Chapter Five: Light's Shadow

'… agree, sire? My Lord? My King Thranduil!'

Thranduil started, pulling himself up in his chair to a better position. He looked around the congregation to see all of his lords gazing up at him with quietly intrigued expressions on their faces. Then he realised that not only were they clearly wondering why he was giving so little reaction, but that they also were seeking an answer to a question posted by Lord Lithell, whose voice it had been that had roused the king from his reverie.

He had no idea what they had been on about. Never a good thing when his opinion was required. 'I…'

'-What I would like to know, Lord Lithell,' interjected Lord Daerahil, 'is whether the situation concerning your son and the wash maid is really something that so warrants the attention of the Council.' He gave Thranduil a brief glance, a grin twinkling in his eye. The King offered a small tilt of his head in thanks. 'Surely the Orc attacks on the western fringes of the kingdom are of greater importance? As a side-note, I think you should not be so tyrannical with your son. If he loves the wash maid, then let them be together.'

'But my son is twelve!'

Daerahil waved an impatient hand. 'Young love is a beautiful thing, let it flourish. Now, back to matters of greater priority,' continued the Elf lord, making his voice louder to drown out Lord Lithell's protestance, until the other eventually sat down, having finally given up. 'The Orc attacks have increased these last weeks. The matter is getting quite out of hand, and-'

'-Is it not the charge of the Prince to ensure the safety of our boarders?'

Daerahil raised a brow at the speaker, Lord Terin. Thranduil watched him also with a carefully masked expression. He did not take kindly to any criticising the way in which the Prince operated the Mirkwood forces. Many years ago, when Oropher ruled the kingdom, it had been Thranduil's responsibility, and so he knew Legolas had no small task.

'And where, exactly, is the Prince today?' continued Terin. 'I find it odd that he should not be here when he attends all other council meetings. Why not this one? What does he deem so much more important than the running of the kingdom?'

'Your Prince Legolas has gone on a brief trip, from which he will return tomorrow at noon.'

Although Lord Terin picked up on the reprimand that rang in his King's tone, he continued nonetheless, looking to the rest of the council for support. 'Oh, I see,' he jeered. 'So the Prince has taken himself on a little excursion away from his duties. I am simply glad he sees the current state of affairs as settled enough for him to leave the kingdom for recreational purposes; perhaps I could also abandon my post as Royal Counsellor for a few days? I am sure that my absence would not be felt during our time of crisis.'

Silence graced the chamber for a time, its occupants exchanging glances. Terin looked to all of his companions for support, though when he received none, he eventually turned his gaze to the King. And immediately wished he had done no such thing. Thranduil's face was pinched with rage, his eyes boring into those of his over-spoken advisor.

'How dare you question your Prince in such a manner with such clear contempt? How dare you!'

Terin averted his eyes to the oak table, and his mouth continued, though with a notably higher level of caution to it. 'I was merely saying, my King, that I find it odd that our Prince should not be present at this time.'

'That is a poor excuse for such disrespectful behaviour, and I will not tolerate it. You are suspended until I see fit to have you back in this chamber, if I do.'

There was a stunned silence for a time, in which not a soul shifted. Terin finally broke it, however… 'I apologise, my King: it was disrespectful of me to speak thus of the Prince. I was out of-'

'-Order? Yes, you were. You are dismissed, Lord Terin.'

Terin knew better than to argue, and he turned obediently to leave, the eyes of the others on him.

Thranduil was sat with a wornexpression on his ageless face. He gave his brow an agitated rub as though his head hurt. 'Is there anything of dire importance that needs to be discussed today?'

'Well – no, not really, my Lord.'

'Right. This session is hereby adjourned until we convene tomorrow.'

The Lords of Mirkwood bowed their heads at this declaration, though not without wondering why on Arda their King was behaving in the way he was.

As the others left, Daerahil lingered, waiting until all were out of the chamber before he said anything, fixing Thranduil with a questioning stare…

'Is this something a little honey, Wolf's-claw and mint tea will cure?'

Thranduil gave a snort at this. 'No, but I daresay a late afternoon ride will serve the same purpose.'

Darkness was beginning to stretch its black hand over the land, and the shadows deepened about the small party. The snow had stopped – something counted as a small blessing, as the horses were having real trouble negotiating their way through the dense cover, their stumbles becoming all the more frequent due to weariness.

Cirnan eventually concluded that a camp should be made soon, as he did not truly wish to push their luck too far; all it took was one stumbling horse to take a bad fall to kill someone…

'We will set up camp off the road,' he called behind him to the group. 'Stay mounted until I return with the scouting party. The said party will consist of the four archers. All others will stay with the women, under the charge of Prince Legolas.' Cirnan looked to the Elf briefly, who gave an acknowledging nod, coupled with a small smile. Legolas had no reason to reject the temporary command he was given: he was, after all, a Captain himself, and he was safe with the knowledge that these men he was with liked and respected him, and he them. They would go under his command for this short time without grudge, and would not hesitate to carry out his orders; he could enjoin them to attack Dol Guldur and they would do it.

'Good. Men, with me!' He waved his hand forward for them to follow, and the men obediently kicked their horses onward, leaving Legolas with the three women and two warriors. Because Legolas did not speak, the others did not. He listened intently to the fading horses' hooves, and then to the ensuing silence. The wind jostled the upper branches of the tree canopy a little, and a barn owl sent out a shrill shriek before it flew out above their heads. Apart from that, all was still … and it was this stillness that concerned him.

Legolas had spent all his life in Mirkwood. As a warrior, he had endured countless nights out in the forest. Rarely was it this quiet. The last time it was this quiet, his memory supplied him, there was an Orc attack.

But the horses were calm and complacent, and their riders equally so. Perhaps his senses were still unsettled by the events that had befallen him. Then he scowled at himself: he was amongst Rangers of the North. The Dúnedain. He was with some of the most gifted woodsmen Arda had to offer; they were almost Elven, they were so efficient at their craft. There was no reason not to trust Cirnan and his scouting skills.

Legolas glanced over to Diyrenë, noting the light frown on her face and the way she rubbed the small of her back. But she gave a sudden gasp, shock registering on her fair features, both hands over her swollen belly. Legolas was greatly alarmed by this, urging his horse over to where hers stood.

'Diyrenë? Are you well?'

The Lady lifted her bright eyes to the anxious ones of the Elf, and after a second covered the worried expression she knew she wore too plainly with an artificially cheery smile. 'I am fine. Thank you, Legolas,' she added hastily. 'The baby made a turn and startled me, that is all.'

Legolas scrutinised her face intently. She maintained the smile, though her eyes betrayed to him the uncertainty and a thin veil of fear that she truly felt. Having spent so much time with her, Legolas was well attuned to both her mental and physical state … and her body was changing.

It would be a very ungentlemanly thing to do if he asked her if she was absolutely sure about this, and not just trying to ease his mind, so he stopped himself from questioning her on her health. However, he did think of a way to tip-toe around that query with another one that would ultimately give him the same information he sought: 'When is the baby due, my Lady, if I may be permitted to ask?'

Diyrenë fixed him with a suspicious stare, eyes narrowed slightly at the question. 'You have reverted to being exceedingly polite again, my Prince. First, tell me: why is this?'

She suspected his motive. Damn! 'I simply wish to know when to send the gifts – it would not do to send them too early, would it?' Good recovery!

Diyrenë seemed to grudgingly accept this excuse after watching his face for a time, for she then said: 'Not for at least three weeks yet. That should give you enough time to find suitable gifts!'

Legolas chuckled at this, though inwardly his concern swelled. Three weeks? I fear that was a contraction – even if she denies it - and if so, this is a very dangerous place for her to give birth. His experience of this particular stage of the life cycle spanned only to dogs and horses. With them, he was an expert – but with women? Surely it was not that different, was it? After all, a mammal was a mammal, and they all had their babies in the same manner. He had had bitches and mares that had birthed prematurely, and he could not say the young had fared well for it. Many of them had died, in fact, though there was the odd success story. However, they had all come into the world in a warm stable with plenty of supplies and competent aid. Here, Diyrenë had a maid and a midwife. And if the earliness of the birth did not harm the child, then the merciless elements would…

The Elf stilled his cheerless thoughts at the sound of advancing hooves, sitting up a little higher to see who came. Out of the trees came the scouting party, Cirnan leading, a small smile on his lips. 'Nothing to report, thankfully,' he informed the others. 'Looks like we are going to have a quiet night.'

The fire cracked, snapping the branches it engulfed, the red glow of its greed illuminating the settled camp. Two were absent from the scene, as they were posted on the first sentry duty of the night. All others sat inside its bubble of heat on their sleeping mats, enjoying the warmth they had not had for what seemed like an age. All save for Legolas, that is. He was positioned high above the heads of the others in his chosen place of rest: a tree branch, from which he casually dangled a leg and swung it rhythmically.

Diyrenë looked up at him, confused as to why he should choose to be so high on a cold branch when he could easily be basking in the fire's warmth. 'Will you not come down, Thranduilion, and enjoy the campfire's heat with us? You cannot surely be warm up there?'

Legolas smiled benignly down on her. 'You forget, Lady Diyrenë: heat rises.'

'But I hardly see a robin's perch as comfortable, especially in this weather.'

'You would be surprised.'

'But do not robins on such perches sing?' exclaimed Cirnan, a mischievous edge to his tone. 'Come, little robin, sing us a merry tune!'

Legolas scowled at the Ranger. 'Whywill you not sing?'

'Cirnan? Sing?' interjected one of the other Rangers with a snort. 'A chicken having its neck rung sings a finer tune than he!'

Cirnan gave the offending warrior a reproachful glare. 'That is a very unfair statement – anyway, I asked you to sing, little robin.'

Legolas heaved a heavy sigh, giving his face a rub on his shoulder. 'I hope you realise, Ranger, that a robin's song is not for the pleasure of your ears, but a threat to warn other robins not to invade his land?'

'Be that as it may, I still want to hear you. You are, after all, an Elf, and all Elves can sing – I have heard that you are particularly good, as a matter of fact.'

Legolas peaked a brow at this statement. 'Really. Well, it grieves me to say that my throat is still rather sore, and I fear that a song would aggravate it unnecessarily.'

'That is unfortunate – I would have loved to hear you,' Diyrenë sighed.

'And what of pipes?' queried another Ranger. 'Will you play pipes?'

Legolas contemplated this for a time. When was the last time I played pipes? At least twenty years ago, probably more… 'Yes, I will play; if you have some, that is.'

The Ranger rose from his seat in order go to his horse and sift through his saddlebag. After much rummaging, he eventually produced the instrument and threw it up into the boughs, where the Elf's hand snaked out to snatch it from the air. He turned it in his hands for a time, examining each hollowed wooden tube. The wood had been smoothed by time and many decades of loving hands playing it, and it made him smile to see little tassels of faded dyed wool dangling from it. Yes, he could play these…

He set the pipes before his lips, hesitating briefly as he tried to remember a tune and exactly how to play. Once he had sorted out what he would play, he began…

The pipes made the hair rise on the back of Diyrenë's neck, as they sent wavering yet soft notes through the glade; clearly Legolas was not willing to raise too high a noise. It sounded like a caged songbird finally freed. She had listened to pipes often, but never before had she heard them being played in this way before, and nor this tune. But it was beautiful; light and energetic, it set her heart high in her chest – yet there were melancholic undertones in it, a certain something that saddened her. She sat and listened to the sweet melody, her eyes closed as she envisioned the inspired thoughts the music arose in her mind.

Legolas finally lowered the pipes and rested them on his knee. It had felt odd at first, but he had gradually become accustomed to what he was doing, and memory served him well in the end. Not only had he not played pipes for so long, but he had not rung a note from any instrument for a good few decades… Why not? It made no sense to him – he could draw a tune from any of the means of a musicians' trade; he had just not done it of late…

'Whence did that song originate, Legolas? Assuming it does have a song, that is?'

Legolas gave a slight start at being addressed, pulling himself from his reverie. 'It was composed by Lindir of Imladris, in celebration of the victory of the Last Alliance. It also tells of the losses suffered by our people and those of our allies.' It tells of my grandfather and brother.

'I thought it had an element of sadness,' Diyrenë commented softly. 'So glorious and yet so very, very sad…' Her voice faded, and that same frown donned her face again. Her long fingers wrapped over her swollen belly, and the frown was swiftly replaced by a grimace of pain.

Legolas noticed her distress before any of the others, sitting bolt upright as he realised what this meant: She is having it NOW! 'CIRNAN!' he bellowed, causing the Ranger to start. He gestured to Diyrenë, just as the woman let out a shrill cry of agony. He had never seen humans move as fast as they at that moment … but concern for what they did below him was quickly being cast from his mind.

The Elf leapt to his feet, trying to get a better look to the west of the camp. He had that feeling again, that horrible feeling that things were just about to get considerably worse… He made his way with competent speed up the tree, able as a squirrel, until he stood upon the highest branch that would hold his weight. The stars had finally managed to pierce the heavy shroud of cloud. And it was by their light that he saw the black shapes skittering over the earth towards the camp.

'YRCH!' Not Orcs, not now, please, Valar!