"He is impressive," murmured Mithrandir, his eyes watching as the riders grew smaller and then disappeared into the surrounding trees.
"Oh yes. Every bit as impressive as his grandfather," drawled Elrond. "What a surprise awaits Thranduil," he said, well aware of the understatement and Mithrandir's cocked eyebrow.
Two hours of hard riding had passed, and not once had Legolas spoken, indeed it was all the warriors could do to follow him, for he had set a furious pace, and although his eyes did not glow, they were still brighter than normal.
Glorfindel watched him as they rode, aware that the Silvan was concentrating on whatever lay in wait for them. There was an intensity about him, a sharpness to his features.
Before long, Legolas held up his arm for the patrol to stop, and then pulled on his reins and turned his horse to face them. "They are close. Around thirty in one group. They are mainly goblins, but their leaders are Uruk Hai. They are as yet unaware of our presence and are damaging a sentinel as they set their camp."
"How far, Legolas? asked Glorfindel quietly.
"Five minutes ahead of us, there is a clearing with one natural entrance and no exit save through the trees.
Glorfindel issued his orders, his voice low and measured, hand signals backing up his commands. Turning once more to Legolas he seemed to notice the absence of his bow.
"Legolas, with Elladan and myself. Melven, Cormion, take the left flank. Company, to the trees on my signal."
The warriors nodded their understanding and in the blink of an eye, The Company scurried into the trees. Glorfindel frowned and turned to Legolas for an explanation, for he had meant for them to climb once they had arrived at the orc camp. Legolas allowed himself a smirk, explaining that they would navigate in the trees; it would make their approach quieter and allow them time to position themselves for the best possible angles. Glorfindel nodded his understanding, although truth be told he could not remember this tactic being used amongst the Silvan. He was either sorely outdated, or this was new.
Advancing on foot, the ground patrol soon arrived at the orc camp, and Legolas signalled to the rest of the troop behind them to stop, and remain silent.
Soon enough, they lay in wait behind the surrounding shrubs and watched. They counted thirty one orcs, some skinning their prey while others tended fires or cleaned weapons. Legolas took his hand to his temple in pain, as the sound of an axe thudded into live wood again and again, echoing around the glade as the tree was hacked at mercilessly .
Elladan looked at him in concern, laying a hand on his forearm, while Glorfindel waited for the right moment to signal their attack, his keen eyes spotting the well-camouflaged Silvans in the trees to each side of their position. He spared one last concerned glance at Legolas before turning his eyes back to the camp, deftly singling out its leader.
One of the two Uruk Hai squatted before the fire, warming its black claws, the orange light illuminating the reflecting layer that covered its yellow eye, turning it momentarily red. It was distracted, and if the Silvan archers were as good as he thought they were, no sooner he gave the signal they would pick out their prime victims well, they would know how to prioritise their targets.
With the stroke of his hand, the Silvan snipers fired and sure enough, the Uruk fell to the ground, an arrow through its temple, one of the group's commanders dead even before they engaged. With an elven cry, Glorfindel lurched forward, Legolas and Elladan right behind him, one with a skilful swivel of a mighty Noldorin sword and the other flipping two short swords before him, their metal glinting with the promise of a swift and certain death.
The orcs roared and screeched as the elves ran into their camp, hardly having time to take up their weapons and parry the first blows that rained down upon them. Elladan moved to the right, immediately engaging a goblin, while Legolas ran straight towards the sentinel that was crying out to him, yet to get to the tree he had to cross the entire camp, and well he would know that there were crossbows amongst the orcish weapons.
Working up his speed, he placed his palms upon the muddy floor and deftly flipped forwards three times, before changing his movement less he be targeted. Twisting and then somersaulting, he finally reached the tree, the metal tip of a short sword piercing the orc's throat and running through its neck with a sickening crunch. Yanking it back out he spared a moment to place his palm against the bark, before turning to parry the swipe of a scimitar that sliced through the air before his face. The claw that wielded it soon fell to the forest floor, its owner roaring in pain and wrath, before a wet gurgle ended the painful noise.
Stabbing backwards, he gutted another, and then hauled his left knife over his head and swivelled it around him, gaining himself some space from the encroaching enemy, for he was alone after his desperate dash to the trees, although still within eyesight of Glorfindel and Elladan.
The commander signalled for the archers to descend, and with a cheer, they ran for their quarry. Soon enough, the group was slowly coming together, although truth be told, even had they wanted to, they would not have been able to get anywhere near Legolas, for his swords whirled around him, slicing here and there but never stopping as he flipped them here and there, distracting, confusing, executing so fast the orcs had no time to think.
The last orc fell to the forest floor and Legolas stood over it, swords poised behind him should he need to finish it off, but it had been dead before it fell and so, he slowly relaxed his stance and gave one, last look of utter hatred at his enemy before turning to the sentinel and smiling softly, and then nodding almost imperceptibly.
Glorfindel wondered how he did that, for his face had been twisted in an expression of intense hatred, an expression that was both terrifying and unnerving, and then his face had softened and smiled in blissful joy. He was night and day, dark and light, young, and yet inexplicably old, mused the commander.
"Clean up," shouted Glorfindel, snapping himself out of his own musings, wiping off his sword and sheathing it and then stretching his senses out in search of any further danger, but he felt none and so he joined the others as they piled the carcasses and burned them. There was an odd silence as they did so and the commander felt the strange undercurrents between the Silvan and Noldorin elves, even between Elladan and Legolas. It was the first time they had fought together, indeed Glorfindel had never seen him in action until now, and truth be told, he knew not what to say. He knew the boy would be good, but what he had seen today was beyond the ordinary; it had seemed almost impossible for one so young and only then did Glorfindel realise, that now, in this very moment, he found himself standing before the greatest warrior he had ever known.
Hours later, when reports had been given and orders issued, when the lords had bathed and changed for dinner, Glorfindel sat together with his guests in the lounge of his personal suite of rooms.
Elrond, Erestor, Handir, Mithrandir, and Legolas sat and savoured the pale sweet wine Glorfiindel had offered them, the tell-tale absence of Legolas' head dress bringing a smirk to Mithrandir's weathered face.
"You have quite the issue with jewellery, lad," chuckled Mithrandir, and Legolas looked at him in misery.
"You have no idea, Mithrandir. I am not a prince, I am not even a lord save because my father has decreed it!" he exclaimed.
Handir sat forward, his own face somewhat peeved but for different reasons. "What is it you think a 'lord' is, Legolas, if not a political position?"
"Lords are born into high families, I was not," he answered curtly.
"That you were not brought up there is true, but that changes nothing. You are of that family, you cannot change that."
"No, no I cannot," admitted Legolas in defeat. "But that does not make it any easier for me to accept, Handir. I am a simple Silvan, born into a humble family. That is the education I have received and to wear a - a crown! -" he almost whined, "I feel ridiculous…" he trailed off.
Elrond spoke then, his voice somewhat ironic. "Strange then, that a humble Silvan, born of a h
umble family, should be chosen as a Protege to a Vala…. don't you think? Is that not recognition enough for a lordship?" he asked rhetorically.
Legolas looked to the floor, for said like that it did make sense, and he said as much.
"Perhaps, my Lord. It is just - strange and - unnerving to suddenly be deserving of things that others are not. These clothes, the fine metal, all these pretty things that so many do not have, will never have."
"You have never questioned lordship or rank before, only now when you have it. Does that not tell you something, Legolas?" asked Erestor.
Again, Legolas held his silence, for of all the reasons he had heard this evening, this was perhaps the most convincing. He was not being congruent with himself.
Glorfindel, realising Legolas would speak no more of it, picked up his wine and gestured to the table that had been prepared upon the veranda. "There is nothing like an invigorating battle to work up an appetite, right Legolas?" he asked jovially and Legolas smiled gratefully at the change of subject.
"Or," interjected Elladan, "a little gymnastics…" he trailed off with a sly smirk.
"Yes, both those things are true," said Legolas in mirth, "although it was not great battle. They were caught unawares and in insufficient numbers," he said as he took his napkin and placed it over his lap.
"Indeed, Legolas here could have taken them all on single handedly," said Glorfindel lightly, enough to draw Elrond's attention.
"You have taught him well," said the Lord, his eyes lingering on his friend and commander.
"Be that as it may," continued Glorfindel cheerily, "he was already better than any warrior I have ever known, even before his first lesson with me."
Elrond scowled and Mithrandir's eyes sharpened at the sweeping statement that had been uttered so lightly, as if he spoke of the weather.
But before any of them could question him, the doors opened and the servants set the plates of food upon the table, bowing before they left the lords once more to their repast.
"He is ready for the test of short sword master," said Glorfindel past a flakey cheese pastry.
Legolas almost choked on his wine, having had the misfortune of swallowing while Glorfindel spoke, and Handir's eyebrows rose to his hairline.
"So soon?" asked the prince incredulously.
"Yes," was the flat reply. "He is already better than our short sword master instructor, it makes no sense to wait. Handir, can you procure us with the Silvan designs for these master decorations?"
"Of course, Glorfindel. I will document myself tomorrow morning. When is the test?" he asked, a slight smile pulling on his lips now as he glanced at Legolas."
"Tomorrow, before the evening meal. Lord Elrond, will you sign as witness?" asked Glorfindel.
"Of course, if it pleases Legolas," he added.
Legolas, who had been staring at the plate below him, turned his head to Elrond, and then glanced at them all. His face slowly lighting up into a deep and beautiful smile, his eyes sparkling with joy and pride. All thoughts of absurd protocol now completely forgotten as the satisfying feel of success settled upon him.
"I do not know what to say…" he whispered, and Glorfindel smiled back at him, for the child's beauty had always succeeded in melting his heart. He was strong and yet so vulnerable, proud and yet so unsure of his own potential. He possessed a natural empathy that drew one in, that fascinated any who took the time to look into his eyes. It ensnared, trapped you so that even if one wished it, could not forget him.
"Fight like there is no tomorrow, Legolas, earn that decoration and place it under the one you already bear," said Glorfindel "There will be more to add soon enough but for now," he paused and then smiled mischievously, "give us a good show," he said, staring at Legolas as he popped a breaded mushroom into his mouth.
Legolas' tentative smile turned wicked and he smiled back in silence. Surprisingly, it was Handir that spoke first.
"Well this will be interesting!" he exclaimed. "Who will he confront?" asked the Sindarin prince.
"Our short-sword master, Dolgaden. The other masters will judge his performance after the routine and then it will be decided."
"How many pass the first time?" asked Handir.
"Three out of ten. The rest may pass after one or two additional years."
Handir turned to his brother and smiled, his eyes searching the smiling, shining face.
"I am proud of you…"
"Lord Erthoron. King Thranduil and this council will now hear your petition," exclaimed Aradan as he yielded the floor to the forest's spokesman, who rose and strode purposefully into the centre of the semi-circle that formed Thranduil's council hall.
"My lords," he began, his face set in a stern expression as his eyes swept over the entire council, including the Sindarin purists.
"The forest requests its own military leader. We need a commander to coordinate your efforts between the villages, to hold the southernmost borders so that our foresters have time to recuperate the sickening trees. We need this leader to fight for us, to protect our people and our crops, to protect the very land you rule over. He needs to be an excellent warrior and leader, one that can inspire our Silvan lads, truly understand our people. The forest demands its warlord of old, and he must be Silvan…" he said finally, his face set in determination and resolve.
"Why must he be Silvan?" asked a Sindarin lord, after a moment of surprised silence.
"Why must he not?" asked Erthoron pointedly, saying no more so as not to draw out another absurd conversation.
"Enlighten us, Lord Erthoron," asked the king, his voice momentarily startling the council members.
"He would be our warlord, the one the Silvans had before the Sindar came to us. He would answer to the king, of course, but he must be free to travel where he will. He must not be called upon for anything other than his purpose in the forests, must not be distracted from his duty to it."
"You suggest the king cannot deploy this warrior as he will, where he sees fit, for if he is so fine a fighter, should he not be expected to fight for all of us, not just the Silvans? Or do you fall into your own trap, Lord Erthoron, where it is the Silvan people who will dominate?" asked Draugole pointedly.
Thranduil considered that point, for against all odds, Draugole was right.
"Nay I do not say that. I say we use our common sense, and common sense dictates the forest has a specialised commander. It is painfully obvious that this is not the case now, and though I do not wish to undermine Commander Celegon, I believe he does not have the resources to successfully administrate the more conflictive areas."
"But will this not lead to a schism of sorts?" asked another Sindarin councillor. "We would have a predominantly Sindarin army on the one hand, and a wholly Silvan army on the other. I fail to see how this will solve our inter-racial problems," he said worriedly.
"I do not propose this new warlord recruit solely Silvan warriors, my Lord. I would have him recruit the best. Indeed I would see Commander Celegon seek for equality amongst his captains. If we both work under this premise, we will have achieved much this day."
Silence ensued, before Lord Aradan stood once more.
"The debate is now open," he proclaimed, and with those simple words, chaos erupted in Thranduil's council halls.
The warrior stood in black breaches, over which a leather skirt hung lower at the front and back, the slits at the side reaching the top of his hips. A strong belt wrapped around his trim waist and from there upwards, there was nothing but pale, shining skin, stretched tightly over rippling muscle. The faint reminder of a battle with wargs decorated his chest and shoulder, nothing now but soft pink lines that were slowly fading to white.
His eyes were closed and his breathing slow and measured. His hair sat high upon his crown, a thin river left free to run down his back in the form of a plait, a Sindarin plait of warriorhood, playing tentatively with the Silvan braids at his temples.
In each hand, was a short sword of simple design. But
someone had taken the time to polish the metal until it scintillated under the slowly waning afternoon sun. Upon his right bicep, a thin metal band snaked around the taut muscle, proclaiming the warrior a master archer of Greenwood the Great and who knew, perhaps soon, another would sit under it.
Before him stood a similarly clad warrior with hair as black as night. His grey eyes were open and appraising as he waited for the time in which he would call on the warrior to prove his skill with the metal in his hands.
Around the two warriors stood the witnesses, and behind them, a veritable sea of warriors that had come to watch the event.
Handir stood tall, with Lainion at his shoulder. Elrond stood together with Erestor in rich robes of blue and grey and Glorfindel stood in his ceremonial robes of blue and burgundy, of mithril mail and heavy velvet, his mighty sword poised at his hip.
To one side of the Commander, stood The Company, their faces grave and intense, their own basic uniforms clean and pressed, their weaponry glinting upon their backs and hips.
Silence, and within the silence a sea of thoughts and emotions. Love, hate, admiration, jealousy, desire - but there was one thing that united them all - respect.
With a noisy intake of breath, Dolgaden took up his ready stance, watching as Legolas opened is stunning green eyes and did likewise, slowly and measured, powerful and menacing.
For the next few minutes, the warriors moved from one stance to the other, slowly and precisely, their blades within inches of each other but never touching. The only noise was of their heavy breathing and the swish of heavy metal as it was pushed through the still air.
In spite of the exceptional skill of these two warriors, and the impressive spectacle they provided, not one sound came from the onlookers for thus it had been explained previously. The slightest of noises could ruin the concentration of a warrior and this moment, was for excelling, under optimum conditions.
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