward the hall.  Estel was squirming in Elrond's arms, so the Elf-lord put him down and allowed him to walk.  Mithrandir was able to take his first good look as the child raced up and down the path.  It was as Elrond had said: the boy was grubby and scruffy.  Grime caked his cheeks and his knuckles, and his clothes were torn.  One arm of his tunic had a particularly large rent in it, and a blood-stained cloth was bound over some childish injury—scratches from brambles, perhaps, for it certainly looked as if Estel had crawled through a field of them.  Mithrandir looked askance at Elrond: "This is Isildur's heir!?"

Elrond smiled.  "Estel, come and greet Mithrandir."

"Mithunder!  Mithunder!"

"Perhaps," mused Mithrandir, "you had better call me 'Gandalf'.  Can you say that—'Gandalf'?"

"Gandalf! Gandalf!"  Estel pranced about until his eyes fell upon the sword that Mithrandir wore at his side.   Darting at the wizard, the child lay hold of the haft and tried to draw the weapon from its sheath.  Gently, Elrond captured the youngling's wrists.

"No, Estel.  The time has not yet come for you to wield a sword."

Now that Estel had ventured near to Mithrandir, the wizard found himself wrinkling his nose.  "Hmm," he said to Elrond, "perhaps we should delay the inquiries about Estel's steed until the child has been given a bath."

"Are you volunteering to do the honors, Mithrandir?"

"No, no," the wizard replied hastily.  "I merely meant that you need not feel compelled to entertain me when you obviously have, ah, more immediate concerns.  I shall see you at dinner, Elrond."

 The Istar began to hasten away but could not resist throwing one last observation over his shoulder.  "Elrond," he called, "about Anomen: you might want to reconsider that ban on shield-sledding. As Galadriel is so fond of saying…."

"Yes, yes, I know: even the wisest cannot tell the future.  In the case of Anomen, that is surely the case." The Elf smiled, albeit wanly.  "At least you will have an exciting story to share with Arwen when you travel on to Lothlórien in a few weeks."

Mithrandir laughed and walked on.

            Thranduil sat in the silent room that had once been Laiqua's.  He often came here—whenever his duties permitted him, in fact.  It had been a millennium since his son and heir had vanished, but the pain was never any less.  "Had I kept my son by my side," he reproached himself yet again, "he never would have wandered alone into that perilous place."  Thranduil shuddered at the thought of Laiqua's final minutes in the grip of that web.  "I was no father to my son," he murmured to himself.

            "My Lord."  Gilglîr stood in the doorway.

            Thranduil looked up in resignation.  Gilglîr would never disturb him here unless something was seriously wrong.  "Yes, Gilglîr."

            "My Lord, a major attack has taken place on the southern border.  Both Orcs and Wargs.  The enemy has been driven off, but if they return, I am not sure that the defenses will hold.  I am afraid, my lord, I hesitate to say this, but I am afraid…."

            "Yes, Gilglîr, I know.  We can no longer stand alone, and the Galadhrim of Lothlórien are already so beset by foes that they cannot afford us any aid.  Now we must put aside pride and past grievances and beg Imladris for help instead.  I despise the thought of giving that arrogant Elrond such satisfaction, but the only responsible course is to acknowledge that we cannot defeat this enemy on our own.  Daily the darkness grows stronger; hourly our numbers shrink."

            "My Lord, I shall prepare a company to ride out tomorrow.  If you will permit, I would like to take part in the embassy."

            "No, Gilglîr.  I need you to stay here and maintain the defenses.  I myself will head the delegation.  No, do not look so shocked.  Much as I dislike the prospect of groveling at the feet of a smirking Elrond, it is my duty to appeal for his aid in a situation as dire as this one.  My presence will signal to him the seriousness of our plight.  Confronted by that fact, he will not turn down our appeal for help.  Elrond, is, curse him, an honorable man, even if he is an insufferable one."

            The company of Greenwood Elves rode fast, scarcely pausing to rest the horses and not bothering to send a messenger ahead to announce their coming.  So it was that the Rivendell Elves knew of their approach only hours before their arrival, and knew their identity not at all.  The Imladris outriders would be able to alert Elrond to the approach of a band of strange Elves but of naught else.

            Elrond wondered how it was that his three eldest sons, although no longer Elflings, were still capable of wreaking so much havoc.  No matter how many centuries passed, their capacity for discovering new forms of mischief seemed unabated.  Elrond remembered back to the time—it must have been a millennium ago—that Mithrandir had suggested that a father must sometimes abandon all semblance of refinement and grace.  Perhaps this would be one of those times.  He glared at Elrohir, Elladan, and Anomen as they stood before him lamely attempting to explain their latest escapade, which involved a midnight visit to the stables and the release of most of the horses.  But before Elrond  could speak, Glorfindel strode in to inform him that a company of Elves, riding hard, was rapidly approaching.  The eyes of the younger Elves lit up.  Elrond would be necessarily distracted, perhaps long enough to forget the damage that had been done to the stables.  Moreover, no visitors had arrived in the several months since Mithrandir's departure for Lothlórien.  Visitors meant news at the very least and perhaps additional diversions, such as feasts and other forms of merriment.

            Elrond nodded to dismiss his sons, who jostled each other in their haste to get through the door.  Laughing, they raced into the courtyard to await the arrival of the strangers.  Within minutes they heard the galloping of horses, and the contingent of foreign Elves swept through the gate.

            Their hair is golden, thought Laiqua.  Their hair is golden, and, oh, by the Valar, they are dressed in green tunics and brown leggings.  Greenwood Elves.  He froze for a moment in disbelief and then bolted from the courtyard, leaving behind astonished twins with identically gaping mouths.

            Elrond walked out into the courtyard to greet the company of strange Elves.  When he saw their garb, he blanched and drew Glorfindel aside.  "Glorfindel," he whispered, "you must find Anomen at once.  He must not be seen by these Elves.  He must keep to his room.  Have his meals brought to him."

            Glorfindel nodded and slipped away.

"Yes, yes," Elrond was agreeing.  "We will come to your aid.  Indeed, Thranduil, we will come at once.  I shall assemble a company that will set out with you at daybreak tomorrow.  I myself shall accompany you, and Glorfindel will follow with other warriors within the week, as soon as an additional group of riders can be assembled."

Thranduil was bewildered.  He had not expected Elrond to be so obliging or to agree to take action so promptly.  Why the eagerness and haste?

That night Thranduil found himself unable to sleep.  He could not overcome his confusion over the reception he had received from Elrond.  Something was not right; of that he was sure, but to what could he point to justify such a belief?  He had asked Elrond for help; Elrond had agreed to provide it, and to do without delay.  "So why," thought Thranduil, "am I so troubled?" At last, Thranduil gave up all attempts at sleep.  He arose and went out into the garden.

Laiqua crouched in a tree.  It seemed to him that he spent an inordinate amount of time crouching in trees.  At least he wasn't hiding from Orcs this time.  Instead, he had watched Elrohir and Elladan searching for him.  He had seen Glorfindel join in the hunt.  At last he had heard even little Estel calling for him.  But he had remained hidden.  Surely they were going to tell him that his attendance was expected at a dinner in honor of the visiting Elves.  But he would never attend such a dinner.  He had no wish to run the risk of being recognized as the son Thranduil had never found worthy of a name.  He sighed and shifted in the tree.  Wood-Elf or not, he could not remain in this tree forever.  He was beginning to feel stiff, and by the Valar, but he was hungry!  Surely everyone had gone to their rest by now.  Perhaps he could risk venturing into the kitchen for something to eat.  Silently Laiqua slid down from the tree and crept across the garden toward the kitchen entrance.  Stealing around a statue of Gil-galad, he came face to face with—Thranduil.

Thranduil wondered whether he had in fact fallen asleep and was dreaming that he was walking in a garden.  He was staring at a golden-haired Elf, a golden-haired Elf who looked like—but, no, that was impossible!  Thranduil reached forward to touch the Elf, to see whether he were an illusion.  But the young Elf vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

The next morning Thranduil stormed into Elrond's room before the Elf lord had even arisen from his bed.  Elrond raised both eyebrows, of course, but he did not feel that his eyebrows were sufficient to express either his bafflement or his displeasure.  For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether he should begin to work on wiggling his ears, but he dismissed the thought.  Somehow wiggling ears would never be as impressive as raised eyebrows.

Thranduil dispensed with all preliminaries: "Elrond, who is the golden-haired Elf!?"

"Golden-haired Elf?  Perhaps Haldir?  He often visits Elrohir and Elladan."

"I have met Haldir in Lothlórien.  This was not Haldir.  And Haldir is at least a millennium older than this Elf."

"How old do you judge this Elf to be?"

"A little over a millennium, I think."

"Hmm, well, he could be one of my sons."

"One of your sons!?  But your sons have dark hair!"

"Not all of them.  Estel will have lighter hair than the twins, I think.  Anomen, too, has lighter hair."

Estel!?  Anomen!?  How many sons do you have, Elrond!?"

"Four, at the moment."

"But I have only heard of the twins!  When were these other two born?"

Elrond hesitated.  "Actually, Estel and Anomen are foster sons.

Thranduil glowered at Elrond.  "I want to meet these foster sons."

"Yes, of course.  After we have driven the evil from your realm, you shall have the opportunity to become acquainted with every member of my family."

"Elrond, I-want-to-meet-these-foster-sons-today."

"Thranduil, Estel is a human child, and he is scarcely more than an infant.  He is not your golden-haired Elf.  And, well, yes, Anomen is an Elf, and he does have golden hair. You may have known Anomen at one time.  When he was very young, he probably lived in Greenwood.  But I do not think he is anyone that you would wish to see.  I believe he or some member of his family may have displeased you at some point, and so I have tried to keep him out of your sight.  I feared you might have been angered had you known that I gave refuge to him."

"How long ago was it that you took him in?"

"About a millennium ago."

"A millennium ago!"

Elrond gazed anxiously at the Mirkwood King:  "Thranduil! Law no le mae!  You look ill!"

Thranduil shook his head.  "I am not ill.  Elrond, how is it that the Elf—Anomen did you say—came to be here?"

"Mithrandir brought him to me.  He found him alone in the forest of Imladris.  He had no family."

"No family?"

"Yes, he has no father."

"And what of his mother?"

"She died giving birth to him."

Thranduil moaned and dropped his head into his hands.  After a long moment had passed, he looked up at Elrond: "I must see this Elf."

"Thranduil, I love him as a son.  Do you swear that you mean him no harm?"

"I swear."

The Greenwood Elves, accompanied by a large troop of Rivendell warriors, left that morning as planned, but the Imladris Elves were led by Glorfindel rather than Elrond.  Thranduil, too, was remaining behind, having entrusted Glorfindel with a letter of instruction for Gilglîr.

Once the warriors had departed, Elrond set about searching for Anomen.  Knowing his foster son's penchant for hiding in trees, he began to systematically walk from tree to tree, peering up carefully into the branches.  Finally his efforts were rewarded.  Dozing, the young Elf lay curled in the crotch of an oak tree.  Judging from the state of his clothes and hair, he had been there for much of the night.  Silently, Elrond climbed up the tree and sat down on a branch near Laiqua.

"Anomen, ion-nîn, wake up."

"Why would Thranduil wish to meet me?"

"I do not know, but he seems most anxious to do so.  I have never seen him as desirous of anything as he is to see you.  I think, ion-nîn, we had best humor him."

"He is anxious to see me," Laiqua muttered, more to himself than to Elrond.  "Does he seem angry, Ada?"

"No, not angry, merely eager."

Laiqua considered for awhile, then nodded his head: "Very well, Ada, I will let him see me, although I do not know why he would wish to do so."

Thranduil and Laiqua faced each other in the Hall of Fire.

Thranduil reached out a hand, palm up, toward the young Elf.  "Ion-nîn," the king murmured.

"No," said Laiqua.  "Elrond is my father."

"But you are my son," said Thranduil.  "I am the one who sired you."

"Nevertheless, it is Elrond who is my father.  You were no father to me."

Thranduil flinched with grief and shame.  He knew that his son spoke the truth.

"Legolas, please!" begged the king.

"Legolas?"

"Surely you have not forgotten your name?"

"My name is Anom—my name was Laiqua."

"Yes, of course, Laiqua.  You were named Legolas—Laiqualassë

 in the High-Elven.  Your nursemaid nicknamed you Laiqua.  I had no objection.  It is common for children to bear nicknames.  But did you never know your true name?  It was picked for you by your mother and me a few weeks before your birth.  Greenleaf it means."

Laiqua gaped at his father. "You never addressed me as Legolas."

Thranduil grimaced. "I'm not sure I ever addressed you as Laiqua, either."

Laiqua smiled sadly.  "You may be right.  I do not think you ever addressed me by any name at all."

Thranduil could not look at his son.  Softly he spoke.  "I would call you Legolas now, if you would permit me."

Laiqua stood silent for awhile.  Then he answered.  "Laiqua is a child's name, and Anomen is no name at all.  Yes, I would like it if you would address me as Legolas."

Thranduil looked up hopefully.  "I would ask of you one more boon.  Legolas, I know that Elrond has been a father to you, and I do not ask you to think of him in any other way.  I am grateful for the care that he accorded you during all those long years when I thought you had perished in the web of a spider.  But will you not visit me in Greenwood from time to time?  I would like to know you, ion-nîn.  Perhaps in time I could become a second father to you?"

A second father?  Once he had had no father at all; now he would have two?  After a long pause, Legolas nodded.  "I would like that very much—Adar-nîn."

In Lothlórien, Mithrandir smiled as he gazed in Galadriel's mirror.  "Mithrandir," Galadriel said quietly, "I know what it is you saw, for it is also in my mind.  I fear that your wardship of the prince has come to an end.  Did you not know that he was Thranduil's son?"

"I suspected as much when I heard that the prince of Greenwood had disappeared in the selfsame year that I encountered a golden-haired Elfling in the woods of Imladris.  Moreover, I had seen the prince once long before in Greenwood, and Anomen did remind me of him."

"Yet you chose not to send word to King Thranduil?"

"Thranduil had to fully understand the value of what he had lost, and Legolas needed the opportunity to heal.  It seemed best to wait.  These things take time, something that you, an immortal Elf, must surely appreciate."

"Ah, Mithrandir, ever the patient one, but then patience is a quality that will soon serve you well, I perceive."

"Soon?  You are an Elf—for you 'soon' may be hundreds of years in the future.   But what do you foresee, my Lady?"

"My own counsel shall I keep for the time being, Mithrandir, for the future is obscure even to the wise."

Mithrandir feigned surprise.  "Indeed, my Lady?  Is that so?"

Galadriel looked archly at him but continued.  "I will tell you this: One day your path shall again be intertwined with that of your Elf."

 "That does not seem too fearful a prospect."

"It will depend on the path, Mithrandir."

"Yes," replied Mithrandir, "Yes.  I suppose it will."  He bowed slightly and turned to walk toward the edge of the glade.  As he did so, Galadriel looked once more into her mirror.  Again she saw Legolas, but this time he was alone.  He was looking over his shoulder with a guarded expression upon his face.  Then ripples spread across the water, and a new image of Legolas arose.  He was standing against a rocky backdrop, his face streaked with dirt.  His expression—Galadriel drew a sharp breath.  His expression was one of loss and disbelief.  Galadriel raised her head and began to call Mithrandir back.  But as she did so, she realized that she did not know whether she was seeing something from the past or from the future.  If the past, nothing she did or said could change matters.  If the future, even then, any attempt to evade or change events might miscarry.  A worse outcome might ensue than the one they attempted to avoid.  No, she would not reveal this image to Mithrandir; nor would she counsel him regarding it.  She did not fear to meddle in the affairs of Wizards, but she was mindful of the teaching of the Eldar: Advice is a dangerous gift, even from the wise to the wise, and all courses may run ill.

            "My Lady?"  Mithrandir was looking at her quizzically.

            "Only this: Stay well, my friend."

            Mithrandir locked his eyes with hers, as if he for once were the one trying to read her mind.  Whatever he saw—if he saw anything—his face did not reveal.  Instead, after a moment he simply nodded.

            "I will certainly do my best, my Lady."  And then he was gone.