Thranduil faced the ruddy-red face and furious eyes of Captain Ethanil. "Captain, I understand your frustration, but I will not authorize an attack on the human settlement." He raised his voice louder as the elf's shouts threatened to drown him. "We will recover King Oropher. Now get out of my tent!"

He collapsed at Oropher's desk in the quiet and buried his face in his hands. Captain Yuai, standing with his arms crossed in the corner, looked sympathetically at him.

"This is a disaster," Thranduil groaned. He lifted his face, the weight of his crown heavy on his head. Jailil, Delya, Ailunai, with a scratch on her cheek, Nimrethil, and Hyrondal all looked back at him.

"I do not believe the humans will negotiate for Oropher's release," Yuai said. "They have realized, as you have surely realized, as long as they hold Oropher, you are the Lord Sovereign on Mirkwood. I understand they prefer you as a leader."

Thranduil clenched a hand. "I will not shed blood when there is still a chance for peace. We cannot go on like this, Yuai."

"Neither can you allow the King to be mistreated," Yuai said quietly. "Eragion broke his arm, Thranduil."

Thranduil frowned. "The hate is . . . overwhelming."

Jailil rose from the sofa. "I volunteer to surrender myself to Eragion."

"What?" Nimrethil demanded. She jerked him back down to the sofa. "You have lost your head, Jailil."

Jailil shrugged her off. "It is my duty, Thranduil, as representative of the healing ward to personally see to the King's physical health. If he is hurt, it is my responsibility to tend to him, no matter where he is."

Nimrethil waved a hand in front of his face. "They are barbarians over there, Jailil. You could not help a ghost if your arms are broken!"

"Mankind are not barbarians, Nimrethil," Ailunai said quietly. She touched her cheek. "They are a desperate people trying to survive."

"My going will satisfy the guard's want for Oropher's safety," Jailil said. "Surely we are all aware we will have a revolt on our hands if we do nothing."

"Valar curse Captain Ethanil," Thranduil muttered. He looked up. "I would not ask you to go, Jailil, but, as you have volunteered, I grant permission. I recommend you take ample supplies with you and hope humans treat healers with some semblance of respect."

Jailil reached for Delya's hand. "Thank you, Thranduil. Hyrondal, I would appreciate it if you would accompany me as far as the settlement."

Hyrondal glanced at Thranduil before he nodded and strode out of the tent after the healer and the girl.

"I did not come here to put the lives of my family in danger," Thranduil said sadly.

Jailil left the shadow of the Mirkwood border and walked out onto the plains. The stockade built around the settlement loomed ahead. Ten feet behind him came Hyrondal, brow drawn tight in a frown, and Delya, scowling into his back.

She could not feel his thundering heart and had accused him of noble delusions. She could not be more wrong. He did not walk toward naked swords and arrows because he loved his king, nor because he felt bound by loyalty. He went to heal himself; to step past prejudice and hatred. He could not ask the woman he loved to marry him while black still streaked his blood.

A path through the grass wound from Mirkwood's shadow to the settlement. Twenty paces away from the gate, Jailil stopped as a warning arrow thunked into the ground at his feet. He heard Hyrondal nock an arrow to his bow.

Jailil looked up. Four warriors with tough leather tunics down to their knees and silver-tipped elven arrows glinting from their drawn bows stepped out past the gate swung open in the stockade.

"You are not welcome here! Leave while you still can."

Jailil held up his hands and pushed his cloaks back to show he was not armed. "I am Healer Jailil. I come in peace to tend to my King."

The men and women exchanged wary glances. "He deserves no care. Let him suffer as you have suffered."

"Because I have suffered, I cannot stand by while he suffers," Jailil answered. "The hate you carry is a burden to us all. How can you find room for the peace you strive for when your hearts are drowning in animosity?"

Silence. The four eased the tension of their bowstrings.

"You may enter," one woman said, lowering her bow. "Alone. I make no promises you will be treated well. Tell your friends," she waved to Hyrondal and Delya, "To leave."

Jailil looked back and nodded to Hyrondal. The elf lowered his bow and slid the lose arrow back into his quiver. Delya boldly stepped forward, causing the four humans to tighten their bowstrings.

"Come back to me in one piece," she whispered fiercely as she hugged him. "Or I too will have a need for vengeance."

Jailil's hands tightened slightly on her dull red hair before he let the silky strands slip from his fingers. No more last looks back. In the shadows of his escorts, he stepped through the gate. It swung shut behind him and a plank of wood slammed into place to fasten it.

"Come this way," the woman said, gesturing to him.

A single wide street ran the length of the small village. The hardpacked dirt smoothed the bottoms of Jailil's boots as he followed his guide. Narrow paths between the closely built houses slanted sunshine through shadow and leeched the color from the log cottages. Golden thatch hung over the eaves of the rooftops and every home had a garden out back bursting with plant life.

In one corner of the stockade a hill rose to eye level. The woman opened the wooden door built into the hill beside a tiny window and gestured down the few earthen steps. "He is down there. Try not to trip."

Jailil spluttered, "You have shut King Oropher in your root cellar?"

The woman's eyes chilled. "You find it unacceptable? He deserves less."

"I find it amusing," Jailil admitted. He ducked under the doorframe and trotted down the handful of steps into the damp, dark underground pit.

"I despise the cruelty in you," a voice spat, "But I will never fear you."

With the help of the slight light coming from the window, Jailil's eyes adjusted. He knelt at Oropher's side. "My king?"

The elf snapped upright from his slump against the wall, dirtied and pale. "What is this treachery? Does Thranduil not care for his King? I am ashamed—ashamed—ow! Get your hands off me!"

Jailil steadied Oropher as the elf suddenly wavered. "Your arm is broken, my king, and you are bruised—"

"These people are wicked!"

"You must let me tend to you," Jailil continued firmly. "I have brought all I need—"

"Needles and thread instead of the sword and arrow," Oropher said bitterly.

Jailil slid a cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around Oropher before he unfastened his leather kit bursting with salves, balms, and bandages.

Oropher's eyes sharpened on Jailil. "Who in Mirkwood wears two cloaks?"

Jailil glanced down at his cloak. "I wore a spare, my king, as I thought you might need . . . clothing."

Oropher rested his head against the wall and shut his eyes. "I am tired—what is your name? —Jailil. Tired."

Jailil worked swiftly, setting the broken arm in a sling. "You will regain strength as you heal, my king, and I assure you the next ill-minded man to set foot down here will find the healers of Mirkwood are not all smiles and bandages."

Oropher opened his eyes. "Indeed?"

Jailil smiled as he offered Oropher a tin of white salve. "To heal one risks hurt. I should be glad to ease the soreness of your body; however, I take no offense if you wish to massage the salve yourself."

Oropher slid forward from the wall. His torn clothing trailed with him. "Do it. I have no pride left."

Jailil winced to see the dark bruises and red marks along Oropher's back and ribs. His fingers pressed and circled the salve into the elf's light skin. Oropher slipped his torn robe back over his head and accepted the cloak Jailil handed him.

Jailil capped the salve tin, tossed it into his leather case, and hopped to his feet.

"Do not," Oropher said. "You will be hurt too. I fear man has no patience."

Jailil disguised his hesitation. "I learned a thing or two from Nimrethil." He mounted the steps and, clenching a hand more from nervousness than indignation, banged on the door. As the seconds ticked by and no one answered, Jailil's indignation bubbled. He took it out on the door.

Angry shouts rose and feet trampled in Jailil's direction. The door flew open, and a spear narrowly avoided stabbing Jailil's leg as the man thrust it through the door. "You ruddy animal! Stop that fearsome racket or I will cut your hands off."

Jailil narrowed his eyes. "Try it." He jumped forward as the man tried to slam the door. Instantly the fellow's companions drew their swords and advanced on him.

Jailil held up his hands, braced against the doorframe. "I intend no struggle. I wish only to express my sincere disappointment and disgust in the way you have treated King Oropher. Hurt is ugly. I do not fight for the ugly. Thranduil does not fight for the ugly."

The man laughed in his face. "If you think you can waltz in here and demand a palace for your King, think again!"

Jailil's head reared back. "I wish only for you to feed and treat him as you would be treated."

"And what good has that noble deed done us when our sons and wives come back to us pinpricked with arrows? Go back into your hole, elf, or I will dig you a new one." He slammed the door.

Jailil flung up his hands and kicked the door. "Valar be cursed!"

Oropher settled against the wall. "It is useless to reason with them. I have said so before violence is the only language man understands."

Jailil sat down beside him and snapped the clasps of his kit shut. "I do not believe that, my king."

"I no longer believe it myself. I begin to see . . . blind hate . . . racial prejudice . . . things I learned from my ancestors have created this unfortunate love of hurt. I hurt them. They hurt me back. I am sore, Jailil, devastated by hatred. I feel it with my every breath. I . . . despise it."

Jailil drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "I am glad, my king, you begin to see what is here instead of what you want to see. Nothing is untreatable. The elves of Buried Creek interact with these people as friends. You cannot expect others to make the first move; you have to try against every cruelty to be the one who chooses right."

"I have tried. These people are deaf to my voice."

Jailil smiled a little. "A sparrow may sing in the heart of battle and not be heard, but she is still singing. When the last sword stroke has rung out, she will still be singing, and her tune will finally be heard."

"You speak from experience?"

"In a way," Jailil answered. "I was young, too young, when my family died. We lived in one room on a crowded street where the air smelled of smoke and dung and we did not know the forest existed. My sister, mother, father, they contracted a lung disease and I . . . I did not. I went to the local healing ward, to the 'nice' part of town, and I begged the healers, beautiful in white, to help. They all refused. One by one they shook their heads and one by one I saw the shadows in every thread of their cloth.

"I watched my family die, my king. Spitting blood and unable to breathe they died in the presence of my helpless hatred. With their last breaths I saw only the gold crown painted above the healing ward door and I despised it. I despised the people it represented, and, in my loneliness, the seeds of a dream grew from my tears.

"The elves who came to bury my family came for me too. They took me to a different kind of graveyard, an orphanage. I lingered through many an establishment, where orphans disappeared and we knew what happened to them, holding onto the hope, against every hurt, I could be the healer who never said no when people asked for help."

"The songbird singing in the din," Oropher murmured.

"The last sword stroke rang out for me years ago," Jailil said. He smiled. "My tune is heard. I am the healer who does not say no. But," his voice dipped. "I still have the hatred. Knowing Thranduil helped me overcome a sliver of it. I saw that sons need not be like their fathers."

"But the golden crown of your nightmare is mine," Oropher said. "And you hated me because I am the Mirkwood that said no."

"I cannot begin a family holding onto slivers of poisonous shadow," Jailil said softly. "To heal I must be healed."

Oropher leaned his head back against the wall. "You have a lover."

"Delya," Jailil grinned suddenly. "She did not wish me to come. I am glad I did."

"How do you know—how can you be sure you have let the hate go?"

"I set eyes on you, bruised, and I saw you bleed. I felt the shadow go and surely you felt it too, my king, for I tended to your injuries, and I felt no malice threaten my hands."

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Next Chapter: Oropher is confronted by a half-elven youth.