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Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Feud

www.feud.shadowess.com

By erobey, robey61@yahoo.com

Beta'd by Sarah AK

Disclaimer: The recognised characters and settings used in this fiction were created by JRR Tolkien. The words, other characters, and ideas here surroundihem hem belong to erobey alone. No infringement is intended or monies earned through this work.

Chapter 60: Govadel o Erebor [Council of Erebor]

Not since the Herald of the High King had called for the aid of the Danwaith at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had so many of the Greenwood's elusive, unobtrusive inhabitants collected at the locus of their Council's authority. Long before Thranduil had built his fortress here, Orod Im'elaidh [the Mountain Amid the Trees], brother to Orod Ereb on the plains of Erebor [the Lonely Mountain], had served as the meeting place for the Elders among the forest people. At the feet of the green-skirted peak, the shy Sylvans met whenever troubles befell them.

Whether the trials were as simple to correct as a dispute over where a neighbour might locate a talan or as unfathomable as the Dark origin of Orcs, the forest children had come to regard this site as their seat of wisdom and the centrepoint of their community.

They came now to learn the fate of their champion, for word of the new accusations had raved through the branches like a gale of warning before a storm, not in any agitation of the trees but rather a rush of voices passing the scandalous news from flet to talan. If the claims were true then their Tawarwaith was false and what hope could remain if the defender of the forest could be the bane of their prince? Should the opposite come to light, then what of the heart of their King?

Dissension among the people was widespread for some recalled that until they accepted a King no Wood Elf had gone to war since Denethor and his folk perished in the First Age. Others contended that without the Sindar's wealth no forces could be equipped to hold back the swelling cyst of the Shadow's purulence from the East. Whatever the outcome, the Sylvan folk hoped the Elders would reveal this dissonant chord in the Music of their woodwind world as the counterpoint to a theme of such magnificence that all of Arda, and Eru himself, would turn in wonder to hear the voice of Tawar.

Excepting warriors bound for patrol every Wood Elf was present within the city at dawn's arrival and a great number of them were pressed inside the Council Chamber. So closely were they fitted that dignity and modesty were summarily shoved to the backside of awareness as neighbours stood fronts against backs, shoulders rubbing, and the slightest shift displaced elbows into ribs, heels upon toes, and swaying locks against cheek and chin. Only a small semicircle of open space remained ringing the dais where the relevant parties were collected before the Woodland King.

The heat generated from too many bodies in contact with one another added to the unbearably, albeit predictable, sweltering temperature of the humid air everyone was attempting to breathe. Had the room not been open to the court bey beyond, more than a few eldar would have eventually succumbed to a dwindling supply of oxygen and lost consciousness.

The breezeless atmosphere did little to ease the discomfort of the remainder of the Woodland folk crammed in the surroundings outside the formal hall. The dense earth of the outer courtyard, compacted by centuries of the weightless tread of elven feet, was obscured beneath hundreds of those very feet. The limbs of the surrounding trees were bent with the burden of Eru's Children, sturdy talans threatened to give way, the pathways and the branchways were unpassable, the barracks grounds and the stableyard, all were clogged with the citizenry. Only Ningloriel's walled garden and the Sentinel escaped occupation.

Yet despite this uncountable multitude the forest was utterly quiet.

The invocation was spoken, two in fact. One by Iarwain, traditional and known by rote to all who regularly attended these enclaves, and another by Mithrandir that no one could recall ever having heard before this day. And that was true for there were none among them, neither Sindar, Noldor, or Sylvan, who had ever been to Tirion and listened to the Litany of Iluvatar sung from Mn Eln Eldalië at tindómë. As Gandalf prayed the timeless praises Aiwendil droned a most unsettling chant no one could interpret in tones so deep the vibrations were felt across the skin and in the core of the soul rather than heard within the inner ear.

As the final overtone of this mysterious and foreboding sound died away, the Istari simultaneously thudded the blunt bases of their staffs severely upon the bare stone floor and the hollowed mountain rang with a clear, subterranean echo like the toll of a tremendous bell sounding somewhere in the depths. Silence followed, so complete that the beating of hearts was audible to sensitive elven ears, and all attention fixed upon the Ainur.

Majestic, transcendent, imposing and wise; these humble servants of the Valar were among the mighty upon Arda and thus were they revealed in this moment. To the Wood Elves, who had never seen the Powers, the two appeared glorious and omnipotent.

No longer was Radagast merely a simple charmer of birds clad in rough homespun garb. Instead Aiwendil stood before them transfigured, his mild eye now keen and hawkish, his gnarled fingers as talons sharp and fell, his kindly face bold and cunning as any raptor in flight.

The Grey Wanderer was vanished and in his place they beheld Olórin the disciple of Irmo, a dream-spirit clothed in glowing incalescence instead of drab and misty robes. His hair and beard fell about him like a flow of molten antimony yet to cool, his dark eyes seemed to draw the souls of those that dared gaze therein, and from his hands a fiery haze of his vital essence spilled and coalesced around his shimmering form.

Long tendrils of this visible ether stretched forth searchingly into the room, broke free into curls of glitter and spun away to seek the Tawarwaith, to be assimilated immediately upon touching him.

Then, gusting through the open arches, a sudden draught swirled about the high domed cavern, extinguished the flaming lamps and caught up a sheaf of parchments, dancing them in a whirlwind round the disconcerted elves. A few murmured anxious whispers to each other and one spoke aloud the name Sulimo in dread.

Out over the floodplain of the Anduin, the disk of the sun separ fro from the cold, dark line at the join of earth and air and hung exposed above the rim of Arda, freely shedding her warm, irradiant splendour.

Through a breach in the canopy and into the Chamber of Starlight shot a single slender shaft of rich golden gleam. Arien's finger paused momentarily to point out the Tawarwaith, bathing his simple sugarmgarments in a glow of creamy orange light, passing through his unruly hair until the heavy strands glinted in gilded glory, illuminating the pale skin of his fair visage with a faintly roseate glow.

Then the narrow beam of radiance tapped into a prismatic crystal of calcite and divided, exiting as a truly iridescent rainbow. Anor painted the room in a spectrum of hues seldom seen in nature, so vibrant were the colours, stealing gasps of delight and awe from the assembly before vanishing behind the shadow of the clouds and the leaf-fingered hands of the trees.

Thus was the Council of Erebor begun.

The King presided from his customary place upon the dais. Less than a throne but more than a chair, the seat was crafted of golden oak and carved with the names of all his ancestors, both on his paternal and his maternal sides. The seasoned wood also displayed runes marking spells of power and drafting a future in a scatter of stars adorning the seat's back, the bearings of the constellations at Thranduil's birth.

More than the positions held by the stars visible now, these configurations included the gifts of Varda none could see behind the bright glare of Anor, even in the dark of Ithil's absence in the blackest corner of night's hours. But Thranduil was not impressed with such signs and divinations, and had never cared to ask about the predictions in the patterns.

Yet even the sceptical Sinda Lord could not ignore the dominant presence of the Ainur and the sanction of the Valar they brought to this forum.

Though these were his lands and he the only elven King left on Arda, Thranduil appeared before the gathered folk not in formal state attire but the gear of a warrior prepared to defend his homeland. Chestnut brown were the leggings he wore and his tunic was emerald green, sleeveless over a silk shirt cast in blue as pale as frost, the colours of the Woodland Realm.

Tall leather boots encased his long legs up to the thigh and a jerkin protected his vital organs; the armour much scarred and abused over uncounted sorties against the enemies of his House, both in Beleriand and the Greenwood. About his waist was belted the blade of Dior, a relic for which he had traded with Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, relinquishing much wealth to possess the weapon. Unlike Oropher, Thranduil was a swordsman and scorned the quiver and bow, and other than the deadly antique carried only a curved dagger sheathed where his right hand might easily find it.

No crown adorned his head and his long locks were bound back in the manner of the Sindar rather than the Sylvan elves, gathered in two perfectly equivalent four-part braids that fell over his shoulders and down his back. He did not need finery to proclaim his noble heritage and despite his love for jewels none adorned his person.

The King of the Wood Elves adjusted his posture with regal restraint and gazed upon the crowd, noting where each of the key participants in the day's proceedings was situated, and let his vision linger first upon his illustrious guests.

In an alcove between two pillars were Aragorn and Erestor of Imladris, standing with their backs to the King as they watched and waited upon the Istari's next move. Occasionally one would lean near the other and quietly mumble something in Quenya that they undoubtedly imagined no one here would understand, other than the wizards. They were dressed simply in the rugged clothes they had worn into the realm, though the garments were now clean and neat. Each carried their swords at their sides and rested a hand casually upon the hilt, and the Man had also a leather jerkin with battle scars enough to rival the King's.

Erestor's lengthy ink-black tresses were tamed in Noldor style; two long tendrils on either side of his serious face were wrapped, from cheekbone to an inch above their ends, in the tri-coloured ribbons of Imladris. Upon his back three braids lay thick and heavy against his spine, each tied off with a single ribbon: one of sea-green, one of clear white, and one of darkened red, leaving a thick two-inch tassel below. Though his was so much shorter, resting just below his shoulders, Aragorn's hair was worn exactly the same.

The seneschal's head turned ever to his left. As a father watching over elflings at play in the forest so his attention hovered there. {Or a lover jealously minding his conquest!} Thranduil tracked the line of his sight to the source of this interest and tensed just slightly when the flash of the Tawarwaith's eyes met his for a half second, and the King withdrew from the icy blue rage.

On the opposite side of the room and between equally substantial pillars, Talagan and his lieutenant flanked, but did not touch, the accused. The King allowed his vision to loiter on his captain briefly and then beyond this stalwareseresence. Behind him and packed all the way back against the inner walls were the remainder of the archer's company from Erebor, and indeed all the warriors in the city were jammed along this side of the chamber, and Maltahondo was among them.

{'Maltahondo has had him, too.'} the Noldo's words ran through Thranduil's mind as he raked the guardsman over, wondering if this was true or another of Elrond's lies. The warrior did not know he was being observed for his regard was focused elsewhere, and the Sinda Lord flicked his glance upon the object of this scrutiny and let it stay, for the fallen archer was once more the centre of contemplation. {Truth, then!}

Legolas was aware the guardsman was there; how could he not be? Yet the outcast refused to turn his gaze over his shoulder no matter how strong the sense of the warrior's eyes running over him grew. Instead Legolas kept his sights turned to Fearfaron and Lindalcon where they stood with the Counsellors near the centre of the room, for neither could he bear to look ahead and meet the guilt-laden stare of Erestor.

The clothing Fearfaron had ordered for his foster-son was simply designed but well made, and the kindly craftsman had been surprised when the tailor had volunteered a more expensive fabric and then refused to accept payment. His reasons centred on his daughter's tale of the Battle against the Orcs, for she was a warrior under Talagan's command and also a devotee of Tawar, and fervently believed Legolas was chosen to release the Greenwood from the Shadow.

Thus Legolas faced his fate in soft woollen leggings tinted as black as the Noldo's hair and a short, sleeveless tunic of undyed buckskin. Beneath was a fine linen shirt in blue almost the colour of his eyes, collarless and uncuffed with long sleeves that flared slightly at the wrist. Upon his feet he wore soft leather shoes instead of boots and a black leather belt closed the tunic about his slender waist. As the accused, he was not allowed his weapons.

Legolas had put these garments on with great relief, for he had dreaded to attend the solemn trial in the yellow silk sleeping clothes. He had fought his unruly tangle of a mane into reasonably respectable confinement, gathering up the handfuls of the twisted locks that hung about his face and securing them back with a leather tie. Within a prominent side-lock draped against his chest the eagle's feather proclaimed him a warrior of the wilds, a member of a community these tamer folk could but faintly glimpse.

It was somehow an odd juxtaposition, the comely clothes of elvish design upon the primitive Tawarwaith, a savage incongruously clothed in silk. Thranduil's eyes narrowed as he scanned his disinherited prince. The sense of uneasiness he felt gazing at the figure before him was more than the result of tangled tresses decorated in eagle's plumage. Even if he were arrayed as every other warrior here, hair braided back in traditional format, denuded of the single feather, even then this elf would still stand out among the others, for it was what moved in the depths of his soul that set him apart.

{He does not look like an outcast.} Instead the elf looked as though he had somehow traded in a lesser title and minor office for greater nobility and a place amid heroes and legends. {Something more than the carpenter has adopted him.} He held himself with understated dignity and an intensity of purpose that was at least as uncompromising as Thranduil's.

The Tawarwaith's dilated cobalt eyes pivoted to challenge his examiner; the feä within this resilient and resourceful elda, looking aeons ancient instead of scarcely an Age upon Arda, stared deeply into the King's. Legolas did not avert his gaze from Thranduil; indeed he seemed to be trying to force the Woodland Lord to acknowledge him.

A soft nondescript sort of snort gave the King the excuse he craved to break the defiant, and somehow strangely pleading, glare as he shifted his frowning countenance to the Councillors and found the eldest Elder regarding him with sardonic mirth. Iarwain had noticed with some amusement that it was Thranduil who could not endure the Tawarwaith's scrutiny, rather than the indicted being cowed by the might of the King.

Iarwain stood before the Sinda ruler, first in the ranks of his councillors, imbued with all the status granted by over ten thousand loa of walking the branchways of the Greenwood. He was dressed in elegance by the standards of the Sylvan folk, with formal robes of thick jacquard satin the colour of birch leaves in autumn. A long linen surplice of snowy white was draped about his shoulders and upon this was embroidered a scene depicting his legendary encounter with Oromë at Cuiviénen.

Directly at the Elder's back the remaining five Councillors clustered, dressed less ornately but no less formally than their revered colleague. Upon each of these waited their respective apprentices, excited to be part of such auspicious proceedings while trying not to betray it. Behind and to Iarwain's left were the Istari while Fearfaron and Lindalcon stood upon his right.

The youthful face of Valtamar's son was pale and haggard, and painful to behold was the incongruous mixture of despairing grief upon features yet so fresh with the innocence of childhood. His brown eyes shown no more with the clear brilliance of wonder and delight in all the world offered but held instead a mature awareness of the marring of what was meant to be good and the thwarting of that which began straight and true. His Tolel o Gweth [Coming of Age] might be three years hence by counting, but he had shed the last of his nescience in the early hours of the previous night.

After leaving the nursery with Gwilith, it had required levels of self-control he had not known he possessed to concentrate his attention on his little sister while his heart was wild with worry for Legolas' well-being during the confrontation with Meril. Lindalcon served the child tea and cleaned it up, and when the bath was filled supervised her toilette and washed her hair for her.

Gwilith had recently discovered, upon inquisitive scrutiny of Taurant while Naneth was bathing him, that her body was not the same, and learned that she was inu [female] and Taurant was anu [male]. She had decided to ask Lindalcon for details about the specifics of his physique. Upon realising this caused her big brother some discomfort, she naturally expanded her interrogation with an unending series of 'why's' and a whole roster of elves she wanted categorised by appendages or lack thereof, and the ensuing discussion of gender distracted him for a time.

Then it was bedtime and Gwilith was verily inconsolable that neither Ada nor Nana came to tuck her in, and so settled for Lindalcon, demanding an extra story, three renditions of the Tengwar song, and a peek out the balcony to make sure Itwas was there watching over her home. At last the elfling's eyes sought the inner planes of gentle reverie, which Lindalcon knew were as yet filled only with memories of her waking hours, for but recently had Gwilith reached the age where her eyes remained open during rest.

With the child asleep he could bear the suspense no longer and decided to use Legolas' method of moving unseen through the stronghold, easily discovering the entrance to his sister's escape chute beneath a net net in the bathing room. Legolas' silver lantern in hand, Lindalcon lowered himself into the cramped conduit and edged cautiously along the narrow tube. He came to a connecting tunnel and instantly saw the signs of recent use in the clean track swept through the fine coat of rock dust on the surface, and followed this trail. As he had hoped, the passage brought him to the tiny alcove outside the nursery where the wild archer had awaited his chance to meet the infant prince.

Lindalcon settled himself in the exact same spot and pressed his ear against the heavy leather curtain to learn what was passing within the room. However, it was not the voice of the archer that conversed with his mother, for Legolas had fled the chamber some time ago. Instead, the son of Valtamar overheard the King and his consort discussing the day's events and the repercussions these would cause.

So distraught she had sounded, her words distorted by tears and choked with quiet sobs, and her husband's soothing consolation had underscored every sentence uttered. The sincerity of her grief and fear was appalling in the context of the fabrications she spun, weaving a lace-work curtain of half-truths and insinuations that Thranduil readily filled in with his own prejudiced ideas which she chose not to correct. Lindalcon listened to his mother's manipulations and felt sick.

He heard her suggest that Legolas had coerced him into co-operating, holding his father's feä as if hostage from Release should the youth refuse. Lindalcon cringed upon hearing her assert that the fallen archer had named her the instigator of the very crimes for which he had been judged responsible. He listened to her say that the outcast had threatened a dire future for Gwilith and Taurant if the investigation of Erebor was not halted. He quailed to hear the despairing pleading in her tone as she begged Thranduil to stop the Council from digging deeper.

Lindalcon could discern the verity of her speech, and if he could do so through the muffling drape of the deerskin hide then even more compelling must Thranduil find her woe. But in his heart Lindalcon felt the echo of fraud, perceiving that most of what she recited was removed from its correct context and the actual intent of the phrases thus skewed to serve her purpose. The King could not share this intuition, however, for his eyes had not beheld the Tawarwaith's overflowing joy as he had cradled the infant heir against his shoulder.

Thranduil heard only that the kinslayer had threatened the life of his children, and his rage was such that Meril had been required to reverse their roles, calming him ere their newborn son awoke frightened and confused. The persistence of his mother's requests to let the past remain forgotten stunned Lindalcon and by this he was almost convinced that she desired just the opposite, but for the desperate note of panic furled within her trembling pleas. And Thranduil responded by declaring that he had means to rid them of the outcast forever and begged that she trust him to secure their offsprings' future happiness and security.

How she had railed against this and cajoled her mate to leave her and their babes free of entanglement in these affairs! She had no desire to appear before the Council and accuse the kinslayer to his face; she could not bear to leave her infant in the care of others so soon upon his birth. In horror Lindalcon heard the King assuage her doubts by stating he would call her first-born child to reveal what had been done and give evidence against the forest champion. The youth's tattered confidence in his mother's benevolence dissolved when she assented to this plan. Now he must choose to support either his Naneth or his sworn brother, and this was a bitter choice he could not reconcile, and he knew this was her punishment upon him.

Unable to bear more, Lindalcon had scooted back down the tube and into his sister's rooms, flying from her chambers and down the back stairs to find Legolas. There in the secure embrace of the Tawarwaith's arms he had vented his sorrow and confusion, anger and despair, until exhaustion had claimed him and consciousness fled. He had awakened curled up in the archer's lap, who in turn was supported by Fearfaron, with the comforting sound of the warrior's fair voice crooning an old song from the days of endless starlight before the silver disc of Ithil had first shown forth.

The wizards were still there also and long hours had they all debated on how to forestall the doom of daybreak, to no conclusion. Legolas wanted no change in the status quo and was adamant that only harm could come to his siblings should the Council probe too deeply. Lindalcon was appalled, insisting his father would want the truth to come out and for Legolas to be cleared. Fearfaron agreed and Aiwendil was undecided, but Mithrandir dissented, siding with the archer.

The only bright note the Maiar could add to the developments was the assurance that with the destruction of Elrond's letter the population at large would never learn of its contents. Of the contents of this diatribe Lindalcon had not been informed and the archer was relieved for that fact as well.

Finally, Mithrandir had broken the smatemate, saying that often the desire to protect those one loved by shielding them from truth resulted in far more serious consequences and a breaking of trust that was at best difficult to repair.

After a silence during which the Istar and the Tawarwaith conversed in silent accord, Legolas had kissed the crown of his brother's head and murmured that he loved him, and wished no harm upon him. What followed was an account of Erebor the youth rejected and in his wrath struck out against Legolas and spoke words so foul he wondered later how the archer did not eject him from the room. But Legolas did not, and wept bitterly instead, holding the younger elf and repeating that he was sorry, that he loved him, until the anger gave way to grief unlike anything Lindalcon would have thought possible to endure.

And after all of this was past the decisions came so easily, and seemed logical and right. Lindalcon made his choice for Valtamar and for Legolas, for Taurant and Gwilwileth, and while the forest champion agreed to all that was discussed regarding the morning's trial, his younger brother felt there was yet something held back. Too much heartbreak had he already suffered to enquire farther, however, and Lindalcon was relieved to be given the mundane task of fetching garments for Legolas, Fearfaron, and himself.

So now he stood facing the King with all of the Sylvan folk about to witness his part in it, and he did not permit himself to be bowed by the weight of the truth he hoped to reveal. Often his eyes sought Legolas' and he drew strength from the encouraging trust and confidence found therein, and from the undeniable sense of Valtamar's presence. Lindalcon had not felt so close to his father even in the soldier's life, and decided this had to do with the passing of his adolescence and the marks of grief his soul must surely bear, as starkly indelible as any wound upon the body earned in battle would be. The knowledge that the Lost Warrior approved of his courage filled Lindalcon with pride and resolve.

"My Lord Thranduil, it is with gratitude we greet your attendance. The concern you show for understanding all that befalls the Danwaith is heartening to our people," Iarwain stated formally.

"The King is always present for his people's needs," replied the Sinda Lord.

"Of course," the tone of the ancient counsellor's concurrence left no question as to his lack of faith in his Lord's assurance. "At your request we are gathered, so let your charges be stated clearly that all may understand the cause of your apprehension."

"Our Realm has been trespassed, our heir has been threatened, and the captain of our guard assaulted within the halls of this very stronghold!" Thranduil announced and was pleased by the excited murmuring this provoked among the crowd. "In light of these invasions and treacheries, I have come to understand that these events originated with the disgraceful waste of immortal life at the Battle of Erebor. And at the heart of all these disturbances and crimes stands the exiled kinslayer, the child of Ningloriel!" The King rose and pointed dramatically at Legolas.

But the archer did not flinch and indeed stood forth boldly as the rustling whispers of the assembly instantly died away.

"I declaim these charges; they are false!"

"So noted!" called out the Councillor of Records as he moved to stand beside Iarwain. "What say you to Erebor?"

"What of it? Erebor is past and Judgement have I accepted; there let the matter rest!"

"Nay! The matter cannot rest! There is at work an unwholesome element seeking to weaken our people and interfere in our lands! Shall the sovereignty of a free realm be thus disregarded?" demanded Thranduil loudly.

"Let us put aside Erebor for now and examine these recent actions," interrupted Iarwain.

"So noted!" intoned the Councillor of Record before the King could object. "What witnesses can speak of these events? Any with knowledge are bound by honour to make themselves known and reveal the truth as they have seen it!"

"I gainsay the second charge for I was with my baby brother during the time of this alleged threat!" Lindalcon called out clearly and sent his brother an encouraging smile as Iarwain squeezed his shoulder in approval.

"I can refute the first accusation and will explain the charge of invasion!" shouted Erestor.

"I have knowledge of this trespass also. As for the third charge, I am the culprit who committed this ast!" t!" spoke Radagast amid astonished exclamations and gasps from the common folk.

"Aye, 'twas the wizard that struck me down," said Talagan dispassionately meeting his King's furious and perplexed glare.

The captain was not chagrined to so embarrass his old friend, for Thranduil had acted solely at the behest of his consort in the haze of irrational rage over the perceived threat to his child. Talagan felt his loyal service and complete dedication had been disregarded, he had a tormenting ache at the base of his skull, and was sure to face censure for his lapse of caution in the hallway. All in all, he was not disposed to support his liege at the moment. Talagan's lifelong comrade had failed to consult him, and not only was the veteran insulted by this oversight; he considered it irresponsible behaviour on Thranduil's part.

"I witnessed Radagast's brief moment of temper, but must assert that he reacted to the carpenter's near impalement upon the captain's blade!" added Gandalf.

"I was there, too, and swear Legolas bore no weapon, and was himself threatened at the point of Talagan's sword!" Aragorn joined his voice to the growing volume of testimony and sent the Tawarwaith a small smile. "Hold up your left hand, Legolas, and show the cut of the blade you swept from its place against your heart!"

Legolas obeyed and loud, disgruntled, cacophonous babbling accompanied the display of the long brown scab across the warrior's upraised palm. Thranduil sat back down in his chair, a most unpleasant sense of dejavu overwhelming his thoughts as the Danwaith rallied to their champion's cause.

"Tirno did no wrong here!"

"Aye, the claim is false!"
The The promise is violated!"

"Charge Talagan, or Aiwendil if you dare!"

These cries burst from among the throng and a chaotic wave of movement surged through the mass as though they might engulf the dais and everyone before it. The Councillors grew concerned, and the apprentices ceased their note taking on the testimony rapidly pouring from so many individuals. Erestor edged closer to Mithrandir, tugging Aragorn along with him, judging that the safest place to be should the situation devolve into catastrophe. Aiwendil banged his staff repeatedly on the floor to quiet things down without result.

"Peace! There is no fault here on anyone's part!" Legolas spoke with the compellingly quiet demeanour that brought the whole of Greenwood to a standstill, and the grumbling ceased immediately for the Wood Elves wished to hear his words.

"Talagan sought to aid the King and his only error was being over-eager to defend our home and our prince! Aiwendil reacted for he thought Fearfaron and I were in danger, but it was not so! Were I fending off an attack by this warrior, there would be more to show than a meagre scratch!"

In the silence that followed the Councillors conferred briefly and then Iarwain gave their verdict.

"We concur and strike the third accusation null. Inasmuch as Tirno will not lay blame upon the captain, no censure will be given."

The gathered folk greeted the decision with a unified acclaim of approval and a jovial exchange of relief. They knew it must be false! Their Tirno would not strike down the captain unprovoked! Had they not but recently come from battling Orcs together? How came any to believe such a ridiculous claim?

Talagan blinked, not certain what had just happened, and glanced at Legolas, who returned his blank look with a half-smile and a nod.

Thranduil remained unmoving, watching the players with hooded eyes, hearing the approbation of the people, feeling the furtive looks of mistrust cast upon him from among the Sylvan folk, and his anger grew hotter.

Tbc
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