Chapter Two

"Tulushall Brethilion! Gîlarad Neldorion! Where are you two? I swear by every Valar if you do not come here this very instant, I will personally seek you out and send you both to bed without supper for a whole week!"

Neldor turned his head, and looked on with amusement as his wife shouted out of the open doorway. The golden–haired elven–woman stood there with her hands on her hips, glowering outside with a look that could freeze water, even – as it was – in the middle of summer. He was standing, quite innocently, near the side of the house. He had an axe in his hand, and a pile of split logs at his feet. A smile graced his elven–fair features briefly, and he called out to her, "What have they done now, Tinlass?"

For the moment stalling her perusal of the world around her, she turned to give him a stressed look. "The little terrors have made a mess of the house again! They traipsed dirt and mud all over the floors, and they have left their beds unmade and their room in a shambles while I was out in the garden. I told them next time they were to leave such a disaster behind them that they were to clean it up. … And…"

"They are gone," it was a statement more than a question. Neldor knew he should not feel amused – but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he hid his smile. He did not want the wrath of his wife directed unto himself. "They left almost an hour ago, with that little friend of theirs – Finglas. They… should be home soon."

She gave a heavy sigh. The elven–woman folded her arms and looked crossly over the other dwellings, as if hoping to see her wayward sons appear. They were some distance northwest of the elvenking's halls, in a small settlement in which they lived with ten or eleven other families. It was a peaceful place, and the elves did all they could do to make it as safe a place as was found in Mirkwood in those days. Orcs, spiders or any of the dangerous creatures that made their home in the uninhabited parts of the Woodland Realm had not gravely threatened them for many years. This was partly due to the constant vigilance the leader of the small village, Díntauron – who was the son of a captain of Thranduil's guard – and the elves who had done much to patrol and eradicate any threats as soon as they came into view. It was there that Neldor and Tinlass chose to stay, to raise their son and nephew as well as they might. Neldor had taken up trade as a carpenter, though he had been known as a warrior before his brother's death. He simply did not look forward to any more death if he could help it, and for more than twenty years he had managed to live quite happily without it.

"Well, then," Tinlass said blandly, obviously disappointed that her children had escaped punishment for the present. "I suppose you shall have to help me."

This was not something that Neldor was expecting to hear – he arched an eyebrow at his beloved wife, and then glanced down at the pile of wood. "I am afraid I cannot, meleth, for I am working!" he lifted his axe in evidence to the fact. "And then I must go and fetch Tulus and Arad from Mírdan's forge. I have a knife that I need him to fix for me."

Tinlass made an indignant sound, and threw her hands up in surrender. "Fine! But all three of you shall have to have a talking to when you return."

Then she turned, and stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Neldor blinked insipidly after her, knowing very well that she was not speaking idly. He sighed, and let his axe rest upon the pile he had all but finished. He had done enough for the present – they had plenty of wood for the next few days. The shaded clearing in which the elves made their home was very quiet. It usually was when the youngsters were gone off visiting their friends or at play in the forest. Most of the men were off doing business as usual – hunting, carrying on with their trades or maybe resting at home with their families – and womenfolk could not be blamed for being overtly loud during the normal span of a day.

The occasional bird twittered happily, or the dark squirrels that lived in the forest would chatter at each other, joined by the general whistle and murmur of the insects and animals that lived in Mirkwood. Summer was always Neldor's favourite time of year. He opened the door of his woodshop that led into the cluttered room. There was his worktable, with many scraps of wood and shavings, and small knives and files scattered over the surface. Larger pieces of wood and half–finished and broken furniture were strewn around the rest of the room, and there were shelves and boxes in which he kept his tools and best work. He collected the hilt of his knife and the two pieces that remained of its blade, and after wrapping them in a handkerchief he replaced them into his pocket, ready to go off to gather his children.

Mírdan was the father of Finglas, a friend of Tulushall and Gîlarad's for a number of years. He lived in the village, but as a blacksmith he spent most of his days in the forge near Thranduil's halls. His wife had died during childbirth, and so he had to bring his son with him as he worked – so it was that Tulushall and Gîlarad could often be found there when they went to seek out the companionship of Finglas. Neldor had all the respect in the world for Mírdan, impressed that he was able to both keep control of and father Finglas properly whilst making a living off of the work Thranduil and the elven people offered him. Even he had trouble keeping track of his sons, who had the attention span of birds and the energy of wild horses. It was a good walk to get to Thranduil's halls from the elves' dwellings, and Neldor regularly walked it to retrieve his sons – ever since the death of his brother, he worried constantly over Tulushall and Gîlarad wandering in the woods on their own. Before leaving, he risked going inside to kiss his wife and tell her where he was going, and then retreated to the shady path.

It was a particularly warm summer this year. Though heat or cold rarely bothered the elves, even they were a bit discomfited this summer, taking more to the more sheltered parts of the woods than in clearings or taking part of indoor activities. So he enjoyed the relatively cool atmosphere of the dark forest as he walked the twisting and turning path. He kept alert as he went along, intent upon any small noise that could indicate the presence of enemies. The dark forest, filled with brambles and fern, overgrown with thick oaks and pines and trees of names that only the elves knew gave way to thinner beeches and birches and trees of the sort, and the sun dappled regularly upon the green fern from gaps in the thick, woven canopy. Most of Thranduil's people lived here, in dwellings in and around the trees near Thranduil's palace, though there were also several more settlements like to that of the one Neldor lived in. He waved to a few guards that hailed him as he walked down the path – it was only a little way away…

"Arad! Arad, get back here!"

Laughter met this shouted request. Neldor stopped, just a few strides away from the forge, when a yellow–haired figure darted out of the archway. The young elf tore past Neldor, not even noticing his presence. The dark–haired elf arched a brow, and crossed his arms, watching as his son dashed off to the side of the building. Presently, two more elflings burst from the entryway. They were very similar–looking, both being of dark hair and having the lanky appearance of boys just ready to go into a large growth-spurt. One did not see Neldor, and ran off in the opposite direction that Gîlarad took. The other as did see him, and stopped dead in his tracks. Neldor laughed at the red–faced, short–of–breath elfling, and saw the mild surprise visible on the boy's features.

"Well met, Tulus," he said, grinning. "I was beginning to think that I was invisible."

His nephew grinned, and Neldor staggered backwards as the elfling flung himself at him in a quick hug. "Sorry! Hello, Neldor! Excuse me, I have to go find Arad…"

He barely even noticed that Tulushall used his proper name. He had never allowed the small elf to call him 'ada' or 'adar', as his own son did, for respect of his brother. For a while, in the beginning, Tulushall had refused to acknowledge that either he or Tinlass were to be his new caretakers. He was difficult, and cried often and demanded loudly for his parents. This lasted almost a year. Just when Neldor and his wife felt that he would never become accustomed to his new life, he just suddenly stopped. It appeared that he had finally come to terms with the fact that he could not change the way things were, and given time he grew to love his aunt and uncle and was as agreeable and happy as any child in Arda. Neldor grinned fondly as he watched the elfling dart off again.

"Tulus!" Tulushall stopped, and turned to look at him impatiently. Neldor pointed. "That way."

"Thank you!"

He was gone in a moment. Neldor hoped that Tulushall would not elaborate to Gîlarad how he had found him, or he would have both his son and his wife scolding him for the rest of the day. Amused, and praying that he would be able to collect his children later, he shook his head and stepped through the broad archway into the forge. The building was dark, though large windows took up the better part of the walls. The majority of the lighting came from a large fireplace and furnace that Mírdan and the other few blacksmiths used for their work. Neldor walked idly into the place, looking about him for the father of Finglas, but saw no one. His eyes swept briefly over the racks of damaged and repaired weapons and the anvils, hammers and pile of scraps that took up the man's workspace.

"Mírdan!" he called.

"One moment!" a disembodied voice replied. In less than a moment, really, a rather brawny elf walked out of an adjoining room. The blacksmith, upon catching sight of Neldor, gave him a wide grin. "Hello, Neldor."

"Mae govannen, Mírdan. I am sorry for bothering you, I did not realize you were taking a break," the elf said apologetically, noticing that the other elf had a glass of water in his hand and that he was not wearing the protective materials he usually bore while at work. He was willing to wager that he had been taking his mid-day meal while he called.

"'Tis fine, my friend," he shrugged off the apology. He balanced his glass precariously along the edge of the nearest shelf, and then walked forward to greet Neldor. "Although, I was not expecting you for another hour or so. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Neldor smiled, clasping his hand briefly in a friendly manner. Mírdan and he had been friends – oh, for as long as Tulushall and Gîlarad had met up with Finglas. As fathers of such close companions, they had little choice but to at least be on speaking terms as well, and Neldor rather liked he blacksmith. Since the death of his brother, he had few regular friends. Mírdan was one of these.

"Yes, actually, if it is not too much trouble. I broke a knife that I use often during work, and – well, I know it will be less bothersome to simply replace it, but I am rather fond of the thing."

"Of course," Mírdan said. "Let me see it." Neldor retrieved the tool from his pocket, and handed it off to the blacksmith. Mírdan took it, and looked incredulously upon the broken blade. "Elbereth, Neldor, what did you do to it? It looks like a cave-troll tried to stand on it."

He stifled a smirk. "Very nearly. I snapped it whilst trying to work with this particularly stubborn piece of wood, and the shard cut me," he lifted his hand in evidence – a faint red line scored his palm. "So I threw it, and it… broke against the floor."

Mírdan shook his head. "For being fond of them, you are not very gentle with your tools, meldir-nîn. However, I will fix this. Shall I bring it home with me tonight? I can bring it to you then."

"Of course. Would you be interested in staying for supper? Tinlass would be glad to have you, and Finglas as well."

"Ah – I thank you my friend, but nay, I cannot. I have work to do at home that I can put off no longer."

"What is that?"

"I did not tell you? My sister and her family are coming to live with me for a while. Her husband has business in Mirkwood for some reason or another, and they need a place to stay. I am to fix up a few rooms for them, though I have not finished the job yet and they are to arrive here in a day or so from Imladris."

"Ai – will you not be a bit crowded, Mírdan?"

The blacksmith shrugged. "I can manage. Finglas and I hardly spend any time at home anyway, always being here, and it shall be nice for someone to tend the garden for a while. They have a child, a boy about Finglas's age. He shall be pleased, at least."

"Hmm. If I can help you at all, let me know."

"I appreciate that, but all we have to do is a bit of cleaning, and maybe some whitewashing – but it is nothing that Finglas and I cannot handle. "

"He is a good boy."

He smiled. "He is."

"Ah, I hear Arad shouting – that means they caught him. I am afraid I have to go now, mellon-nîn. Tinlass shall have my hide if I do not bring the boys home soon."

"Of course. Maer ré, Neldor."

"I shall see you later tonight."

After leaving the forge, it took Neldor some time to find his errant children. He hoped they were not purposefully avoiding him – when they had a mind to keep together for any amount of time, they tended to hide and were able to evade the parent for several hours at a time. He sighed, and began to hunt out the little elflings. The forge was found near the outskirts of Thranduil's main halls and dwellings. Nearby was the grounds in which the warriors practiced and were trained in arms, and the stables from which Arlass had left all those years ago. Tulushall's memory of the day had faded to something indistinct and just remotely sad, or so he said. It seemed that Neldor's luck was with him that day – he found the group of three elflings in the entryway to the stables, and seemed to be discussing something very important judging by the expressions on their faces.

"We shall meet him?" he heard Tulushall ask cautiously as he drew near enough.

Finglas, the second dark–haired youth, nodded. "I should think so. I haven't seen Saerdín in a long time, but I think he will be glad to meet you."

"Good," Gîlarad said. "Then—"

However, Neldor was spotted then. He laughed when all three turned and looked at him once. He was stricken at the moment by how much Finglas looked like his father, even in childhood, especially when he smiled so. Gîlarad grinned, and tackled him in a hug, and his father caught him fast. His son, on the other hand, looked as little like him as – he believed – was physically possible. The light blonde hair and blue eyes made him most entirely his mother's son. He could not tell whom Tulushall more resembled. He had the physical looks and build of his father at that age, and yet his eyes were as dark as Arlass's – Brethil, like Neldor, had gray eyes.

"Ada! I didn't know you were here, 'till Tulus told me…"

"Are we going home now?" interjected Tulushall, looking pitifully at Neldor. Finglas too looked plaintively at the elf. Neldor sighed deeply. He ruffled Gîlarad's hair and let him on the ground.

"I am afraid so. Your mother wants to have a word with you two about the mess you made before you left."

The elves made twin grimaces. "But it was Tulus's fault!" and "But it was Arad's fault!" came out at exactly the same moment. Even Finglas laughed.

"I am sorry it has to be so, but we really must go. I hear you are having visitors soon, Finglas."

The young elf nodded solemnly. "Tomorrow, maybe the next day."

"Ah. Well, I wish you the best of luck, my young friend. We must be going now. Navaer."

"Good–bye, Finglas."

"Maer ré, Tulus, Arad!"