And the Winner Is...

Me!

Once more I've been fortunate enough to win the Teitho Challenge, a monthly Fan Fiction competition. Now, this month there were only six entries, and the prize is just the honour of the '1st Place' next to your name, but I was still very pleased to win. The category this month was 'an Unexpected Adventure'.

With copious apologies to my friend S who (often quite rightly) complains about the names used in fantasy stories.  Not a lot I can do when so many of the names are canonical, and when you have to stick to the languages used in the stories, but... sorry, S.

So, as ever...

This is a work of fiction, a tribute to the works of JRR Tolkien. No monies are made from this work, it is intended for entertainment only and no copyright infringement intended...

‘How I Met Your Mother…’

Summary: The Night of the Names is a special Silvan tradition. One year, during the observances, Thranduil tells Legolas a story of long ago…

It was Yule, the shortest night of the year, the Night of the Names in Mirkwood.

Throughout the forest, the Silvan population was gathering, for this was the one night, according to their beliefs, when they could speak the names of their honoured dead without disturbing the fëar of their lost loved ones.

Thranduil the Elvenking, genial autocrat and gracious ruler of the Woodland Realm, though himself Sindar, kept the tradition, too, for his long-dead and much-beloved consort had been Silvan, and while it often pained him not to say her name, still, he would say to Legolas, your mother, and over the long years since he had lost her, he had come to value the opportunity to honour her memory on the longest night of the year.

It was his own edict that none be alone on the Night of the Names, lest the sadness be too much to bear, and he had already attended the public observances, so now he sat in his private chambers, the starlight gemstone of white fire glittering and flashing on its stand, and waited for his son to arrive.

While he waited, he rested his gaze on the diamond sparkling and refracting, and his eyes glittered briefly as he remembered the night he had selected the gem from his store and cleansed it with water, and with salt, before dedicating it to his dead love.  He had spoken all his memories of her into it, and Legolas, in turn, had had recorded his own thoughts and memories...  all her Silvan kin, all of his subjects who had loved and honoured her, they, too spoke their recollections, and finally, when she was laid to rest, her starlight gemstone was put safe also, keeping its remembrances stored for moments, nights such as this.

Those outside the forest knew nothing of the rituals and traditions of the Silvans.  They considered Thranduil avaricious, covetous, not realising the king wanted the stones not for their worth, but for their value. For as a repository of the past and a source of future comfort, the white gems and soft pearls that Thranduil so desired were utterly beyond price.

A knock at the outer doors of his chambers heralded the arrival of his son. He poured rich, ruby Dorwinion into two goblets and when the servant announced Legolas, he waved an idle hand.

‘Thank you. Leave us, you will not be wanted again tonight.  May your observances bring you only joy.’

The servant bowed and left.

‘Good evening, ion-nin.’ Thranduil handed out the Dorwinion.

‘Adar.’

They settled themselves in comfortable chairs before Thranduil raised his goblet and took a sip of wine.

‘I take it you have made your own public observances already?’ he asked.

Legolas nodded. 

‘Yes, Adar.  I joined Commander Govon and the warriors at the barracks’ remembrances.  We honoured those lost at the Battle of the Five Armies… and while I was there, I spared a moment to think of your elk, too…’

Thranduil raised an elegant eyebrow at his son’s attempt at humour.

‘Indeed, he was a good elk and deserves to be counted amongst the warriors; he certainly caught his share of orcs…  and thinking of Bright Hart puts me in mind of our elk-tamers, which is fitting as tonight I want to speak of your mother, Legolas…  I do not speak of her often enough, I know.’

‘She was one of the elk tamers, of course.’

‘The Royal Elk-tamers, as my father Oropher called them.  She was well named, having a fiery gleam in her eyes... Baralinith...!  And such eyes! That pale blue, sprinkled with a freckling of gold so that I was never sure if they were blue, or green, or silver grey… but anger her, and you would know fire, there…’

Thranduil smiled at some secret memory, and sipped at his Dorwinion before continuing.

‘I remember the morning of the day we met, I was in yet another tedious audience with my father.  I was perhaps in my  fourteenth decade, certainly no longer an elfling, but not quite at my full stature, and the last thing I wanted, on that bright day just before the New Year festivals, was to be trammelled up in the Hall of Audience listening to the chief Royal Elk-tamer complaining that elves had been seen in the buffer zone between the elk-tamers’ reserved territories and the wider forest , and what to do with these elves as punishment, or discouragement… ? I stopped listening as I realised it was not, as was popularly believed, forbidden to be in the buffer zone itself, but only to shoot a bow there, and had I not been so bored, it would never have occurred to me to attempt an exploration of this illicit, almost forbidden territory…’

%%%%%%%%%

Thranduil Oropherion escaped the Hall of Audience with relief.  If he ever became king, he was going to do things differently, he decided…. Not that he want to rule, his father was superb in the role, loved, respected and feared in exactly the right measure by his subjects…  But the state meetings and the private and public audiences seemed to go on forever; it was no wonder his father was sometimes stern of face…

He hurried back to his rooms and changed into dark leggings and tunic, the better to blend in amongst the colours of the forest. He was much too blond, of course, but his moss-green cloak had a hood he could use to hide his pale hair when the time came.

Slinging a bow and a quiver of arrows across his back, he inserted a long-bladed knife into the sheath at his side.  A quick trip to the kitchens to beg some bread and cheese from the cooks and to stow a filled water flask, and he was off into the forest, sliding unseen between the trees, heading towards the enticing, unknown acres of the Royal Elk-tamers’ territory.

There was a line of silver birch marking the edge of the buffer zone, the limit of what most folk believed was the boundary of the elk-tamers’ domain.  Now, of course, Thranduil knew otherwise, and so he fixed his eyes on a magnificent oak, one he had often seen from afar and longed to climb.

He made his way up towards the canopy, noting where strong side branches leapt vigorously away from the stalwart trunk, enjoying the challenge of the tree… yes, a climb worth waiting for.  Not too difficult – in fact, the oak made all easy and he relaxed into the rhythm of his upwards movement.

The bright green of young leaves was host to a myriad species of insect and invertebrate, and 

Thranduil could sense the life surging all around him. Selecting a vantage point, he settled with care, looking out onto the forbidden real-within-a-realm which began on the far side of a wide brook twining some small way from the foot of the oak.

The prince stretched out on his belly along his chosen bough and began to really sink into the landscape, absorbing the view even as the forest accepted and absorbed him.

Time passed, maybe as much as an hour, while Thranduil drifted with the life of the tree, soaking it up, drinking it in.

And then…

He became aware of a difference, a new, vital energy that brought him back to focus all his attention across the stream, the direction of this new vitality.

Slowly, proudly, a single white hart advanced into a clearing.

Thranduil, downwind, and far enough away not to be perceived, held his breath anyway.

The coat of the beast gleamed silver in the sunlight.  Buds of nascent antlers, velvet-covered, pushed out from its head; it would be a youngster, he thought, a yearling to judge from its height and build.

A beautiful creature, strong and delicate, already its shoulders would be as high as Thranduil’s own, and when it reached full stature it would be magnificent.

If it lived long enough, of course.

Granted, it was presently on safe ground.  But that did not protect it from the usual dangers of the forest, of course, and what if it strayed? What if it crossed the safe boundaries, to be prey to any passing hunter in the forest?

Thranduil became acutely aware of the bow and quiver at his back.

Not that he had come out to hunt for venison.

Not that he would dream of trying to shoot this wondrous, luminous creature.

Not that he would dare the elk-tamers’ wrath.

...Not that he would hit the creature, anyway.

He sighed.

Thranduil Oropherion, already expert – deadly, in fact, with any edged weapon, had heard it said he would not be able to hit the palace doors with an arrow, were he standing within arm’s reach and holding the arrow in his hand.

So… it would not hurt, then, just to nock an arrow and squint along the sights… would it…?

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Thranduil paused in his story to top up his glass with more Dorwinion.

‘Adar! You didn’t?’ Legolas asked, accepting a refill of the dark, red wine.

‘Oh, you know what they say, ion-nin! The safest place to be when I have a bow in my hand is directly in front of the target… of course I did not shoot, Legolas!’

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

He would never be able to hit the creature. And even if he could, why would he wish to? He was not hungry, it was not his enemy.

Preparing to re-sling his bow at his back, Thranduil heard a hiss from behind him.

‘Hold where you are or I will inflict such pain on you that you will never raise a bow without remembering it!’

That there was a voice at all was a shock; that it was female, and venomous, was an added surprise.  

Thranduil stilled, and spoke as softly and calmly as he could.

‘I was about to stow my gear in any case; I had no intention of...’

‘That’s what they all say!  Very well. With care – take the arrow and pass it back to me.’

‘But... Oh, very well.’  Thranduil felt the tug on the shaft of the arrow and released his hold.

‘Good.  And now stow your bow.’

Obligingly, the prince slipped the bow into place across his back.

‘Now, down from the tree.  And bear in mind, I have your arrow in my hand and remarkably swift 

reflexes.’

‘But I have done nothing!’ Thranduil protested.

‘You are trespassing.  This land is reserved for the elk-tamers...’

‘No, it is not! Your lands begin at the brook; this is a neutral zone...’

‘Where you may walk, but not shoot. And you had an arrow nocked and your eye on a hart I have been gentling from birth.’

‘But I was not going to shoot!’

‘Down from the tree, now!’

Thranduil sighed and began his descent, the elk-tamer hissing warnings as he went.  Finally he reached the ground and had a chance to properly look at his captor.

She was his height, almost, but not his age, still having a softness, a roundness to her features that suggest she was not long an adult.  Her hair was more tawny than usual amongst the Silvans, and was gathered into two bunched braids at either side of her head that added to the illusion of immaturity, and did not suit her. Her eyes were a strange mixture of blue and silver but speckled with glints of gold.

And fierce.  Very, very fierce.

Her own inspecting look was contemptuous, so he ignored it and carried on with his own perusal.

Those braids really were bordering on ridiculous!  The lightness of hair tone suggested some Sindar blood mingling with the wild wood-elf, and she was as fair of face and form as most elves, he supposed, marred, perhaps by the disdain of her expression but balanced by the fiery gleam of her gaze.

‘And so, for trespassing and drawing on my hart, you are my prisoner for the day. Your freedom is forfeit.’

Too late Thranduil remembered the morning’s audience but prepared to argue.

‘It was my understanding that the Royal Elk-tamers were only supposed to be educating those they find trespassing...’

‘I intend to teach you a lesson, certainly.  First, we’re going to cross the stream.’

‘So that you can legitimise your actions? I do not think so...’

‘Move, will you?’

‘Do you know who I am?’  Thranduil decided that now would probably be a good time to play the Royalty card.  ‘I am Thranduil Oropherion.’

The elk-tamer looked him up and down and gave a little, theatrical gasp.

‘I am so sorry, ernilen!’ she said with a deep and mocking curtsey.  ‘Move, your highness. Please.’

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

‘And that was it; love at first sight!’ Legolas exclaimed.  ‘You were entranced!’

His father quirked an eyebrow.

‘Hardly, ion-nin.  I was enraged.  But I decided to go along with her.  Besides, it was not every day 

one got an invitation – however brusque – to visit the elk-tamers’ acres...’

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

‘There are stepping stones slightly to the left,’ the elk-tamer said. ‘Cross there – and slowly.  The hart should not startle. Well? Why do you tarry?’

Thranduil had hesitated because the elleth was doing something absurd with her braids, twisting them so that they stood up from her head. He assumed there must be some manner of hidden structure inside the braidwork to permit this, but he could not fathom why she would do such a thing.

‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘I beg pardon, but...’

‘It mimics the antlers.’

‘But the hart’s own are only just budding; surely...?’

‘The crossing. Keep your voice low, if you must speak, highness, and slow.’

‘My name is Thranduil, if you would deign to use it.’

‘Baralinith.  The hart likes dried blackberries and strawberries. I call him Urulosson... It means Snow 

Fire...’

‘In what language, precisely?’

Baralinith smiled.

‘The first two components of the name are Quenya, the suffix Sindarin. It is how we keep track of the lineage of the herd.’

‘But... it should be Fire Snow...’

‘It sounds better inverted.’

‘It would sound better yet in Sindarin...’

‘But the breeders would be confused. He is used to it, too.  There is a glade where I feed him.  

Continue to the left and stop near the silver birch. He should follow us there.’ She looked him over again.  ‘I hope you won’t frighten him off.’

‘Then should you not lead, so that he sees your ... ah... familiar antlers first?’

‘Yes... but can I trust you not to try to escape? For should you run away, you would startle him and my entire day will have been wasted...’

‘I give you my word; come, you know my name, you know who to complain to should I do so. Besides, to be this close to a wild elk...’

‘Half-wild; he has been feeding from my hand for many months now,’ she corrected, and moved to the fore, leading the way through the trees towards the silver birch she had mentioned.  A rock sat embedded in the ground some small way from the tree and into its concave top Baralinith placed one or two morsels of dried fruit.

Stepping back two or three paces, she glanced at where Thranduil waited in the lee of the silver birch.

‘Stay there, Thranduil.  He should come when I call.’

She made a deep sort of chucking sound in her throat and waited.

Moments only passed before the undergrowth parted with a soft rustle and a bright head emerged. 

The young hart slowly left cover and stepped lightly across the glade, pausing to look around and scent the air, lifting his delicate pale head, approaching the stone with cautious poise to lower his muzzle to take the treats.

While the hart was eating, Baralinith took another handful of dried fruits from her tunic and passed some to Thranduil in silence.  When Urulosson lifted his head, the elk-tamer extended her hand to reveal the dried strawberry lying on her palm.  Advancing, the hart took the morsel between soft lips and stood while Baralinith scratched behind his ear. She began murmuring softly to the animal, doling out more treats for a moment or two, gradually increasing the volume of her voice and, while keeping the tone soothing, addressed Thranduil, still waiting near the silver birch.

‘And now is a good time for you to step forward gently and lightly and pause there, that’s it... a moment longer...  another step, slowly extend your hand with the fruit flat on your palm as you would to a horse... there... and another and I can see your hand and so can Urulosson...  see, my dear pale one? There is a treat for you... and if you will keep him entertained with treats, we have been doing halter work lately, and so now I will find the headstall and begin to put it on... there we are...’

Working with deft delicacy, Baralinith slipped the halter around Urulosson’s head and fastened it at cheek and muzzle.  The elk paused and tossed his head at the interruption to his snacking, and she hastened to proffer another treat.  Thranduil almost jumped when her fingers brushed his as she fed the hart, but the contact was brief and she returned to the business of securing the halter as if she hadn’t noticed.

‘And now the headstall is on, I make my tone a little brisker and brighter so he knows it is time to work, so the last of the blackberries in your pocket, please.’

‘But he has dribbled on them...’

‘One of the perils of gentling an elk – wrap them in a leaf or such, your pocket will survive.’  

Baralinith secured a lead rope to the headstall.  ‘There, pretty one. We shall go for a walk now, yes? You can walk the other side of me, prince, if we flank, he may be nervous.  Come.  There is a place where I wish to train him a little more; it is not far.’

They walked for maybe an hour, heading deeper into the forest. This region was one Thranduil had never seen before, and although it was still Greenwood the Great, it felt alien and mystical.

The trees here were younger, lighter, allowing enough brightness to dapple through the canopy to support a thick understory of fern and brush and shrub, ideal cover for the herds of elk.  Stands of rowan, of silver birch, of beech mingled with wild cherry and crab apple while brambles sent out arcs of spiny shoots with exuberant vigour.

They walked in silence but for Baralinith’s murmurs to the hart, and at first it did not seem like anything but the restrained quiet of strangers, but soon it mutated into to something more charged, the air feeling suddenly thick and close. Thranduil felt he had to break the silence before something happened.

‘How long have you been an elk-tamer?’ he asked abruptly.

The suddenness of his question startled both elk and tamer, and it took Baralinith a moment to get 

Urulosson calm again.

‘All my life,’ she said.  ‘It is something we are born into.  How long have you been a prince?’

Thranduil felt his face relaxing into a near-smile.

‘All my life,’ he said.  ‘It is something I was born into...  I think, sometimes, I would rather be an elk-tamer...’

‘Ah, but then you would have insufferable officials to deal with, demanding to know when the king’s next elk will be ready, or trespassers and poachers culling your herd before its time...’

‘Whereas I have to sit in on insufferable meetings while officials discuss boundaries with the elk-tamers... Does it take long, to train an elk?’

‘Training comes after taming.  We each are assigned a hind, whom we befriend.  By the time she is old enough to breed, she has no fear of us, so when she gives birth, we may begin almost immediately to gentle it, to make it know us.  So Urulosson is in my care, and it is the first time one of my hinds has borne a hart. Hinds are not trained for riding, so I feel especially fortunate to have so beautiful, so special a creature in my hands.’  She turned to fix her exotic, baleful eyes on him.  

‘Imagine, if you will, how ice clutched my heart when I saw you nock your arrow...’

Thranduil dropped his head to his chest.

‘Forgive me; I really did have no intention of shooting; I am terrible with a bow, I am far better with a sword.  Urulosson was never in any danger from me... but, no, I would not like it if someone drew on one of my friends...’

‘Well, perhaps I will excuse you.  And perhaps you do not need the lesson I was planning for you. Perhaps you should simply return to your part of the forest and leave me to mine.’

But perversely, Thranduil did not want to be excused.

‘Shall we assume I am incorrigible and need the lesson drumming home? I am intrigued by you... you elk-tamers, that is, and your lives, and your forest lands.’

Baralinith glanced at him before her head away to focus on Urulosson.

‘Here,’ she said.  ‘You take the loose end of the rope, and presently, you shall lead him.’

‘May I really?’

‘Yes, I think so.  See?  He is relaxed and confident with us now. Slide your hand up the rope so that you are holding near the headstall...  your other hand lower...’

Baralinith guided his hands up the twisted rope to a position near the elk’s face and stepped away, coming to Thranduil’s other side and herself catching the very end of the rope.

‘Just in case he decides to take exception to you,’ she said.  ‘But... you have a very calm way with you, for a prince.’

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

‘My thanks,’ he said.  ‘How old must the elk be before he could be ridden?’

‘He is old enough now – the elk here are strong from a young age – and I have begun already, acclimating him to cloth and saddle and light burdens.  But never yet has he carried a living creature...’

A certain wistfulness prompted Thranduil to turn to her with a smile.

‘Why not?’

‘It would require someone to hold him steady...’

‘I am here.  Would you like to try?’

‘I really ought not...’

‘Again, I ask, why not...?’

‘Because it is usual for the person holding the elk to know what they are doing...’

‘I’ve held Adar’s elk for him on occasion; does that count?’

Baralinith paused for a moment, staring at him, her eyes gleaming with glints of flame, her mouth lifting in a glorious smile.

‘Shall we say yes, yes it does?’

Thranduil laughed and halted, burying his fingers into Urulosson’s bright, white coat and scratching the thick fur behind the hart’s ear.

‘That’s right, Thranduil, just steady him for me...’

Baralinith stroked Urulosson’s neck, working down from head to shoulders, running her hands over his hide until she was standing at his side.

‘Can you swap hands now with the rope and with your free hand stroke down his neck, just to keep the motion going?’

‘Like so?’

‘Perfect.’

Running her hands across the hart’s back now, Baralinith stroked down his sides, leaning across  and beginning to rest just a little of her weight on the animal’s back. After a few moments of this, murmuring reassurance, she gave a little jump to lie across his back. Urulosson shifted his feet, but Thranduil steadied his head and Baralinith slid round to finish astride the hart, keeping low over his neck and stroking and scratching the fine fur.

‘Another blackberry would be a good idea now,’ she said. ‘A reward for standing for me.’

Thranduil nodded and found a treat for the elk, who continued to move restlessly, but his head was held firmly and the gentle reassurances of Baralinith stopped him from panic.

‘There... this is wonderful!  He is doing really well...’

‘Does it not worry you to make such a pronouncement? Tempting fate, perhaps?’

‘Why, what could possibly go wrong?’

All sound in the forest ceased abruptly. Urulosson rolled his eyes and snorted, restive.  Suddenly the noise of a great horn sounded out, braying through the forest, echoed by a myriad other lesser horns.  The hart bellowed and plunged, dragging at Thranduil while Baralinith gave a cry and locked her arms around the creature’s neck. Faced with the choice of letting go and abandoning Baralinith and Urulosson, or allowing the beast his head and running with him, Thranduil took a double-handed grip on the lead rope, and prepared for the run of his life.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

The king paused to sip at his wine, waving the goblet towards the glittering diamond.

‘It is true that when I set out, I had been seeking adventure,’ Thranduil said.  ‘But the most I had hoped for was a glimpse of forbidden territory.  I did not imagine I would be running full-pelt through the forest, hanging on to the harness of a barely-tame elk and with a wild elk-tamer also hanging on to that same elk beside me...’

Legolas laughed.

‘I cannot picture it, I am sorry, Adar.  It sounds a little... undignified...’

‘Well, in those days I did not have to be dignified all the time... and it was...’  Thranduil broke off, shaking his head as he sipped at the blood-ruby wine in his goblet.  ‘It was incredible.  The sound of the horns... I had never, have never since heard their like...  the sound thrilled through me, through the forest, and that was the first time, the very first, ion-nin, that I connected with the Greenwood in all its mystery... I was no longer Thranduil, having a somewhat hapless adventure with an elk and its handler, I was the forest, I was each and every tree and shrub and creature therein, I was Urulosson and I felt his fear and frantic need to run and I knew the forest as if I were he... and I locked eyes with Baralinith, and it was as if I saw right down into her fëa, and that, that was the moment that I knew...’

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Thranduil trembled, or Urulosson trembled, he was not sure which.  He found his eyes fixed on Baralinith’s liquid glittering gaze.

‘Hold on,’ he said as the horn sounded again, and Urulosson bellowed and plunged away.

And Thranduil ran.

It felt terrifying, desperate and liberating as his senses expanded to encompass the whole of the Greenwood, so that he knew the secret lives of the trees, the private speech of the land, but he had no time for that, he had to run, and keep running, and bring Urulosson and Baralinith to safety away from the triumph of the horns.

The forest sped beneath his feet, and he did not know, for certain, if it was he running or Urulosson, two feet or four, hitting the ground at exactly the right spot with each and every stride and the trees blurred past, branches slapping at him, brambles trying to snag and hold, but nothing could prevent him from running, running as if for his life through the green tumble of forest all around...

‘Stop, oh, stop!’

He felt the voice as much as heard it, tasted dread in it, and tried to slow his pace, make the hart ease 

off... but Urulosson, still overwhelmed by the instinct to flee, shied and pulled at the headstall and Thranduil had no choice but to keep running.

‘He is too stressed...’

Stressed. Yes, Thranduil knew that, he could sense the hart’s terror...

If he could sense it, perhaps he could change it?

As he ran, now, he tried to meld more closely with the elk, to send soothing, gentle thoughts to him, trying to imagine and project the soft sensation of calming hands on silver hide, and willed the animal to lose its fear, to relax its pace, and now it began to take effect, so that he was able to slow  himself as Urulosson stopped fleeing and settled to a slower pace, and all the time Thranduil was trying to be calm and easy and unafraid in his mind, to encourage the slowing, the gradual decrease from run to lope, to walk, and all around the swell of the horns surrounding and encompassing them.

And as the elk slowed, so Thranduil was thrown free from the greater life of the forest around him and became aware of himself as an individual again.

‘Thranduil? Are you well?’

No. No, he didn’t think he was.   The sudden disconnection from the immensity of the forest was like a bereavement.   His face stung, he gasped for breath, his legs were shaking and he felt so insignificant...

Baralinith scrambled down from Urulosson’s back and prised the lead rope out of Thranduil’s hands.

‘You sit, rest a moment; I need to keep walking the hart, he’ll take a chill else...’

Dully, her voice penetrated and Thranduil staggered back to lean against a tree, to slide down its trunk. He ached.  The horns sounded in time with the sting and throb of his face.

‘Can I borrow your cloak, do you think?  Thranduil? Your cloak?’

Stirring himself, he struggled out of the cloak which Baralinith spread out over the hart’s back, fastening it in front of the animal’s chest and continued to walk him.

‘Thank you. That was quite a run! We are deep inside the reserve, now, almost at the breeding grounds; when Urulosson took fright, he headed back to where he was born... oh, Valar take those confounded horns! When I find out who is hunting, and here, in my acres...’

Thranduil began to shake, still trying to catch his breath but finding the urge to laugh impossible to resist, especially as the horns chose that moment to fall silent.

‘It is not in the slightest bit funny! It is a grave trespass, there are hinds further in due to give birth...’

‘Your pardon, no, no, not at all funny.’ Thranduil struggled up and reached for his water flask. He offered it first to Baralinith.  ‘What amused me was hearing such dire and dark threats made by your lovely voice...’

‘I have a lovely voice?’ she queried, taking a sip of water and passing the flask back to him.

‘It is one of your more notable charms,’ he said, himself drinking.  ‘Although your eyes are rather compelling, too.  And your hair is... quite a distraction. Should not the elk drink?’

‘When he’s a little cooler.  There is a stream nearby.  Here.’  She reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a piece of cloth.  ‘While you have that water out...’

‘What is this for?’ he asked.

‘Your face,’ she said.  ‘You were plunging through some of the densest undergrowth in the forest, and it has left its mark...’

‘Ah. I thought it stung a little.’ He moistened the cloth and dabbed at his face, disconcerted, but unsurprised, to find blood on the cloth.  ‘My thanks.’

Suddenly the horns sang out again from much nearer and the bushes just down the trail shook and stirred. Urulosson bucked and almost broke free of Baralinith’s grasp but she hardened her grip, and with her other hand drew from inside her garments the arrow she had confiscated from Thranduil earlier.  Surprised, but willing to show support, he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.

‘With your permission?’ he said.

‘Granted.’

‘Although I am not sure what use I will be since I cannot hit a barn door at three paces.’

‘The hunters won’t know that though, will they?’

Baralinith moved to stand in front of Urulosson; Thranduil moved to stand in front of Baralinith.

The bushes parted and two hounds emerged. Unlike any Thranduil had seen before, they were sleek and lean and long in limb and face.  They did not look capable of tackling prey of any  real size, so slight and insubstantial did they seem,  with their fragile legs and curved ribcages; there was no weight to them, no sense of menace... still, they were hounds, hunters’ beasts, and he did not lower his bow yet.  One dog was blacker than obsidian, the other whiter than milk and they approached with a light, swaying gait that looked like dancing.

‘Stay!’ Baralinith said firmly and to Thranduil’s astonishment, the animals stopped and slunk down onto their bellies.

Hoofbeats, then, slow and measured and a great horse stepped into the clearing behind the dogs.

The horse was whiter than the pale hound, a glimmer of starlight in its coat and it was richly caparisoned. On its back was a figure to take the breath away; tall and broad and powerful with long hair darker than the black hound, a strong and wise face like an elf’s, but not at all elven...  stern eyes that still seemed wise, and at his side a huge horn was suspended from his belt.    As he moved, it was as if light spilled out of the edges of him, a white, bright shadow.  He looked down on Thranduil and Baralinith and addressed them.

‘Who are you children to command my hounds thusly?’

Baralinith swallowed and stepped out from behind Thranduil, the arrow hefted high in her hand.

‘B...  Baralinith, Royal Elk-tamer to King Oropher of Greenwood the Great,’ she announced after a fractional hesitation.  ‘These lands are reserved for the safety of the herds. Hunting is not permitted here.’

From behind the horse and rider, more mounted forms appeared, all equally luminous, none quite as breath-taking. One rode forward and addressed Baralinith.

‘Do you not know to whom you speak?’ he asked. ‘Can it be that you do not know?’

Thranduil decided it was time he joined in.

‘It would make no difference, my lord,’ he said.  ‘She will say exactly the same thing, only a little more politely; believe me, I know.’

‘She would do well to realise that Oromë Araw is not used to taking orders, however politely framed...’

Oromë? The Huntsman of the Valar? Here? In the Greenwood?

Thranduil gulped and drew closer to Baralinith.

‘Peace, my friend!’ Oromë said to his companion.  ‘We have not sojourned here for a long while, after all, and times may have changed... I think, Baralinith, Royal Elk-tamer, that you will find I hunt where I choose.  But I do not come to frighten your little hart.’ Oromë smiled, and it was as if all fear fled away. ‘May I retrieve my hounds now?’

‘Yes, hir-nin,’ Baralinith replied, lowering the arrow.

Oromë whistled a command, and the dogs rose from their crouching and trotted back to him.

‘I do not hunt for venison,’ he said.  ‘It is the enemies of Morgoth I pursue... you would do well to tell your king we have this day made several kills of the spawn of Ungoliant... his majesty may have a problem on his hands in times to come.’

‘Thank you, my lord Oromë,’ Thranduil said, finally lowering his bow, ‘I will pass that on.'

'If I may, hir-nin,’ Baralinith interjected, ‘it should be noted that my poor hart here did not know you were not hunting venison, and so he has near run his heart out...'

'Indeed? Then you must let us make amends.  Lauretindor, see what may be done.'

'Yes, my lord.'

An elf with hair more golden than sunlight dismounted and came forward.

'By your leave, my lady?'

Baralinith nodded, and brought Urulosson forward, Thranduil standing aside.  He watched as the stranger stroked the hart's muzzle, speaking softly to him in a language that should have been familiar, and yet wasn’t.

Lauretindor looked into each bright eye, still murmuring.  He ran his hands down the pale neck, smoothed the shoulder beneath the covering cloak. 

'He will be fine,' he said reassuringly, looking into Baralinith's eyes in a way Thranduil really did not like.  'I have calmed him, and his fear is stilled.  Give him to drink, when you can.'

'Yes, lord, I shall.  But I must see your company off my lands, first.'

Oromë laughed.

'Tenacious, are you not?  One day, you might join my host, Baralinith.  Lauretindor already looks favourably on you...'

'My lord!' Lauretindor protested, swinging back up into the saddle.  ‘The lady’s eyes favour another, can you not see that?’

'Ah, well.  Next life, then.   As for your young stag there, Baralinith, you had better keep him.'

'I am an elk tamer, lord, not an elk owner! Besides, he is not yours to bestow!'

Oromë laughed again.  'Child, I did not mean the elk; I meant the ellon; he has seen into your soul and a part of him is trapped there; only your death will free him.  Cleave to him in this life; in the next, you will ride with us and help Lauretindor succour all the creatures in need of care along the way; he will wait for you.  And in exchange, I promise you this: I will never enter your lands without permission again, agreed?'

Baralinith tilted her head, considering.

'We will see,' she said.  'But for now, my lord, your best way is back the way you came.  Two leagues hence, you will find a line of rowan.  That marks the elk tamers' eastern boundary.'

'Yes, we will see... and you are helpful, indeed! But we ride south and west; we will circle Lothlórien and wind our horns until Cerin Amroth itself shakes!'   He turned to his host.  ‘Be ready! We ride for Lothlórien!’

'Just do not distress any of my pregnant hinds as you leave,’ Baralinith called.  ‘Or there will be 

trouble!'

‰%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Thranduil smiled and tipped his goblet towards the shimmering starlight gemstone in salute.

‘It was almost a year before I saw Baralinith again, and it is not an exaggeration to say I pined...  But on my next begetting day, my father King Oropher led me down to the stables.  I thought we would be going riding together; a whole day with Adar away from the cares of state was a rare treat – but no.  It was to give me a very special gift; my own elk. When Urulosson was brought forward, wearing a jewelled headstall. I was delighted to see him, but even more pleased that Baralinith was leading him.  She stared and said: ‘So you really are Thranduil! I am glad! I didn’t want him going to a stranger!' After that, we were inseparable.’

Thranduil smiled. 

'Urulosson, Baralinith, me.  My father, of course, did not approve an elk-tamer for his son – not even a Royal Elk-tamer – no parent ever really believes anyone is good enough for their elfling – but she won him round with that same combination of fierce, uncompromising dignity and determined politeness that so amused Oromë Araw.   She put her chin in the air and swore never to be my queen, never to pledge herself to me beyond the boundaries of this world.   And when he raised his white gold eyebrow and asked her why not, she said in her next life she was promised to one of the Maiar in return for the safety of the elk preserves, and no less a person than Oromë himself had told her to cleave to me in this world.  After that, there was not a lot my father could say on the matter.’

‘Did not you mind?’ Legolas asked. ‘About Lauretindor?’

‘At the time, no...  Baralinith, being Silvan, was not the sailing type...  and death severs all ties...  But I did not think she would die so soon...’

Thranduil sighed and refilled their goblets. He drank deep, and rose from his seat to go to the starlight gemstone and lift it to the light of a storm lantern on the wall, watching the dance of refraction glittering in its depths.

‘I miss her still, of course, her loss burns me...  But when I think of Baralinith, on nights such as this, should I find myself growing sad, I think of her in her new life, riding with Oromë and calling him to task for overstepping the bounds, and it makes me smile in spite of my loss.’

Thranduil turned the diamond, falling into its beauty.  The silver sparkle had a heart of blue fracturing it, fragments of flecks of gold, like freckles in the depths of Baralinith’s eyes.

‘A tedious meeting... an escape to the woods...  and that, ion-nin, is the story of how I met your mother.’

***

Some translations:

Ernilen: my prince

Ion-nin: my son

Hir-nin: my lord