Notes:

I hope I do the history of Middle Earth justice. There is a LOT to play with.

Some really bad elvish translations you'll come across in this chapter:

lefnar - work week essentially. It's a period of five days.

Bwa - No

Ion-nin - my son.

Lessig - little leaf

gwinig- little one/baby

elleth- female elf

ellon - male elf

ellyn - male elves

telian/flet - tree platform

mellontew - "letter friends" or pen pals

And I think that's it! If not, please just ask. I have an excel spreadsheet now to keep all my notes in place!

Chapter Two: Homeward

The Maite company, with a few of their auxiliary healers and one Prince of the Woodland Realm, spent a lefnar in the village of Solchbar. They found no other survivors. The few the guards had thought might have escaped to the northeast were cut down by one of the traitors, their blood coating the cherry trees that were there. The second traitor, an ellon named Aravar whose father is the Lord of the Worker's Council, was found in the village hall with far most of the villagers. As far as the guards could tell, he was betrayed by Guilin.

Burial pits were dug and with far less care than would normally be afforded such tragedy, each of the bodies of the villagers placed inside. Only the traitors were left to rot in the open as a final punishment. The gwinig's mother was placed near what the guards presumed to be the child's father – an ellon with similar copper strands and a mix of Noldo and Sinda features. Where the gwinig's Silvan ears came from was anyone's guess. Still, given what Legolas had learned – was learning- perhaps it was for the best. No one would suspect an elleth who looked to be of Nandorin heritage to be kin to the sons of Fëanor.

Kinslayer. The one word rattled about in the prince's head more than any other. It was the word Beinion used towards King Thranduil. What was it Beinion said? That Legolas' father harbored – kept- those of the Kinslayer's loins to the south. Peering at the face of the Noldo-Sinda ellon, he tried to deny Beinion's charge and couldn't. The ellon didn't appear old enough to have been one of Fëanor's sons but perhaps his's son's son? Or a generation after? Was it just that his father harbored the descendants of Fëanor's line rather than one of the kinslayers themselves? If so, that put Legolas' heart at ease – children should not be punished for the sins of their parents, no matter how egregious the sin may be.

A squeak from behind the prince and slightly above him drew his attention. He, along with all the others that had rode from his father's halls were learning that that particular sound meant the gwinig was readying to cry. At least she gave them warning.

Jumping from out of the burial pit and back up to the level earth, Legolas approached one of the guard. This particular ellon stood holding a bundle of blankets at an odd angle with a panicked look upon his face. "B…bbbwa," he stuttered out at the young elleth concealed in the cloth bundle the guard held. He began to beg her to stop her tears before she had even started. Legolas simply held out his arms to relieve the guard from his duty.

Without the slightest hesitancy, the guard gladly handed the gwinig over. The child's face was scrunched up in her preparation to bawl – turning an interesting shade of blue and purple- but all that came out was a hiccupped blubber that lasted all of a second upon seeing the prince's face. Legolas was one of two individuals that the gwinig deemed worthy enough to hold her for any longer than a few minutes. Corporal Nanessa was the other one.

"Nanessa is preparing another bottle, my lord," the guard informed his prince, his face now calmed that the baby was contented. Legolas nodded, gently rocking the young elleth in his arms.

In the past lefnar, the prince learned more about elflings that he had in his over two eons upon Arda. According to the healers, the one mother, and the one father amongst the 120 or so guards, babies needed to eat at regularly scheduled times and far more numerously than an adult. They also needed to be held a certain way, kept on a sleep schedule, and would only communicate their needs through grunts and cries. It wasn't that Legolas hadn't been around elflings before – he had seen many a child brought before him or his father at official court ceremonies when a new gwinig was born. It was just that he hadn't really paid attention to how much work it was or what the rules were with such tiny creatures.

The bottle had been a challenge. First, finding a goat or a cow had been a challenge. Once they found a thankfully milking nanny goat and her doeling, the next challenge was finding a bucket to capture the milk in. With every step of what, according to a few of the enlisted guards, was normally a very easy process, it proved to be a quest in its own right. It almost felt like some elfling game – once you have acquired one item, you needed to go through a series of steps to acquire the next until you got to your ultimate goal.

The difference was, with elfling games, the ultimate goal was typically some honey cake or other treat; for the guards, it was a quiet and contented gwinig.

Slowly, Legolas made his way towards the makeshift camp in the orchard at the edge of the village. They dared not stay in any of the telian or huts for those belonged to the dead. Cradling the tiny elleth in his arms as he walked into the camp, the prince saw Nanessa kneeling before a kettle over the fire. She had the small watering can with the narrowed spout they were using as a bottle for now. The gwinig was able to suckle on the spout well enough to get some of the goat's milk in her.

A few crumbs of lembas soaked in milk may have also snuck their way to the young elleth. One of the healers caught Legolas the other night giving the child a bit of the mush and sent his eyes star-ward in exasperation at the prince. "Just don't give her more than a few spoonfuls, your highness," the healer muttered as he walked past.

Just as Nanessa poured the heated goat's milk and tested it upon her wrist, Legolas came to stand next to her, ready to hand the babe over. The elleth guard turned and jumped slightly. She had been to preoccupied in getting the milk exactly right to pay much attention to her surroundings and notice her prince was right there. In a jerked move, she lowered her eyes and took a step back. She was only an enlisted Silvan elf and he, though kind, was the heir of the Woodland Realm. It was the difference between the roots of a tree and the canopy itself.

Legolas pretended not to notice how nervous the poor corporal was around him. He learned not to call attention to it as that only made many of his fellow elves more nervous rather than less. "Is this one's supper prepared?" he casually asked while gesturing regarding the babe.

"Yes, my lord," Nanessa affirmed, holding out the repurposed vessel for the prince to take, should he wish. Legolas shook his head and gently handed over the babe to the corporal. He wished to speak to Captain Feren about any new discoveries regarding who this young elleth may be.

"If you wish, I will relieve you from the small bundle of wrangling arms after I speak with Captain Feren," he informed her. Nanessa smiled slightly.

"I fear she will not get over her initial judgement of Captain Feren," the corporal replied. While many of the guard placed the ancient game of pass the baby at night to the small creature's delight, it was only with Captain Feren that she would cry at if anyone dared to pass her to him. They stopped after the second night. It was clear that Feren's less than pleasant first introduction to the young elleth had set her opinion of him.

"She may yet grow and change," Legolas added hopefully before turning to go towards where he last saw Captain Feren. After a couple of steps, he stopped. "Though, he may not," the prince smirked.

Nanessa chuckled in response as she gave the young elfling her evening meal.

Legolas found Captain Feren near the base of the large flet that they confirmed was the chief of the village's home. Little could Legolas remember of what was said of this village though none admonished him for it. He was not of the agricultural council or the worker's council where this village may be part of his notice. He only held to the internal court and military affairs as was appropriate for a prince.

"My Lord," Feren acknowledged as Legolas came to stand with him.

"Have you found any additional information regarding our survivor?" the prince inquired. All that they knew was currently speculation and that speculation was being buried in the village center. None would likely live here again. The ground was too coated in elvish blood.

"More papers of the running of the village but little in the way to put name to one or another," Feren stated truthfully. Names they had, whole lists of names, but the lists didn't indicate who lived where. Knowing that one ellon demanded fair compensation for another's pig eating the lettuce harvest meant little if you knew nothing of what they looked like or where they lived. The names were merely names on the paper with little else to them.

Legolas grimaced at that and then looked to the flet again. There must be something. Something they are missing. He did not wish to rely upon the Archives in his father's halls – which may or may not have the elfling's name recorded- until all was exhausted here. However, they also needed to be away from this accursed place and back to the safety of palace.

"I will have a final look," the prince said, gesturing to the telian. "We still plan to make way at first light no matter if naught is found," he more questioned than commanded.

"Yes, my lord," the captain affirmed.

Making his way into the telian, Legolas saw at least four other guards still making their way through the debris. No longer quite the mess it was as bookcases were put to rights as well as other furniture and objects. In his heart, though, the prince could not but feel they were missing a clue regarding the elfling's line – something that would affirm what he had gathered so far or that would shatter such believes.

He walked around the telian almost aimlessly. The guards would give a nod and bow of acknowledgement that he was there before going back about their work. The one ellon that was a father was busy in the nursery preparing a chest of items to take back with them for the gwinig. She would need her wardrobe and other small items for her care and wellbeing.

Towards the back of the telian was the office of the village chief. It was little more than a closet with a desk and bookcases for walls save the eastern wall that held a large window and allowed in the morning light. Though the guard and even Legolas himself had been through the small space already – it was from here they retrieved the village's paperwork- yet the prince held his doubts. He needed to see the space again with new eyes.

The bookcases laid half bare – many of the scrolls, documents, and books that the bookcases once held now lay in Captain Feren's tent. With great care, Legolas walked around the desk, taking all he could in. It appeared to be a perfectly normal small study. Not a bit was out of place though that was more so due to the guards putting it all back in place.

Perhaps that was the problem. It was back in place as they would see it and not, necessarily, and the owner would see it. A hand upon the desk, the prince wondered if it was a perspective problem. The chair – if there had been one- was gone. The desk and bookcases were the lone furniture in the room beyond a small tree for holding one's cloak or hilt. So, without any formality, the prince of the Woodland Realm sat upon the floor instead. It would be too low to gain the same perspective as the owner would have had but it would be better than standing.

From this view, he could see the cabinets better and noticed that the window also looked out towards the now harrowed village hall. Or, at least from this level, the roof top. Looking back at the desk, he saw the drawers upon either side of it for holding the odd bits such as new quill tips or an ink stone.

It was the quick running of feet that immediately had Legolas standing. A guard approached him and bowed at the doorway to the study – it was almost too small for two grown ellyn to be in. "My Lord? We may have found something," the guard informed the prince.

"Show me," Legolas uttered as he moved to follow the guard to the upper telian. They moved to the main bedroom where a small silver chest now lay upon the bed. The chest was no longer than a cubit long and about half that high. The ornate designs in gold and even some mithral wove across it's face in the styles of the first age. Yes, this was at least something.

"We found it beneath the floorboards, my lord," another guard supplied, pointing to the space between the side of a chest of drawers and the southeastern wall. Two floorboards were pulled up and revealed a space just big enough for the chest. Covering the bottom of the enclosed space was a bit of cloth that had Legolas taking a second look.

He approached the hole and reached for the fabric only to note that it was a bit of embroidery on a linen cloth, backed with a luminescent silk. The embroidery, from the corner of what he unraveled, appeared to be a name. Taking the fiber work to a nearby dresser, Legolas unrolled the piece to see if it was what he hoped.

Names were delicately recorded in a fine bit of silk thread on the linen face. Names with dates and lines to the other names. A family tree. An ellon named Sarmo married an elleth whom he called Glorindis. From there, there was a line unfinished with a needle still freshly embedded in the fabric. Only a date, the previous year of 2317 of the third age, lay finished with the new addition of the line going forward. However, following Sarmo's line back, Legolas read each name in his head. Sarmo, son of Aramund, son of Carandol, son of...Amrod, son of Fëanor. His fingers ghosted over the last two names for there were many, many tales and little were of the good in the prince's mind.

"My lord?" one of the guards asked when the prince seemed no longer interested in the kingly treasure they uncovered but far too enticed by the rather plain cloth he held against the dresser top.

Hearing the guard start to approach, Legolas rolled the embroidery back up with all haste. He only prayed to the Valar that the guards had not seen. Turning, the bit of linen and silk clutched in his hand, Legolas nodded to the guards.

"We will bring the chest to my father's halls," he informed them. Noticing the lock, he added, "And there it can be opened."

Both guards bowed with the order and moved to take the chest and a few books to the staging site from where they would pack and move out in the morn. As they left, Legolas felt his heart clench. The sweet little gwinig was the descendent of kinslayers – for he had no doubt that it was her conception year upon embroidery he held in his hand. And thanks to her life, the traitors did not complete their mission to kill off the line of Fëanor.

One of the duties that Captain Feren detested was reporting to King Thranduil when he was well into his cups. Unfortunately, that was precisely what he found upon the Maite company's return the Woodland halls. Oh, he could have asked the prince to report to his father but Legolas was acting peculiar ever since two of his guards found a small silver chest. What had made him lose his normal cheerful countenance, the prince would not say. The guards only saw it re-appear upon the journey home when the prince held the gwinig. It was obvious to all he was completely smitten.

"Well, Captain, what did you find?" the elvenking asked, sitting slightly angled on his throne, a goblet in hand.

"We found one survivor, your majesty," Captain Feren informed him. He wanted to keep this quick and to the point and would write up a much longer report later. Thranduil could read the report when he could sit straight upon the throne again.

"And why isn't that survivor before me now?" Thranduil thundered, his glazed eyes narrowing on the captain.

"The survivor is with your son, my lord," Feren supplied. It was the honest truth. Of course, the survivor was rarely not with the prince since they found her. If it wasn't the prince, the gwinig was with Corporal Nanessa. The elfling would tolerate no one else.

"Bring them before me!" the elvenking ordered, spilling a slight drop of red wine from his goblet on to his robes.

Swallowing a sigh, Feren turned to do just that when he heard Legolas's voice come around a pillar before viewing the prince himself. "I'm here, adar."

Well, that was helpful. That should mollify even their ornery king a bit with his son appearing the moment he is called. Or, perhaps, Feren was too hopeful. The elvenking saw his son and then turned a glare to the Captain. "Go," he ordered with an underlying warning to his voice. Feren did not need to be told twice.

"Legolas, I am told you were with the survivor. Where are they?" he asked in a much calmer voice to his son. The prince bit his tongue to prevent from asking how much his father had indulged for he could hear the Doriathian accent far too clearly.

"Here, adar," the prince stated simply. In his arms, he cradled the bundle of blankets that cocooned the babe.

Noticing his son looking – and smiling- at the cloths in his arms, Thranduil felt his heart freeze for a moment. "Oh?" he inquired before slowly descending unsteadily down from his throne and standing next to his son. There, the elvenking sobered quickly as he beheld the tiny survivor. He wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders, peering at the gwinig who, in turn, took in this new face with a great deal of contemplation.

Only this one. Thranduil knew not what his son could expect after Beinion's confession. A village of nearly four hundred elves and only this one survived. Based on the information the internal palace guards uncovered, he knew that Guilin was one of the traitors, for that ellon was a cousin of Beinion and had always shadowed him like a lost pup. The others and how many others, the elvenking was unsure of. Certainly, there couldn't have been enough traitors to take on the entire village!

Sarmo. That was the village chief's name. Thranduil met him only infrequently but the two had become mellontew over the centuries. The last letter the chief wrote informed the elvenking that he hoped to present his daughter if the king would allow or, if it better served Thranduil, for him to come and visit to meet the newborn babe. Was this the child? The latest addition to the house of Fëanor?

Seeing the gwinig stare at him, Thranduil tried to see Sarmo in the elfling's face. The ears, if possible, were all Glorindis' father. He recalled the Silvan smith with ears bigger than his head working in the levels below the halls not an eon ago. The hair. Red hair was more common among the Noldor but it was not unheard of amongst the Silvan. Still, Thranduil knew in his heart what it marked her for. He knew this was the child of the house of Fëanor.

"This is my adar, gwinig," Legolas softly spoke.

The small creature gurgled and laughed at that, freeing her arms from the confines of her blankets. The bit of blanket that covered her head slipped as she did so, only now two piggy tails on either side of her head showed. Part of Legolas' work, no doubt, in the elvenking's mind based on how ridiculous it looked at the leather cord used to create the hairstyle.

Turning away, Thranduil went to take another sip from his goblet before speaking again. His back to his son, he asked "Her parents?"

Legolas found it interesting that his father knew to say "her". Perhaps he simply can tell the features of babies far better than the prince. Or, it could be the hairstyle the prince himself gave her. "Her mother was found in the nursery. The one we believe to be her father was found in the village hall along with many of the villagers….and Aravar," Legolas let lie. He wanted to know what was going on. There were too many questions. What did his father know?

Thranduil stilled his drinking for a moment upon hearing Aravar's name. Aravar was the son of Lord Rhîwon whom the elvenking spoke with just this morning. The Lord mentioned his concerns regarding some of the older looms needing replacement in the weaver's guild halls. He said nothing of his son or of the current scandal.

"The…bodies?" the elvenking asked.

"Buried. I do not believe any will look to live in that village again. It is long cursed," Legolas responded.

His father nodded in acknowledgement, hands on either side of his throne as he stood before it, head bent forward. How? How did it come to this the elvenking wondered. Such hate being harbored all the more greatly by those that know nothing of those times. That know nothing of the kinslayings or the fall of Doriath or when Beleriand ceased to be.

Turning back to his son and the gwinig, Thranduil tried to understand such hate but couldn't when he looked into the face of the tiny creature his son held. How did the kinslayings of the first age possibly rationalize the kinslayings of now? Why would any wish to destroy such that has barely begun to live and make a way for herself?

Gently, the elvenking touched the babe upon her cheek, eliciting a laugh from the tiny elleth. She grabbed Thranduil's finger and found the two ellyn surrounding her quite interesting. How could any wish to destroy such innocence? Even the kinslayers themselves were at least merciful in that! Maglor took in Elrond and Elros to raise as his own. Yet, from Beinion's own lips, he wished to end the line of Fëanor.

When the former lord recovered enough three days ago, Thranduil questioned him. Beinion knew. He knew of the child. He knew of how Sarmo had taken a half Silvan half Sinda bride. This explained why Beinion was captured over the discovery of the body of Lady Miluiel, for the lady had been Glorindis' mother. Her only crime was falling for a Silvan smith and letting her daughter marry Sarmo of the house of Fëanor, a village chief. But the former lord wanted none left who were complicit to letting the house stand – to include Thranduil himself and the small babe that held his finger with all her strength.

Now, Beinion lay beneath the roots of the trees in the Greenwood. He managed to take his own life the day after Thranduil questioned him. His note only stated that he refused to be a subject of a false Sinda king.

"Ada?" Legolas called to his father. Not removing his finger from the gwinig's grasp, he looked up at his son. "Is it true? Is she the descendent of…" he started but stopped immediately when his father gave him a look.

"Not here," Thranduil almost hissed. The throne room was too open for the discussion. "Later, after dinner, I shall have this discussion with you but not here."

Legolas nodded once at that. As long as he would get answers, he was contented. They always had dinner in his father's rooms when he returned from a long patrol or was otherwise out for more than a night.

When his father looked back at the elfling, Legolas inquired, "Does she at least have a name?"

Thranduil shook his head. Whatever name was given to her, Sarmo kept that from him. As he looked at the child's big ears as she played with his fingers, he thought of how to protect her when he could not protect her father or her mother. She was of this forested realm and at least one of her ancestors was a wood elf. Perhaps there was a way to hide her in plain sight should others become curious about a strange family tree in the archives.

"And she has no family left," the elvenking informed his son. No mother's mother or mother's father. Any further back on that line had sailed in the centuries before. On her father's side, Thranduil wasn't sure of all but he knew from what little his son had told him, she truly was alone in the world.

Legolas didn't like that information. He had been half hoping that some family might exist here that would take her. It would be difficult to find a suitable family to take the gwinig – or one that she wouldn't mind going to. He thought on how Nanessa and he had traded the young elleth back and forth as they rode home. They didn't dare give her to anyone else for the tiny creature would howl if she was held by any other.

"Ada?" Legolas asked as a new thought was brought forth in his mind.

"Yes, ion?" Thranduil responded in a gentle tone. He wouldn't be ill tempered - no matter how tipsy he was- out of fear of scaring the elflings. It didn't matter to him how old his son was, his Lessig would always be his elfling.

"What will become of her?" the prince asked carefully. If his father already had a plan, then Legolas wouldn't disagree. Much.

The elvenking's brow furrowed. Although there were plans in place for survivors of such things as forest fires or orc raids, those were only for adult survivors or for elflings with their families. This one had not a family to take her.

Not getting an answer right away, Legolas injected a bit more information about the gwinig. "She will not go with any who would take her." Looking up at his father's still furrowed brow – something the young elleth found fascinating- the prince smiled. He knew exactly how to ask for what he wanted without asking at all. "She loathes Captain Feren."

"Indeed?" Thranduil questioned.

Legolas nodded slightly. "Only I and Corporal Nanessa are worthy enough to hold her in her estimation," he continued.

At that, Thranduil bristled slightly. He tried to place the name Nanessa to a face but his mind was still slightly too glazed from the drink to do so quickly. If she was a Corporal, she was probably a Silvan. Very few of the Silvan could afford the commissions for the officer's ranks.

"Would you like to try and hold her, ada?" the prince innocently inquired of his father.

Gently, Thranduil relieved his son of the gwinig without another word. With the practiced care of a father – though it had been two eons – he held the child in the crook of his left arm and smoothed the blankets over her with his right. The elvenking moved back towards his throne with the elfling. Mentally, Legolas counted. The tiny creature would give a warning squeak at the count of 72 if she did not care for the one that held her and would be a full out bawl by the count of 144.

11, 12…his father was seated now on the throne with the babe safely tucked in the elvenking's arms. Though, the prince noted how his father waved upon the steps to the throne and how he currently sat upon it.

24, 25…Thranduil smiled at the gwinig who gurgled back and tried to reach for his hair.

35, 36…She managed to get a fist full of the elvenking's hair; Thranduil didn't seem to mind terribly much.

48, 49…his father was softly talking to the tiny elleth and asking her where she would like to live. She only gurgled and babbled in response.

60, 61, 62… Legolas tried not to slow down his mental count in his head as the looming time limit came. It was something he had learned in the past lefnar – the babe would get quiet before she gave her warning squeak. The guards all knew to pass her off as quickly as possible before she alerted all of Arda to her unhappiness.

70, 71, 72 …and….nothing. Rather, not nothing but not a squeak. The gwinig tucked so carefully in his father's arms was laughing and reaching towards his father while his father was playing keep away with his fingers and hair. Legolas beamed, "She likes you!"

Thranduil tilted his head slightly to look at his son with a smirk. "Of course!" he exclaimed. Looking back at the babbling bundle, the elvenking continued to talk to his tiniest subject. "Of course you like me, gwinig. Ion-nin is being ridiculous, isn't he?'

The prince simply smiled at that. He slowly approached his father and the elfling. The elleth sounded gleeful when she saw the prince again. "What shall we do with her?" Legolas breathed to his father.

Thranduil didn't look up as his son stood beside him. Rather, his attention was now on softly tickling a tiny elleth. "We shall keep her with us until a suitable family can be found," he informed his son. With all emotional control the prince could muster, he kept himself from grinning wildly. He knew that a suitable family was already found, right here in his father's arms. Legolas got what he wanted without having to ask.

End Notes:

So the gwinig has the elvenking and prince wrapped around her tiny fingers already. :-) For those that aren't familiar with the Silmarillion, it's pretty much the Old Testament to the Lord of the Rings. Amrod, son of Fëanor, is the oldest of the set of twins - Fëanor's last kids. There is a lot of inconsistency about his story - in The People's of Middle Earth, he died at the Burning of the Ships - the first kinslaying. However, in the Silmarillion, Amrod shows back up with his brother Amras and doesn't die until the third kinslaying. Really, this bugs the heck out of me so this story will address that to a degree.