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Chapter Text

The house was quiet.

That was how Galadaelin Thranorion liked it. He liked the whisper of his pencil on paper, the scratch of the blade when he paused to sharpen the pencil, and the click of beads when he leaned forward in concentration and his braids shifted. Once in a while he heard the cry of a wood pigeon reminding him that a world existed beyond this pleasant little world that he had created for himself. But it seemed a far off thing. Unimportant. This rare moment of peaceful solitude was all that mattered, because Galad knew that it would not last forever. So he revelled in it, enjoying every second.

Setting aside his pencil, Galad picked up the laurel leaf that had occupied his attention all morning. Sunlight streaming through the window made it translucent. Galad smiled to see even the tiniest of veins illuminated as he twirled the leaf between his fingers with the same gentle care he would show a baby bird fallen from the nest. It had taken him time to find such a perfect example of a laurel leaf. Dozens of others had been marked or torn or crushed. This one, though…this would live forever in Galad’s book, where alongside its painstakingly sketched picture he would record all its healing properties and the medicines in which it played a part. He had already completed pages on lavender, feverfew, calendula, willow, and vervain, but there was much left to do. His ambition was to do this for a hundred different flowers, herbs, and leaves.

Galad carefully put the leaf down and picked up his pencil again, but the front door flying open made him flinch so sharply that the pencil fell from his grip. Resting his hands flat on the table to stop them shaking, he closed his eyes and willed Breigon to keep walking. Because of course it was Breigon. Nobody infused the simplest of tasks with violence and rage quite like Galad’s second eldest brother. The living room door burst inwards and bounced off the wall, and Galad looked up in silent resignation. Peace had ended.

“Get to the workshop.” Breigon’s voice was harsh in what had been beautiful quiet. “Adar wants you.”

“Why?” Galad asked softly.

“I assumed that you would do as you were told without questioning an order from our father, so I didn’t ask,” Breigon said with a sneer. “He will be thrilled to know that you’re choosing disobedience today.”

Galad felt his eyes widen and his mouth fall open, but fear gripped him so absolutely that his brother had almost disappeared by the time he managed to get his words out. “No! I’ll go to him. I promise. But may I please have a bit of time to finish drawing my leaf?”

“Your what?”

“My…my leaf,” Galad repeated. “For my book.”

Breigon turned back with a contemptuous snort, his dark brown hair swinging around his broad shoulders. “Right. Your book. Your pointless, waste of time endeavour that nobody in the world but you is ever going to see. No, you can’t have a bit of time.” He strode to the table and snatched the beautiful laurel leaf, crushing it in his fist and using his other arm to swipe Galad’s outstretched hands away. As Galad sank back into his chair, Breigon sprinkled the pieces of broken leaf over the paper. “The picture will be next if you don’t move.”

“The picture is already ruined since you destroyed the leaf that I was drawing,” Galad said quietly.

“So get another one,” Breigon snapped.

“I can’t just…leaves are like snowflakes, each one is unique!” Galad protested, tears stinging his eyes.

“Are you crying over a leaf?” Breigon asked gleefully. “This is a new level of pathetic that I am both delighted and repulsed by.”

“You ruined hours of work,” Galad whispered.

“Stop being a baby,” Breigon said. “Tidy this mess and get to the workshop.”

“Perhaps you should tidy it,” Galad dared to say. “You made it.”

He knew that he had erred as soon as the words left his mouth. But there was no calling them back. Breigon stood perfectly still. Galad kept his gaze averted, because he didn’t need to look to know that his brother’s brown eyes had hardened like rocks nor that his wickedly handsome face had whitened with fury. He sensed a split second before it happened that Breigon was coming for him. He didn’t try to escape. Better to just take it. Breigon grabbed a handful of his braids and yanked his head back, his other hand going around Galad’s throat as he leaned down and hissed against his ear, “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Don’t question me. Don’t talk back. You tidy this mess and then get your backside out to the workshop before I stripe it for you and then take you to Adar so that you can tell him why you were delayed. Do we have an understanding, Little Galad?”

Galad nodded silently, but Breigon shook him and he whispered, “Yes, muindor.” Breigon released him roughly and stalked from the room. Only when the slam of the door had stopped echoing in every corner did Galad close his eyes and let out the breath that he had been holding. His hands shook as he gathered the pieces of ruined leaf. Bits of it ended up on the floor. When he had picked them all up and tossed them into the fireplace, he looked down at his drawing. To the untrained eye, it looked perfect. But it was not finished and so it was not perfect. Galad threw it into the fireplace as well. 

The family business operated from a large two-storey workshop just across from the house. A widely respected carpenter, Master Thranor’s services were commissioned not just by people from the nearby village but even from the towns of Nen Silivren an hour north and Glaerobel further south. Galad’s eldest brother Celegnir was in Glaerobel right then to discuss a commission with a customer. Galad didn’t know the details. His father and his brothers didn’t much involve him in the business. That suited him well enough. It was not an area of interest for him although he could – and did – appreciate the beauty of the finished products and the skill and craftsmanship that went into making them. Even when Breigon’s unkind hands had wielded the tools and shaped the wood.

“Ada?” Galad said softly when he entered the workshop where dust motes floated lazily in the light. His father was sitting at his usual workbench, methodically whittling a piece of wood. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come immediately.” 

Thranor glanced up with a brief nod. He set aside wood and knife, and brushed dust from his hands onto the front of his olive green tunic. “You are here now. There are orders to be delivered today. Breigon and I have no time to handle them with Celegnir away.”

“I will take them,” Galad said. 

“These two,” Thranor said, going to the table by the door and pointing out a pair of identical box-shaped packages, “have been paid for. The customer details are noted on them. You only need to make the delivery. This package at the back has been half paid for. Mistress Glavranien will pay the remaining twelve golds upon delivery. And this last one right here is for Healer Albethon. Do not hand it over to him until he has paid and you have the coins in your hand. Is that quite clear?”

Galad nodded dutifully. Albethon was a whimsical fellow whose flights of fancy and frequent lapses in concentration made him an odd choice of healer, and yet that was how he served the local village. Galad had once witnessed Albethon wander off in the middle of stitching an injury because he had suddenly remembered that he needed to replenish his stock of willow bark. The patient in question had been Galad’s third eldest brother Noendir who had cut his leg climbing a tree. When Noendir had finally said, “Is Healer Albethon travelling all the way to Amon Lanc to get willow bark?” Galad had nervously offered to finish the procedure. He had never stitched a wound before, but he had watched Albethon do it and he had practiced on his toys. Galad still remembered how grateful he had been that Noendir had trusted him. He also remembered, less happily, how excited he had been to tell his father and how painfully hopeful he had been that Thranor would be proud of him. Thranor had conceded that the stitching was well done, but then he had soundly spanked Galad for taking such a risk with Noendir. It had only been small consolation when Noendir had later sought him out to hug him and whisper, “I think you did wonderfully.”

“I mean it, Galadaelin,” Thranor said intently. “Albethon will try and convince you that he has paid already – not to try and trick you but because he’s so damn flighty that he’ll believe it – and when that doesn’t work he’ll promise to pay tomorrow or the next day or the next day and that day will never come. He owes eight gold coins and sixteen silvers. You get those coins first. Every one of them. Then you give him his order.”

“I understand, Ada,” Galad said. “I won’t let you down.”

“You had better not,” Thranor replied.

That wasn’t the response that Galad had wanted. He would have loved to hear I know you won’t but he hadn’t expected it and what he had got was the best he could hope for. He gathered up the parcels and set off, glad not to run into Breigon. The customer who lived nearest to Galad and his family was in fact Healer Albethon, but Galad made a conscious decision not to go there first. Albethon might be the flakiest elf in the forest, but he was a kind and gentle being with an unrivalled knowledge of herblore. Galad liked spending time with him, and since Thranor had not told him that he must be home at a certain time, that was what he intended to do.

After successfully completing the other deliveries, Galad made his way to the thatched cottage where Healer Albethon lived. A piebald horse grazed outside and a tabby cat was fast asleep on the rocking chair on the decking. Through the open front door came the heady scents of sage and lavender and beebalm, and Galad had to duck under low hanging sprays of herbs that hung from the beams. “Healer Albethon?” he called. “It’s Galad.” The cluttered but clean front room was occupied by a ginger tomcat who looked up sleepily from the patchwork blanket that he was kneading. Tucking his parcel under his arm, Galad paused both to say hello to the cat and to admire a crooked stack of books piled precariously atop one another.

“Galad, my dear boy!” The curtain that divided the front room from Albethon’s workspace was flung aside. Albethon did not much like doors. He darted over to Galad and gave him such a hard slap on the back that Galad – being only very slender – was knocked sideways. His eyes watering, Galad steadied himself and turned to greet Albethon only to find himself gathered into a bone crushing hug. It left him breathless, and he barely had time to try and extricate himself from it before Albethon released him, put both hands on his shoulders, and squeezed them cheerfully. Enduring such bruising tactility was the price of spending time with the enthusiastic healer.

“Hello, Healer Albethon,” Galad began. “I-”

“Wait right here! I have something to show you.”

Albethon spun away, and the hem of his open fronted yellow robe whipped around the stack of books and sent them crashing to the floor. Galad winced, but the cat didn’t stir as if he was accustomed to such disturbances and no longer deemed them of concern. As Albethon disappeared behind the curtain, Galad knelt and began gathering up the books. He was three books into the task when he realised that he had both hands free. The parcel had been cleverly slipped out from under his arm, probably when Albethon had hugged him. He sat back on his heels with a frustrated huff of breath.

“Healer Albethon? Did you take that package already?”

There was a flash of red hair as Albethon stuck his head around the corner. “I’ll be right back. I have a treat for you!”

“All right, but the package…” Galad gave up with a sigh and finished stacking the books in two shorter piles. That seemed safer for books, cats, and people. He was about to get up when he noticed a scrap of paper that had ended up on the floor during the book collapse. As he smoothed it out, he recognised Albethon’s scribbles and poorly spelt ramblings. In fact, they quite pushed the matter of the parcel from his mind and he looked up in disbelief as his older healer friend came back to join him. “Healer Albethon, this is all just speculation and guesswork, yes?”

“Oh, you found the notes on my experiment!” Albethon said happily.

“Your experiment?” Galad repeated. “You mean these notes are based on practical application?”

“Of course they’re based on practical application,” Albethon said with a sigh. “My dear boy, do you think that the first person who used willow bark tea for pain relief just knew the precise dosage? Or that there was not some trial and error involved in the discovery that raspberry leaf is of use in pregnancy? Or, to draw comparisons to this, that risks were not taken to establish the benefits as well as the dangers of deadly nightshade?”

“Yes, but it concerns me that you’re experimenting with oleander on your own with nobody to help if it all goes wrong,” Galad said. “Oleander is incredibly dangerous!”

“I’m never on my own,” Albethon said, and he pointed at the dozing cat.

Galad took a breath. Then he stopped. He didn’t know the exact age of his frustrating and odd healer friend – he wasn’t sure if Albethon even knew – but since Albethon spoke clearly about a time before the rising of the sun and the moon, he had to be at least two and a half thousand years old and likely much more than that. If he had survived that long, his continued existence probably did not depend on Galad. “Healer Albethon, about the package that you took,” Galad said finally, deciding that it was best to steer the conversation back onto its proper course.

“Yes! I have been in dire need of a new rack for my vials and tubes ever since I knocked over the old one and it smashed to pieces. I was picking splinters out of myself for days. One of them was spectacularly long,” Albethon said. “It was ever so kind of your father to make a new rack for me. And he even sent me a dozen little measuring spoons to replace all the ones that have disappeared.”

“But you asked for the spoons,” Galad said carefully. “They’re not a gift.”

“Hmm?”

“The spoons and the rack,” Galad clarified. “You commissioned them. They’re not a gift from my father. You have to pay for them.”

Perplexed pale green eyes came to rest on Galad. “Hmm. I have coins lying around…somewhere.”

“Eight golds and sixteen silvers,” Galad said. “Can you pay that today?”

“Yes, yes, today or tomorrow it’s all the same,” Albethon replied.

“It’s not the same at all, it’s two different days,” Galad said unhappily. “Please, Healer Albethon. I have to collect payment today or my father will be angry with me.”

“My dear boy, enough fretting! You know that I won’t let you down. I’ll settle it before you leave.” Albethon pulled his hand out from behind his back and presented it with a flourish. He was holding a dish that contained an assortment of sweets. “I made these myself. Try one!”

Albethon sounded so proud of himself that Galad couldn’t help allowing the distraction. He took one of the sweets, a deep golden colour, and sniffed it delicately. “Honey and lemon?”

“Yes, yes, honey and lemon,” Albethon said. “What do you think a sweet like this might be good for?”

“Suppressing a cough,” Galad said. “And helping to ease a sore throat.”

“Just so! And this one?”

Galad blinked as Albethon thrust the dish at him again. He took another sweet, yellow again though paler than the first one. “Ginger,” he said after a moment. “Ginger and…I can’t make out the other ingredient.”

“Apple,” Albethon replied. “Only there to dilute the taste of ginger. Not everyone cares for it. What might one use ginger for?”

“To ease nausea,” Galad said promptly.

Albethon beamed and praised him, and they spent the rest of the afternoon discussing various ailments and cures. It was knowledge that Galad had learned years ago, but he didn’t have anyone else he could talk about healing with and so he didn’t mind going over the same things even if he craved more. When the afternoon drew to a close, he ventured to ask Albethon one final time about payment for the goods that he had delivered. Albethon distractedly promised that he would settle his debt the very next day, but Galad knew as he walked away that the eccentric healer had already forgotten. He sighed and headed for home.

The big double doors at the front of the workshop were closed and locked with the bar pulled down over them, so Galad let himself in through the side door. He took out the money chest from the bottom drawer of the desk tucked into the corner of the workshop, and for the tiniest of moments he imagined himself taking eight golds and sixteen silvers from it and presenting them to his father as if they had come straight from Albethon. The very notion of such dishonesty shook him so deeply that he jerked his hands back from the chest. Disappointed in himself, he withdrew the coins from Mistress Glavranien and put them into the section of the chest reserved for payments that had been received but not yet recorded in the accounting book. Then he hastened back to the house before he could have any more devious thoughts.

Master Thranor was seated in his favoured chair in the living room with his ankle resting on the opposite knee and some papers spread out across his lap. Galad hesitated in the doorway before venturing to disturb his father. “I’m back.”

“After spending the afternoon with Albethon, no doubt,” Thranor replied without looking up. “I trust that the deliveries went well.”

“I delivered everything,” Galad said. “Mistress Glavranien paid the remainder of what she owed.”

Thranor did look up then. “I never doubted that she would,” he said with a trace of impatience. “What about Albethon?”

“I…” Galad felt his fingers clench involuntarily around the doorframe. He swallowed nervously. As his father’s sharp hazel eyes bored into him, he found himself doing something that he hated to do. He lied. “I got all the money, Ada. I put it in the coin chest in the workshop to be added to the accounting book. Should I have brought it straight to you?”

“Never mind,” Thranor said briefly. He picked up his papers and turned to the next one before adding as an afterthought, “Well done, Galad.”

Galad smiled hopefully but his father didn’t look at him. Recognising that he had been dismissed, he withdrew from the living room and stood in the hallway with his back against the wall. He sank his teeth into his lower lip as heady excitement rushed through him. His father was pleased with him! His father had praised him, had told him well done! But his smile slowly faded. Lies had a way of coming out, and when this lie came out…no. It couldn’t come out. Not ever. Thranor would punish him, but worse than that, he would fall from his father’s favour.

He slipped upstairs and went straight to his bedroom. With the door safely closed behind him, Galad took out the carved chest where he kept his own coins and emptied the contents into the middle of his bed. Had this been a month ago, the pile of coins would have been higher because Galad never spent recklessly. When Thranor rewarded him with a coin for helping with the business, when Celegnir sent him on errands and let him keep the change, or when his grandfather Bregolas who lived in the south wrote to him and enclosed a gift of coins for him to buy something for himself, he saved each one and only spent them when he had more than enough for whatever he wanted. Last time it had been art supplies, good drawing paper, a book on midwifery – which Breigon had tried to convince Thranor was vulgar and inappropriate, but Thranor had unexpectedly sided with Galad and acknowledged that it was educational – and a small bag of sweets. Sadly for Galad, those purchases had left him with six golds, twenty silvers, and a handful of coppers. That was the total that he reached the first time he counted, the second time, and the third. Two extra golds did not just appear.

Galad sat back on his heels and pushed his hands through his hair. “What am I going to do?” he whispered to the empty room.

A whiff of peppermint and pine needles drifted beneath the door and Galad slowly turned his head. His stomach was already churning. Wishing that he had taken one of Albethon’s sweets to fight nausea, he left the relative safety of his room and went down the hallway to the bathing chamber that his eldest brothers shared. He stared bleakly at the door and forced himself to imagine what would happen if he confessed to his father. Thranor would stare at him in silence while he made his confession. Then he would shout. Galad hated being shouted at. Hated it. He could tolerate the stern scoldings that Celegnir often gave him. But Thranor never scolded. He just shouted and vented, his rage breaking over his youngest son like relentless waves on a stranded ship. Once Thranor had shouted enough, he would punish Galad. Failing to get the payment and lying about it, that would be a paddling. There would be no comfort at the end of it. Thranor would simply shove Galad off his lap and shout at him to get out of his sight. And the approval…that hard won, built on a lie, desperately craved approval…would be all gone.

Galad opened the door.

“Breigon?”

His brother was soaking in the bath with his hair knotted to keep it out of the water. His strong arms were resting on the edges of the tub and his head was tilted back, his eyes closed. Breigon breathed in deeply through his nose and let it out. “This had better be very good, Little Galad.”

“I need to ask a favour of you,” Galad said quietly, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic.  

“A favour. You interrupted my bath, my hard earned time to myself at the end of the working day, to ask a favour of me,” Breigon repeated.

“I wouldn’t ask if I was not desperate,” Galad replied. “But…but I need you to trust me and not ask me any questions.”

Breigon opened his eyes and gave him a long look. “That is bold of you. What is this favour that you so desperately need?”

“I need two gold coins.”

“Work for them.”

“Ordinarily I would, but I need them quickly,” Galad said. “I need them now.”

Breigon stood up. Droplets of water trickled over his chest and the muscles of his abdomen and glistened on his arms as he stepped out of the bath. “Towel,” he commanded, and Galad hastily passed him one. Breigon wrapped the towel around his waist and gestured for Galad to follow him. He led the way back to his room decorated in shades of grey and green with the same handsomely carved furniture that filled the rest of the house, and he opened the second drawer of his bedside table. Galad caught a glimpse of gold as Breigon reached in and picked up two coins. “Say please,” Breigon said idly.

“Please,” Galad whispered. “I’ll do anything.”

Breigon uncurled his fingers and let the coins fall, and Galad hastily snatched them out of the air. He took a breath to thank Breigon but his brother was already waving a hand at him in bored dismissal. Galad thanked him anyway as he went to the door. He had just pulled it open when Breigon came up behind him and reached over his head to press it shut again. “Some friendly advice from your big brother,” Breigon said, leaning down to murmur against Galad’s ear. “Never offer anything. Some people – not me, but some people – might take advantage of that. I would so hate for you to be hurt.”

“Thank you, Breigon,” Galad said, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“Run along then,” Breigon replied, taking his hand off the door.

Galad didn’t need to be told twice. He went, detouring briefly to his own room to scoop up the coins from his bed and shove them into his pocket. Then he went downstairs and lied again to Thranor, telling him that he was going to check on the horses because he thought that he had seen one of them limping. Thranor barely glanced up anyway. For once relieved by his father’s lack of attention, Galad slipped outside and returned to the workshop. He counted the coins – eight golds, sixteen silvers. He put them into the coin chest and laughed in dizzy relief. “I did it,” he whispered, and a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The relief that Galad felt when he went to bed that evening had faded by the time he got up the next morning. It continued to ebb away all through that day and the next. It was nothing that Thranor said or Breigon did. It was his own paranoia sinking its claws into him, gripping him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him as it whispered in his ear, “See the way Breigon looked at you. He knows. He knows and he’s going to wait for the right moment to tell Ada. Or maybe Ada already knows.” In his heart, Galad knew that couldn’t be true. He would have already paid the price if Thranor knew. But still, he jumped every time his father spoke to him, and at breakfast the following day Breigon irritably observed that he was as skittish as a baby rabbit. Galad knew that he was drawing attention to himself. He tried to wrestle his fear under control, though he couldn’t help feeling that he was waiting for a storm to break.

The storm broke on the third day.

Galad was reading the same midwifery book that Breigon had tried to convince their father he did not need when he heard the thunder of hooves. He kept his eyes on the page but his fingers tightened around the book. The hooves stopped and then there was a raised voice. Thranor, calling to Breigon. A door slammed somewhere outside. Finally, it came. Galad’s name uttered in a voice drenched with rage. Then again, but his full name this time and an order to get outside now. Swallowing, he lowered the book and unfolded his legs. They shook as he made himself get up and walk to the window.

Breigon was leading their father’s horse away. Thranor stood with his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared in a furious grimace. He took a step towards the house before stopping and pointing a finger up at Galad’s window. Do not make me come and get you. He didn’t shout that, but he didn’t need to have said a single thing for his youngest son to know what was expected. Galad watched numbly as Thranor stalked into the workshop, feeling too hollow inside to even flinch as the door slammed again. Drawing back from the window, he pressed himself against the wall. He tried to make his mind work, to sort his thoughts, but every part of him was frozen with fear. “I don’t want this to happen,” he said to himself, to the empty room. But it had to. It always had to.

Galad pushed himself away from the wall and walked downstairs on feet that felt impossibly heavy. His one consolation was that Breigon was busy stabling the horse and not there to mock him or make it worse in any of the thousand ways that he knew to make things worse. Slowly, Galad opened the side door to the workshop and stepped inside. Sometimes he liked the workshop. He liked the smell of sawdust and wood chips, their sweet earthiness overlaid with the tang of lacquer and polish that seeped into every corner and made him feel warm. But that was when things were better. Not good, because they were never exactly good. But better. When the sound of the door closing behind him did not sound like his own death knell.

“What happened with Healer Albethon?” Thranor demanded.

“I…I don’t…”

Thranor was immediately in front of Galad. He grabbed him by the back of the neck and marched him further into the workshop where he released him roughly so that he stumbled. “You tell me what happened with Albethon!” Thranor shouted, as Galad steadied himself. “You tell me why he accosted me in the village this morning and gave me eight golds and sixteen silvers when you had already collected eight golds and sixteen silvers from him. You tell me what happened now before I thrash it out of you!”

“You know how he is, Ada! How flighty and forgetful he is! Perhaps he forgot that he paid.” A lie. Another lie. But Galad’s need to protect himself was greater in that moment than his moral code. “I don’t know why else he would-”

“You would play me for a fool?” Thranor said more softly now. “Is that the way of it?”

Galad stared at the floor. His eyes burned with tears. He closed his eyes and tried to will the tears away before Thranor could see them. “I couldn’t get the money,” he confessed in a whisper. “Healer Albethon took the package from me before I knew what he was doing. And I tried. I promise I tried to get him to pay, but he…he was so distracted and dismissive. He said that he would pay the next day but I knew that he wouldn’t. I didn’t think that he would pay at all. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

“So you came home and you lied to me,” Thranor said coldly.

“Yes, I lied. But I still gave you the money that Healer Albethon owed,” Galad replied in abject misery. “The silvers were all mine and six of the golds. I didn’t have enough so I borrowed two golds from Breigon. I didn’t tell him why I needed them. But the money was paid, Ada. All of it was paid.”

“That is not how a business works!” Thranor thundered, and he brought his fists crashing down onto his workbench so that a pot of pencils fell over and Galad flinched away. “How many of those coins did you earn doing work for me? How much profit do you think we would make if every customer had their orders paid by money that came out of the business? How – how – can a boy as supposedly clever as you be stupid enough to think that this was an acceptable way to behave? And get those tears out of your eyes before I give you a real reason to cry.”

The tears fell despite the threat. Galad couldn’t stop them. “I was scared. I was so scared of telling you the truth. Scared of being in trouble and of d-disappointing you. Ada, I’m sorry. Please…”

“Not only did you fail in the one task that I entrusted you with, but you lied to my face and deceived me and you made me look an idiot in front of Albethon,” Thranor said, ruthless in his ability to ignore his child’s frightened tears. “It will come as no surprise to learn that you are in trouble and you have disappointed me. So tell me, Galadaelin – are you scared now?”

“Yes,” Galad whispered.

“Good,” Thranor snapped. “Get over the bench.”

But Galad couldn’t move. His feet felt stuck to the ground. Thranor closed the distance between them in two quick strides and gripped his upper arm, and Galad cowered as his father shook him and shouted at him. The sound of rushing water filled his ears so that he couldn’t hear what Thranor was saying. All he could hear was noise, too much noise, but it didn’t matter that he couldn’t hear and obey because there was no need for him to convince his feet to move when Thranor was pulling him to the workbench and shoving him down over it.

Galad lay across the bench in detached silence as his father began striking his bottom with one of the long and sturdy rulers normally reserved for use in woodworking. Over and over it landed, sometimes repeatedly in the same spot and sometimes falling at random. Galad took it without a word, without complaint, without grimace or wince. The shouting terrified him because it was in his face and there was no escape from it. But this…this, he could let himself drift away and imagine himself wreathed in ribbons of honey and sweet wild orange. He didn’t know why those scents comforted him. Perhaps because they were the scent of his mother. He had asked his brother Noendir once what Pelassiel had smelled like. Noendir had admitted that he couldn’t remember, and he had looked so sad that Galad had never dared ask again. Then he had asked Celegnir, and his eldest brother had said that Pelassiel had smelled sweet. When Galad had asked him sweet like what, Celegnir had replied, “I don’t know, Galad! Sweet like sweet, what else do you want me to say?” Galad had not even entertained the idea of asking Thranor or Breigon. But for himself, in his own heart, Pelassiel had smelled of honey and sweet wild orange, and this was her whispering in his ear that everything was going to be all right. That he was loved by her if not by his father.

Far from honey and orange, in the world of sawdust and fear, Thranor paused but only to pull Galad’s leggings down. He held Galad in place with a heavy hand on his back and lifted his arm high for each hard and loud strike of the ruler. No longer could Galad lose himself in phantom fragrances. Pain pierced his escape and brought him back to the present. Curling his hands into fists, he tasted salt on his lips and realised that his tears had betrayed him again. But he was still taking it quietly. That was the important thing. The most important thing. To be still, silent, small, until Thranor deemed him no longer worthy of attention.  

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Thranor flung the ruler away and slipped his hand under Galad’s elbow. He jerked him to his feet, painfully tightening his grip as Galad stumbled. “Stop it,” he growled in frustration. “Be still. And fix your damn clothing.”

Galad stared at the floor. Stop it, be still, fix his clothing. He couldn’t do all those things at the same time. He could only guess what his father really wanted him to do and hope that he was choosing right. He reached down and began pulling his leggings up, but he felt as though he was dragging his hands through mud. Thranor lost patience and did it for him. Standing still again, Galad returned his gaze to the floor. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They were shaking. He was shaking. All over. He was still afraid. But he stayed quiet, and the only sound in the workshop came from Thranor and his heavy breathing from the exertion that he had worked himself into.

“Give these back to Breigon,” Thranor said, taking two gold coins from his pocket and pushing them into Galad’s hand. His voice was husky. It always was after he had shouted. “I will keep the coins that came from your savings and any others that you earn or receive from this point on. Since you cannot be trusted with your coins, you will come to me and ask for them, and I will only give them to you if you have a good reason for needing them. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Galad said distantly.

“Good. Go inside and go to bed,” Thranor added quietly. “I do not wish to see you again today.”

The coins were cold in Galad’s hand as he turned and walked away. The tears were hot in his eyes. He paid so little attention to his walk back to the house that he made it inside without realising that he had opened the front door. He stood there unmoving until he heard the splish-splash of water in the kitchen. Slowly, he walked forward and lingered in the doorway, watching numbly as Breigon poured himself a cup of water. 

“Your gold coins,” he said in a soft voice.

Breigon lifted his head and turned to face him. “What?”

“I have them.” Galad held out his hand. It had stopped shaking. “You gave me two gold coins.”

“Yes, I remember that. I’m not a complete imbecile. How do you have two gold coins to give me when three days ago you had to beg me for them?” Breigon asked.

“Ada gave them to me. I couldn’t get the money from Healer Albethon for his commission,” Galad said slowly. “I lied to Ada and paid the outstanding debt myself so that he would never know. I didn’t think Healer Albethon would remember to pay. He never remembers things. But…but this time he did.”

“Oh Galad, you pretty little idiot,” Breigon scoffed. “Why didn’t you do as you were told in the first place?”

“I…I tried.”

“I tried,” Breigon echoed mockingly. He took the coins from Galad and pocketed them. In his proper voice, he added, “Perhaps if you ever actually tried, you wouldn’t spend your life letting everyone down. Oh, but wait. There was that one time when you went above and beyond and exceeded all our wildest expectations.”

“Please don’t,” Galad whispered.

Breigon stepped close to him and pulled Galad’s chin up so that their eyes met. “You remember, don’t you,” he said softly. “The time you killed my mother.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Galad dared to say. “And she was my mother too.”

“Was she really? Then what colour were her eyes?” Breigon asked. “How did she wear her hair? What was her favourite colour? I’m waiting, Little Galad.”

“I don’t know,” Galad said quietly.

“You don’t know. Just as I thought.” Breigon let go of him and shoved him away. “Get out of my sight.”

Galad went.

Chapter Text

Galad spent the rest of that awful day in his bedroom as he had been commanded. He spent most of the next day in his room too. That was through personal choice, but he didn’t think that his father or brother were upset by it since neither of them demanded that he show his face. On the two brief occasions that he did see them when he dared slip downstairs for something to eat, not a word was said about anything that had happened. But Galad was not surprised. The lasting effects on him when Thranor’s temper broke like a wave were painful and frightening, but often unacknowledged by everyone else.

It had not always been so terrible though there had always been difficulties. Galad could barely remember a time when his father had not been distant at best and harsh at worst, but life had deteriorated since his third brother Noendir had travelled south to train with the Protectors of Greenwood. Looking back, Galad knew that neither he nor Noendir had fully realised the difference that Noendir’s presence had made to the family until it was missing. Noendir had been the peacekeeper. The one who could most cleverly soothe Thranor’s temper, who could convince Celegnir not to discipline Galad or report misbehaviour to their father, who could distract Breigon and divert his attention on the days when he was most fixated on Galad. But no matter how bad things had become, Galad could not find it in him to blame his brother for not being there. Noendir had his own life to lead. And yet, Noendir was the favoured one of Thranor’s younger sons and so Thranor and his adult sons had tolerated in him what they never would in Galad. Galad supposed that he had taken for granted that Noendir would always be there. He missed his brother, his friend, but especially at moments like this.

He had put that in the letter that he was writing to Noendir, that he missed him terribly and that the last few days had been awful and he wished that his big brother was there to tell him that everything would be all right. Even if Galad might not believe it, he still missed hearing it. He started to write that he wished that Noendir had never left. Then he stopped. There was no lie in the words. He did wish that. But committing them to paper would only make Noendir feel guilty. Galad had no desire to do that. Nor did he want Noendir to worry for him, and so he wondered if he should abandon everything else that he had written and start again. As the words on the paper swam in his vision, he drifted into a memory eight years past.

Tears blinded Galad as he rode. He ignored them. A branch whipped his cheek. He paid it no heed. He knew that he would pay for the things that he had said to Breigon, for shoving past Celegnir and ignoring their father ordering him not to take another step, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not a thing in the world mattered because…he stifled a sob, too upset to even let the thought enter his mind. But other thoughts pushed their way in. It was going to get worse. He was going to be alone. He would have nobody left. Up ahead, a distant figure on the path stopped as they heard the thunder of his horse’s hooves.

“How could you do this to me?” Galad cried, leaping to the ground before his horse had stopped.

“Galad,” Noendir began.

“No! How could you do this?” Galad repeated. “How could you leave me?”

A stricken look flashed across Noendir’s face. He reached for his brother but Galad pushed his hands away. “Muindor,” he said softly. “I wasn’t ready to tell you yet. I wanted to wait until the arrangements had been made. Who told you?”

“Who do you think told me?” Galad whispered.

“Breigon,” Noendir sighed. He sat on a fallen tree at the side of the path and leaned forward to put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry that he told you, muindor-laes. That wasn’t fair of him. I should have been the one to tell you when the time was right. But Galad, you’ve always known that the family business isn’t for me. You know I love hearing stories of battle and glory from Daerada Bregolas. Now that I’ve reached my first yen I’m old enough to train with the Protectors. I can only do that in the south.”

“But I won’t be with you,” Galad said miserably. “And you won’t be with me.”

“Not for a little while,” Noendir agreed. “But I’m doing this for you as well.”

Galad did not often get angry. Anger was such an upsetting thing to be on the receiving end of that he had no desire to ever inflict it on anyone else. Now though, he felt the strange sensation of his chest tightening and his face flushing as anger bubbled to the surface, and he whirled to face his brother. “Don’t put this on me! You’re leaving because you don’t want to be here anymore! Because you can leave.”

“Perhaps,” Noendir conceded with a quiet sigh. “But I’ve thought it all through. Celegnir will look after you while I’m away. I’ve already talked to him about it and he said that he will. In the meantime I’ll be paid an allowance as a new recruit and a proper wage once I’ve finished training. I’ll live at the military headquarters or with Daerada so I’ll hardly have to spend a thing, and I’ll save every coin that I get and buy myself a little cottage. It won’t be much but it will be mine and you’ll come and live with me. Then none of this will matter.”

“Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better,” Galad said. “You know that I need you.”

“And you’ve had me!” Noendir cried, jumping to his feet. “The last sixty years of my life have revolved around you! Around keeping you out of trouble, keeping you away from Ada when he gets mad, smoothing things over and picking up the pieces when it all goes wrong. I am doing this for you, Galad. But if I’m doing it for me as well then I should be allowed.”

“Then do it.”

Galad turned and walked back to his horse. He stood quietly with his brow against her withers until Noendir approached and turned him with gentle hands. He didn’t fight it as he felt himself drawn into an embrace. At home he tried so hard not to cry because his father hated it. But he cried now, weeping against Noendir’s chest while his brother silently held him.

A hand on Galad’s shoulder drew him from his memories with an unpleasant jolt. He lifted his head and exhaled in quiet relief as he looked into his eldest brother’s soft hazel eyes. “Muindor…you’re back.”

“I am back,” Celegnir agreed. “I hear that you didn’t have a good time of it while I was away.”

“No,” Galad said with a sigh.  

Crouching next to the chair, Celegnir rested his chin in his hand as he gave Galad a long look. “What did I tell you before I left?”

“You told me to behave,” Galad said quietly. “And I did. But then this happened.”

“But then this happened? Things don’t just happen, Galadaelin. This didn’t just happen. It was a consequence of your behaviour.” Celegnir pointed a finger warningly at Galad as he took a breath to speak. “I’m not finished. I know how Albethon is and I’ve already told Adar that I’ll be having a word with him about paying for his goods on time. But you made the decision to lie, muindor-laes. You chose to deceive Adar by paying for the goods yourself. However much of a pain Albethon is and however difficult he made things for you, the rest of it was on you.”

“I tried my best,” Galad began.

“And your best wasn’t good enough,” Celegnir scolded him.  

“It never is!” Galad whispered in frustration. “I made the choices I did because I was afraid of upsetting Ada. I was trying to protect myself. I know that I made things worse, but until you feel the need to protect yourself from our father then I don’t think you should be allowed an opinion.”

Celegnir’s eyes were not wrathful like Thranor’s or hard and cruel like Breigon’s, but Galad still had trouble meeting them in the silence that followed. He stared at the floor until finally his brother spoke sternly. “I suggest you consider yourself lucky that I’m not sending you for the bath brush to fix your attitude, muindor-laes. You may spend the rest of the afternoon as you please, but you have done enough sulking and feeling sorry for yourself, and you will join the rest of the family for dinner. If I must come and get you, the bath brush will be coming out and sitting through dinner will be an uncomfortable experience for you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Celegnir,” Galad said quietly.

“I should think so.” Celegnir stood up and took from his pocket a cloth bag which he tossed onto the table. “Not that you deserve it but I got you a present in Glaerobel.”

Galad glanced at the bag. He already knew what was inside. Celegnir always brought fudge home from Glaerobel because the village confectioner didn’t make it. “Thank you,” he said. “I am grateful.”

“Enjoy it,” Celegnir replied, and he ruffled Galad’s hair. On his way out of the room, he said over his shoulder, “And don’t forget about dinner.”

Leaning back in his chair, Galad sighed and carefully smoothed his braids down. He did not forget about dinner. It played so heavily on his mind that he gave up trying to write his letter to Noendir because he couldn’t concentrate. He ate some fudge and read his book instead, and when the time came he reluctantly ventured downstairs and took out cutlery to set the table. Celegnir came to join him, and he squeezed Galad’s shoulder and murmured, “Good boy.” That cheered Galad up a little. He didn’t like that he had been coerced into joining his family for dinner, but it was nice to be praised. Besides, there was something about being called a good boy that made him feel warm inside. He remembered very little about the five years before his mother had died and everything had become bad. But in that before time, he dimly recalled Thranor often picking him up and calling him ‘my good boy’. Galad knew that could be a made up memory, something that his mind had designed for his own comfort. But he didn’t think so.

Dinner was wild mushroom and spinach tart with a salad of spring greens and tomatoes dressed in honey. Galad ate in silence. Thranor had given him a brief nod of acknowledgement when he had come to the table, but Breigon had looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. That suited Galad well enough. As he kept his eyes down, focusing on dinner, he did not participate in the talk around the table because there was no place in it for him. He did listen with half an ear lest he be unexpectedly addressed, but mostly it consisted of Celegnir telling their father and brother about the customer he had met in Glaerobel and the commission that he had taken. Then the conversation took a different turn.

“I got talking to an ellon one night in the common room at the inn,” Celegnir said. “He grew up in Amon Lanc and did a carpentry apprenticeship with you, Adar. Do you remember him? His name is Natholir.”

“Natholir Aldirion, I remember him,” Thranor said briefly. “But he did not do an apprenticeship with me. He started it and quit partway through. Just as well. He would not have had a hand left if he had kept at it.”

“Yes, he said that he had too many accidents to count,” Celegnir agreed. “He’s a travelling musician now and he was passing through Glaerobel on his way home. Next month one of his sons is going to Amon Lanc to apprentice as a hunter and forester with…oh, what’s his name? That young Elder who led the Sons of Araw through the village a few years ago.”

“Elder Feredir,” Galad supplied quietly.

Celegnir glanced at him and nodded. “Right. Elder Feredir. Anyway, I was telling Master Natholir about Noendir training in the south and I happened to mention that his Begetting Day is next month. Master Natholir is going to be back in Glaerobel next week and he offered to deliver our gifts and letters to Noendir when he takes his son to Amon Lanc.”

“Oh, is he trustworthy then?” Breigon asked dryly. “This random ellon you met at the inn?”

“I’ll take the chance if it means not paying to use the courier,” Celegnir replied in the same tone. “I swear the cost has gone up every time I’ve sent something recently. They’ll be wanting Galad next as payment.”

“They can have him,” Breigon laughed, and he leaned over to give Galad a friendly nudge to the ribs that hurt more than a friendly nudge should.

“What age is Natholir’s son?” Thranor interjected.

“Not much older than Galad,” Celegnir said. “A couple of years maybe.”

“You had best start thinking about what it is that you want to do then, Galad,” Thranor said. “You are made for the family business even less than Noendir and you can’t waste your time drawing or sitting with your head in a book forever.”

Pleasantly surprised by the turn in conversation, Galad carefully set down his fork. He thought that there had been an insult or two tucked inside his father’s words but he chose not to dwell on them. “Thank you, Ada. But I don’t need to think about it. I want to be a healer.”

Thranor had lifted his cup of wine to his lips, and he regarded Galad over it in a long and silent moment that stretched uncomfortably. “When you are told to think about something,” he said finally, “you think about it. Your clever remarks are not appreciated.”

“I…” Galad faltered and looked at his brothers. Breigon was hiding a smirk behind his cup. Celegnir’s lips had thinned in disapproval as if Galad had done something terribly wrong. For the life of him, Galad couldn’t imagine what he had done wrong. “I’m sorry, Ada,” he said uncertainly. “That wasn’t my intention. It’s no secret that I have always wanted to be a healer. I was only saying what we all know.”

“Enough,” Thranor snapped.

“But I don’t understand,” Galad whispered. “You’re angry with me for no reason. It’s as though you want to be angry with me.”

“I said enough!” It was a miracle that the cup didn’t shatter as Thranor banged it onto the table. He took a deep breath and pressed his thumb and fingers to his temple as if he was battling the sudden onslaught of a sore head. “I am getting fed up with you, Galadaelin.”

Galad sat back in his chair and stared at his plate. “You’ve been fed up with me since the day I was born.”

“Go to bed,” Thranor commanded him.

“I haven’t finished my dinner,” Galad said quietly.

“You have.”

Galad sat still and silent with lowered eyes. The atmosphere around the table was at once icy and hot, crackling in anticipation like the moment before lightning strikes the earth. Suddenly Thranor moved, surging to his feet and grabbing Galad’s plate. He flung it over Galad’s head at the wall behind him. The plate broke with a crack and shattered again when it hit the floor, but Thranor paid it no heed. He leaned across the table with his hands braced on it and shouted at his youngest son. “When I say that you are finished, you are finished! Now get out of my sight before I drag you from the table, and if you are not in bed by the time I follow you up the stairs I’ll be taking my belt to you. Go!”

The final command had been unnecessary. There was a screech of wood on the floor as Galad pushed his chair back. He fled, neither looking back at the end of the hallway to see if Thranor was following him nor pausing at the top of the stairs to listen for footsteps. It was not worth the risk of being caught. Galad flung his bedroom door shut behind him, already tearing at the clasps of his tunic as he tried to kick his boots off. He stripped down as far as his leggings before panic got the better of him. Throwing his boots into the corner of the room with his shirt and his tunic, he jumped into bed and pulled the covers over his head. He clutched them so tightly that his fists hurt, and his breath coming hard and fast made it warm beneath the covers. But he didn’t dare emerge, not even when the minutes passed and it became clear that Thranor was not coming. Still, Galad did not sleep that night.

Chapter Text

“Ada? Can I speak to you?”

Galad had summoned the courage to talk to his father. He didn’t know if behind the workshop in the middle of the working day was the right time or place, but nor did he know when he might feel brave enough to try again. The sound of splintering wood thudded to a halt as Thranor looked up from the block that he had been chopping. With an effortlessness that both astounded and frightened Galad, Thranor swung his axe up onto his shoulder before irritably brushing a strand of red tinted blond hair from his eyes. “I expect you can.”

Stupid. Galad was immediately ashamed of his mistake. He knew that he should have known better. “I…I mean, may I speak to you?”

That didn’t impress Thranor. He gestured impatiently while Celegnir and Breigon stopped loading pieces of wood into a cart to regard their baby brother with expressions that ranged from annoyed tolerance to outright contempt. “Get on with it, Galad,” Breigon said. “You can see how busy we are and that we don’t have time for silly interruptions. And yet here you are.”

“That’s enough from you,” Thranor snapped. “Go take a break.”

Galad lowered his eyes. He stared at the floor until his brothers had disappeared around the side of the workshop, and only then did he glance back at his father who was watching him with his usual stern impatience. “I thought about what you said a few nights ago at the dinner table,” Galad said hastily. “You told me to think about what I want to do. I’ve given it as much thought as I can and I’m sure that I want to be a healer.” That was a lie. Galad hadn’t given it a moment of thought because he had known where his heart lay from the moment he had been old enough to put it into words. But that would mean nothing to the ellon in whose powerful presence he stood.

“A noble profession,” Thranor said with a brief nod of acknowledgement. “I will arrange your apprenticeship.”

“You…you will?”

“I said so, did I not.”

Keeping up with moods that changed as swiftly as leaves in autumn was exhausting. “You did,” Galad said slowly. “Thank you. But Ada, I don’t want to apprentice here.”

“Too good for Healer Albethon, are you?” Thranor asked.

“Healer Albethon has a skilled hand and his knowledge of herblore and medicines is extensive,” Galad replied, careful to keep his tone respectful. “I have already learned a lot from him. But I feel that he would limit me. I want to make a career out of healing, Ada. A real career so that I can help as many people as possible and…and maybe make you proud of me. I would really like that. But if I want to be the best, I should learn from the best and so I was thinking that perhaps I could study in the south.”

“No,” Thranor said flatly.

“But all the best healers are in the south,” Galad said. “Maybe I could even study with Elder Nestaeth, but she-”

“Is in the south, yes, where you will not be going,” Thranor interjected. “You will stay here and learn or you will not learn at all.”

That hit Galad like a slap in the face. He took a step back, breathless at the thought of having healing taken away. He let himself imagine staying in the north and apprenticing to Albethon. Albethon, who could barely remember his own name; Albethon, who spent half his life in a daze from the herbs that he ingested for amusement and research; Albethon, who would condemn Galad to a lifetime spent wandering around little no-name villages when a whole world existed for him to make a difference in. But he would be a healer. A small and unimportant healer, but still a healer. No. There had to be more than that. He had to be more than that.

“Noendir went south,” he said finally.

“Noendir is training to join the Protectors and he didn’t leave home until he reached his first yen,” Thranor snapped. “How old are you?”

“Seventy,” Galad said unhappily.

“Yes. Seventy. So you will stay here,” Thranor said. “Do not push me on this, Galadaelin.”

That should have been all the warning that Galad needed. But desperation spurred him on. “Could I not stay with Daerada Bregolas? He would look after me.”

“Do you think that he would put up with you as I do? That he would tolerate your wilfulness, your daydreaming, your…your…” Thranor gestured at Galad in impatient frustration. “That he would tolerate you? Your grandfather is one of the greatest warriors in the forest. You know that. So what do you have to offer that could possibly impress him?”

“I…I don’t know,” Galad whispered helplessly. “I just…I thought…”

“What?” Thranor shouted. “What did you think?”

Galad didn’t have an answer. The shame of being shouted at and the fear of what would follow made him shut down so that he could neither speak nor think. He was dimly aware of Thranor swinging the axe down from his shoulder and embedding it in the block of wood. So inevitable was the hand that came around the back of Galad’s neck that he didn’t flinch, simply accepting his fate with numb resignation. Thranor propped his foot on the edge of the wood block and effortlessly lifted Galad across his muscular thigh. The smacks that fell upon Galad’s bottom were loud and hard and searingly hot. He took them in silence though his heart cried at the injustice of it.

“You are a defiant and ungrateful child, and if I must do this every day until I see a better attitude from you, I will do it every day,” Thranor said severely. When Galad nodded mutely, Thranor landed a final resounding smack to the centre of his bottom before dropping him back onto his feet. “Get inside and put yourself to bed. We are done here.”

“We didn’t finish talking about my going south,” Galad said bravely, reaching deep inside for his last reserve of courage.

“My hand on your backside was the end of that conversation,” Thranor retorted.

“Think about it, Ada, please,” Galad begged. “You said no without even thinking about it.”

Thranor took a threatening step towards him. “Do you want me to send you for the paddle?”

“N-no…”

“Inside. Bed. Now.”

Galad had rebelled as much as he dared. He bowed his head in submission and walked away, and every step that he took was a painful reminder of nerves that had been set alight by his father’s hand. His path back to the house took him around the side of the workshop where his brothers were taking their break. Breigon was sitting on an old tree stump and idly stuck his foot out as Galad passed. It made Galad stumble, and as he caught himself he whirled to face his brother. “You idiot!” he snapped tearfully. 

“Ah-ah, we don’t use naughty language like that,” Celegnir said reprovingly. “Still, Breigon, that wasn’t very nice.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Galad,” Breigon replied, though he didn’t sound sorry. “Where are you going in such a rush anyway?”

“Nowhere,” Galad said quietly. “Just inside.”

“Inside is somewhere, so say that you’re going inside,” Celegnir scolded him. “Don’t be mysterious and sulky.”

“Why are you mysterious and sulky?” Pleasant spring sunlight brought out the normally difficult to see strands of gold in Breigon’s hair as he leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He smirked at his baby brother. “Did Little Galad get his bottom smacked?”

Galad tried to turn away, but Celegnir was standing in the middle of the path. “No,” he began, flustered.

“Really?” Celegnir asked meaningfully.

“It’s nothing to do with anyone else,” Galad protested.

“Little Galad did get his bottom smacked,” Breigon said with a laugh. “Don’t try and lie to us. We heard it. But you took it well.”

Celegnir folded his arms and nodded. “Probably all the practice you’ve had. But why did you lie, Galad? One would think that being naughty again would be the very last thing on your mind when not two minutes ago you were in trouble with Adar. Perhaps we should tell him about this. Perhaps he didn’t discipline you quite as soundly as he thought.”

“Tell him whatever you want,” Galad whispered in defeat. “I just want to go inside. Ada sent me to bed.”

“Because that is where badly behaved elflings belong,” Celegnir said. “I will take you. Breigon, tell Adar that I’m making sure Galad goes to bed.”

“Shall I tell him about the lying?” Breigon asked.

Celegnir took a breath. Then he met Galad’s eyes and hesitated. Galad wondered what his eldest brother saw in his eyes, because he said, “No. I’m sure Galad didn’t mean to lie. Come, muindor laes.” As Celegnir put a hand on Galad’s shoulder and drew him away, Galad knew that he would have seen disappointment on Breigon’s face if he had looked back. But Celegnir was firstborn by a decade. That seemed negligible to Galad when the difference between he and his eldest brothers was eight hundred years, but while Thranor’s eldest sons could often be aligned in their thinking, that decade gave Celegnir the edge when they were not.

Once they were in the relative safety of Galad’s bedroom, Celegnir took out a nightshirt and a pair of comfortable leggings as Galad began to undress. “I know that this last week has been rough for you,” he said quietly. “But you need to make a greater effort to stay on Adar’s good side. Sometimes that means biting your tongue even if it goes against what you want or believe.”

“This is my life,” Galad said just as quietly. “I should be allowed to advocate for myself. Since I’m not allowed, will you speak to Ada on my behalf?”

“I won’t,” Celegnir replied. “You don’t belong in the south. Your place is here.”

“Noendir would.”

“Noendir never knew what was best for you.”

Galad caught his breath and turned to face his brother. His tunic lay half unfastened. “And you do?”

“I have helped our father raise you since you were six years old,” Celegnir replied, striding to Galad and continuing to undress him. “So yes, I have a fairly strong idea of what is good for you and what is not.”

“A strong idea is not the same as a good idea,” Galad said under his breath.

Celegnir didn’t hesitate. He reached around and landed a firm smack to the elfling’s bottom. “Arms up.”

Sighing softly, Galad did as he was told and suffered in silence the indignity of being made ready for bed as if he was a little boy. He slid between the bedcovers and settled on his side with one arm curled under his head. His bottom had been throbbing after Thranor’s hard attentions and the smack from Celegnir had made it burn all over again. “Do you think that it will always be no?” he ventured.

“You going south?” Celegnir said, glancing up from folding Galad’s clothes. “I don’t know. I can say with confidence that it won’t be yes until you’re at least the age Noendir was when he went. You seem to have this idea that you need to rush everything, that it must happen now. You’re not living on borrowed time, Galad. Stay here and study with Healer Albethon as you have been doing. Then when you’re older maybe things will be different.”

At least the age Noendir was. Noendir had been a few months past his first yen when he had left for the south. It would be seventy-five years before Galad got there. The thought of waiting his lifetime, longer than his lifetime, to escape this life of unending heartache and fear made his head spin. Feeling sick to his stomach, he pressed his face into the pillows and heard the shaking of his own voice as he said, “I think that I would like to sleep now.”

“Elflings need sleep,” Celegnir agreed softly. “Stay up here until one of us comes to release you. All right?”

Galad nodded numbly. Seventy-five years. Seventy-five years. Seventy-five years. The thought tumbled around his mind like leaves caught in a whirlpool. No matter how hard he tried to catch it and make it stop, it slipped through his fingers again and again. One thing was clear to him though. He might not feel strong enough to challenge his father. He might tremble at the very thought of it. But Celegnir was wrong. Galad was living on borrowed time. Every moment spent living under Thranor’s iron fist hammered one more tiny crack into his spirit. One day it would be a crack too far and he would break, and once he broke there would be no coming back from that. And so he had to find the strength to save himself. Before it was too late.

Not until a week later did Galad once again delve deep inside and dig out his courage.

It was the quiet time before bed where he was allowed to stay in the living room with the rest of the family and do as he pleased providing he behaved. Sometimes he liked to do a puzzle or play a round of Warriors with his brothers when they invited him; not because he especially enjoyed the game, but his mind was swift and he was good at it even so. He liked the briefly approving nod that he got from his father when he did well at it and the rough hair tousle from Celegnir. Even Breigon’s resigned shrug. Most of the time though, he preferred to curl in the corner of the sofa and read a book. That was what he could be found doing on this night while his brothers played cards and his father silently finalised the details of a commission. At least, that was what they thought he was doing. But though he turned the page when it was expected, he did not take in the words before him.

Finally, he made himself break the silence. “Ada?”

“Yes,” Thranor said curtly.

“I was wondering if I might go to the village tomorrow to send a letter by courier,” Galad said.

“Your letter to Noendir can go at the same time as ours,” Thranor replied.

Galad swallowed. He was a breath away from backing down, but the words came out anyway, almost against his will. “I’m not writing to Noendir.”

“You don’t have anyone else to write to!” Breigon laughed. “Unless you’ve found a girl who’ll have you. Or a boy.”

“Breigon,” Celegnir lightly chided him, but he was smiling too.

“I’ve written to Daerada,” Galad said quietly.

Thranor looked up from his work. At the round table by the window a glance passed between Celegnir and Breigon. “And what have you written to him?” Thranor asked.

“I’ve told him that I want to be a healer and that you’re only letting me study here with Healer Albethon when the best training is in the south,” Galad said carefully. “I have asked Daerada to advocate for me.”  

“Bold of you,” Thranor said softly, sitting perfectly still, “to assume that your letter will reach your grandfather or that you will even make it out of the house with the letter intact.”

“I have written more than one,” Galad said. “So that if it gets destroyed there will be others.”

A chill descended as if someone had crowned the house in ice while the forest beyond lay untouched by the frost. Galad didn’t dare move, but his fingers tightened around his book as his gaze shifted to his brothers. Celegnir looked back at him, and he recognised disappointment in his eldest brother’s handsome face, but Breigon was shaking his head as he shuffled the deck of cards. Galad knew what Breigon was thinking. That he was stupid. That he deserved whatever was coming. Swallowing his fear, Galad made himself look back at his father.

“I had hoped that you were done being wilful,” Thranor said finally.

“I don’t intend to be wilful, Ada,” Galad replied quietly. 

“Yet here you are – not only challenging me on a point that I was sure I had made abundantly clear to you, but also sneakily writing letters and plotting to go behind my back to get your own way,” Thranor said. “Do we have different understandings of wilful? What about conniving? Deceitful?”

That hurt, though Galad supposed uncomfortably that he had been both of those things. The ends justified the means, he told himself. One hundredfold, they did. “I don’t feel that I have been understood or heard. All I want is to have a conversation. A real and meaningful conversation where I’m not being shouted at or told no without having a chance to speak my mind. This is important, Ada. It’s my dream, my calling. If I stay here my dream will always be out of reach, but in the south-”

“Oh Galad, enough about the bloody south!” Breigon cut in. “We’re tired of hearing about it. You’re not going.”

“Yes, because I’m only seventy,” Galad said. “But if that’s the real reason-”

“What do you mean if it is?” Celegnir demanded. “That is the reason.”

“Please,” Galad whispered in frustration. “Please stop interrupting me. If it really is because everyone is so concerned about my safety then fine, but if something awful is going to happen to me in the south when I’m seventy then it can just as easily happen when I’ve reached my first yen or my second or even my fifth. Ada,” he said, turning an imploring gaze on his father. “Ada, please. I won’t send the letter to Daerada. But please hear me. This is what I want, this is the life that I want to make for myself. All I have ever wanted is to be a healer.”

“Then be a healer,” Thranor snarled at him. “Here, where you will be safe. Where I will know where you are every night. Where I will know that you aren’t lying in a ditch somewhere bleeding to death!”

Where he can control you and hurt you, whispered a voice somewhere inside. But Galad didn’t need the warning. He already knew well the cost to himself if he stayed. The thought of it pushed him past his limit. “You can still die in the north!” he cried, powerless to stop the words tumbling from his lips. “My mother did!”

An incredible and silent stillness seemed to settle over the world. All Galad could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the echo of his anguished words. Celegnir and Breigon moved first, slowly lowering their cards as they stared at him. Then Thranor tossed his work aside and crossed the room in three quick strides, so fast that Galad shrank back with wide eyes. “Tell me,” he said, leaning down and trapping Galad against the back of the sofa with a hand pressed to either side of him. “What happened the last time you wouldn’t let this go?”

“I was punished,” Galad said quietly, staring at the floor.

“Louder!” Thranor snapped. “You don’t care that your brothers hear your disrespect and disobedience, so let them hear this. What happened the last time you wouldn’t let this go?”

Galad took a deep breath and spoke more clearly. “I was punished.”

“How?”

“A…a spanking,” Galad said miserably, his courage having long fled him.

“Yes. But I don’t think that it made an impression, did it?” The question was answered with silence. Thranor narrowed his eyes. “Did it, Galadaelin?”

“No,” Galad whispered. As if there was anything else he could possibly say.

“Get up and give me that book. I said give it to me!” When Galad faltered, Thranor wrenched the book from him. The heart breaking sound of paper tearing cut Galad to the core. Thranor flung the damaged book into the fireplace, and Galad stifled a cry of dismay. He turned a desperate look upon his brothers, but Celegnir glanced away and Breigon stared back in silent satisfaction as Thranor took Galad by the upper arm and hauled him to his feet. He dragged his youngest son back to his chair and jerked Galad’s leggings down before pulling him across his lap.

The pull had been unwarranted. Galad would have obeyed an order to get into position because everyone there knew that he would have had no choice. Nobody knew that more than him. He turned his face against his upper arm and barely reacted as his father’s strong hand cracked down on his bare bottom. That was the only sound in the room, over and over and over again, an unceasing fire. Celegnir and Breigon had resumed their game. Thranor hadn’t told them to leave and it hadn’t occurred to them to leave of their own accord. As far as they were concerned, there was no need. There had never been a need. This was normal.

Such lack of privacy had not upset Galad too much when he had been a little boy. That was not to say that it had entirely unaffected him, because he had always found it a shameful thing to be punished in the presence of his brothers. But as a small elfling, he had known that Noendir sometimes got spanked and that such events only ever took place in Noendir’s bedroom, Thranor’s study, or the workshop when nobody else was around. Galad had supposed – and hoped – that when he was no longer little, the rules would change for him and greater thought would be given to his dignity. They never had. And so he had become accustomed to his punishments being public more often than they were not, though he had never become accustomed to the humiliation. The best he could manage was numb detachment.

“Breigon,” Galad distantly heard his father say. “Bring me the paddle.”

Galad shut his eyes. Thranor did not pause in the relentless spanking while he waited for the paddle, and the smacks that fell across the middle of Galad’s bottom gained in power with the full force of two thousand years of muscle behind them. His mouth fell open in a soundless scream and his eyes flew open in terror. It was almost a relief when Breigon returned with the paddle because it meant a moment where he was spared from the onslaught. But only a moment. His stomach dropped horribly when the cool and sturdy wood came to rest on his bottom.

“Don’t tense up,” Thranor snapped, striking the back of Galad’s thigh with the paddle. “You earned this. You will take it.”

Taking a deep breath, Galad forced his body to relax. The paddle descended immediately. The spanking may have been endured without tears but the same could not be said of the paddling. No amount of learned stoicism could help Galad and stop him sobbing into the arm of the chair as his bottom was paddled raw. Only when he was limp and struggling for breath did Thranor yank his leggings back up and shove him to the floor. He cowered at his father’s feet, scrabbling at the floor with trembling fingers as he sought something to hold onto that might save him from keeling over. But he didn’t have to find anything because Thranor wasn’t done.

Thranor gripped Galad by the throat and pulled him up, shaking him as a terrier shakes a rabbit. “Perhaps,” he snarled, “I would have considered letting you study in Glaerobel, but you can say goodbye to any hope that you had of getting out of here. You are done. Do you hear me? You are done. You will not see that idiot Albethon again, and tomorrow your books, your herbs, your oils, they are being destroyed, all of them. You will stay here and you will be my apprentice, and you will learn the meaning of hard work. But if you ever, ever,” and for the first time in Galad’s life, his father struck his face, “talk about your mother like that again, I will tie you to your bed and put bars on your window and a lock on your door, and that will be the life that you have made for yourself. Do not speak, Galadaelin, but you had better nod to tell me that you understand every word I have said.”

Galad couldn’t. Paralysed in a web of his own terror, he stared into his father’s enraged eyes. Blood dripped from his cheek. As their gazes held he felt the fingers around his throat tighten. He closed his eyes and saw stars and darkness, but then chair legs were scraping on the floor and he could hear shouting. Adar, you’re going to kill him! Adar, no, no, let him go! Not just Celegnir. Breigon was shouting too, and they were both there, throwing themselves to their knees either side of Thranor and Galad as they struggled to prise their father’s hand from their baby brother’s throat. Thranor let go and Galad fell against one of his brothers. He didn’t know which until he heard Breigon’s voice in his ear. “Go upstairs, shut yourself in your room.” Breigon hauled Galad to his feet and shoved him towards the door, and Galad stumbled the rest of the way himself. The last thing he saw when he turned to pull the door shut was Celegnir with his hands on Thranor’s chest, holding him back, and Thranor swiping them away and pushing Celegnir from him.

His eyes met Galad’s.

Galad fled.

Chapter Text

The door opened. Galad didn’t lift his head. He could not lift it. He had dropped to his knees by his bed and that was where he had remained, unable to climb onto the bed, to tend his hurts, to do anything but kneel in stunned silence as different pains warred with one another for his attention. And like a drum beating the march, a thought struck his heart over and over. Ada doesn’t care if I die. Because whether Thranor put his hands around Galad’s throat and didn’t let go, or took from Galad the one thing that had sustained his spirit and brought him small measures of joy, they amounted to the same thing: an endless darkness from which there would be no return.

“Do you need a healer?”

Galad raised his eyes as booted feet came nearer. Their leather was deepest brown. In the time that it took him to reconcile the owner of those boots with the voice that had spoken, the question came again. “Do you need a healer?” It was not an impatient question. It was quiet. Sad? No. But perhaps regretful. Galad had never heard regret in that voice.

Bruises were already forming on his throat. His muscles cried out in protest as he forced a single word. “No.”

“What Adar did to you tonight was…it was different,” Breigon said. “If you need Healer Albethon, we will send for him.”

“No.”

“As you wish,” Breigon said. “Adar is calm. He will wait a while and then come to see you. He wants you to know that he won’t hurt you.”

Galad’s gaze drifted slowly across the floor and over Breigon’s lightly scuffed boots until it came to rest on his own hands lying limply in his lap. As he stared at them, he was aware of his brother walking away with a sigh. The door opened again. He spoke, embracing the pain with a willingness that frightened him. “Breigon. You helped me. You could have let Ada…”

“Kill you?”

“Yes.”

Breigon lingered by the door and looked up at the ceiling. His eyes moved back and forth in thought. Finally he closed the door and returned to Galad, going down onto one knee in front of him. He waited for Galad to look up and meet his eyes. “I’m not going to pretend that you’re my favourite person or that some special bond exists between us. We both know better. But you are my brother. You are a part of this family and that means something. I don’t know what it means. But something. So no, I have no wish to see you come to permanent harm by our father’s hands.”

That was one of the nicest things Breigon had ever said. In normal circumstances Galad might have laughed sardonically to himself about that. Now it just made him sad. He turned his face away and pressed it into the coverlet hanging over the side of his bed. He heard Breigon straighten and leave, and as the door closed Galad dried his tears on the coverlet. He missed one of them and it trickled down his cheek and over the cut that the back of Thranor’s hand had ripped into his skin. Shuddering, Galad gripped the edge of the bed and pulled himself carefully onto the mattress. He lay on his stomach, hiding his face in his arms. He was still, but his mind was not. Ada doesn’t care if I die. He wondered if Thranor had ever cared.  

It was near midnight when the door opened again. Galad was wide awake. The cut on his cheek pulsed with a sharp sting and his neck and his throat throbbed dully, but it was the pain across his bottom that kept him from restless sleep. The slightest movement made his leggings caress his abused muscles and raw skin. Soft as they were, they felt coarse as sandpaper. Even when he lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe, the pain was a constant from which there was no escape. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head and look towards the door, but he didn’t have to. He knew. This was the promised visit from his father.

“Lie as you are,” Thranor said quietly. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he carefully peeled Galad’s leggings down. Galad lay frozen, his wide eyes fixed on the pillows and a new ache making itself known as he struggled to unclench his fists. He heard a barely audible sigh from his father. Something cold touched his bottom then, something sweet and herby, and he couldn’t help whimpering as Thranor began to cautiously smear salve over the damage that he had inflicted. “I know,” Thranor said in a low voice. “You must make more of this. Breigon used much of it when he strained his shoulder.”

Making sense of that was difficult. Could it be that Thranor had changed his mind, that he would not take healing away? Galad hardly dared believe it. “I will go tomorrow to gather herbs if I may,” he whispered tightly.

“Tomorrow you will rest. There is enough to last a week yet,” Thranor said. “But when you are recovered, then yes, you may collect whatever herbs you need. We have all benefited from the salves and creams that you make. You are…you are talented. I will not take that away from you. Whatever else may happen.”

The salve would not work miracles, but Galad had put time and effort into perfecting the blend of calendula, lavender, and comfrey, and it gave him enough relief that his mind was not wholly consumed by pain. When the salve had been rubbed in, Thranor wordlessly took Galad’s leggings all the way off and unfolded the back of his tunic to cover his bruises. Galad supposed that Thranor would leave now that his duty was done, but he did not. He moved further down the bed and stayed there. Tentatively, Galad pushed himself onto his knees and turned around. Moving hurt somewhat less than it had before. Thranor was sitting with his head in his hands, his eyes either closed or fixed on the floor. Galad couldn’t tell which. He started to reach nervously for his father, but he snatched his hand back when Thranor lifted his head to look at him.

An empty smile ghosted across Thranor’s lips. “I have made you afraid of me. Would it surprise you to learn that you were not always scared of your father, Galad?”

The irony of being scared to agree that he was scared was not lost on Galad. Instead, he said quietly, “It is hard for me to remember when things were different.”

“So I imagine. The five years between your birth and the death of your mother are nearly lost to me too,” Thranor said. “But I think that it was a happy time. I carried you on my shoulders and you would laugh to be so high. I remember that when it stormed, it was me that you ran to. Not your brothers. Not even your mother. It was me. You were not always afraid.”

“I’m sorry that I am not the son that you remember or that you loved so well,” Galad said softly.

“And yet you are still my son,” Thranor replied. “My son who I have watched grow from a gentle and curious toddler into a handsome and clever boy. But what I don’t understand is why you make me do these things. I ask very little of you. Sometimes I have you help with deliveries but for the most part you are free to spend your days reading, drawing, gathering herbs to make your salves and oils, spending time with Albethon. The only thing that I expect of you is obedience. Why do you not give it to me? Is there something wrong with you that you cannot?”

“I…I try,” Galad whispered.

Thranor turned fully to face him. He caught his breath and stared at the cut to Galad’s cheek. But only for a moment. A shadow passed across his eyes, darkening them to the shade of weathered wood. Galad knew that his father had blocked out the cut. That the cut and the blow responsible for it had been locked away in the safe recesses of Thranor’s mind never to be touched again. “Do you try?” Thranor pressed on as if that moment had not happened. “I don’t see that. All I see is you pushing and pushing and pushing until I snap. You have made me punish you three times in the space of two weeks. Three times, Galad. It has to stop. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you if you refuse to improve your behaviour.”

Anxiously nibbling his lower lip, Galad looked down at his hands. He supposed that there was truth in all that Thranor had said. He had pushed him. He had kept on about the south and healing. He hadn’t let it go even when all the warning signs had been telling him to do just that. Perhaps it was his fault then. Perhaps he was well deserving of not just all that had happened that night but everything that had happened since the death of his mother. He wondered if she would be as disappointed in him as his father was. Somehow that would be worse though Thranor was right there and Pelassiel was not, because Galad had accepted that he was a disappointment to his father but the hope that he might one day reunite with his mother and hear her say that she was proud of him had been something to cling to.

“Your brothers never gave me trouble as you do,” Thranor added quietly. “Still, the things that happened tonight will not happen again. That was the first and last time that I will ever put my hands on you in that way. I understand that you may not believe me but you have my word even so. I am also prepared to have a conversation with you about the path that you wish to take. I will offer you the chance to study in Glaerobel. But that is dependent upon your improved behaviour and the letters to your grandfather being handed over to me.”

Galad stirred slightly at that. He wondered what Thranor feared most – having his youngest son taken from his control or facing the wrathful judgement of his own father should the truth emerge. “I will destroy the letters,” Galad said. “And I am grateful that you are willing to speak with me, but I know that I will say the wrong thing and upset you. I can’t…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t take any more.”

“I cannot promise to hold my temper,” Thranor replied. “But I can promise that you will not be punished. You have had enough for tonight.”

That would have to suffice. “I don’t think I can believe that you’re keeping me in the north for my safety or because I’m too young to leave. I feel that you’re keeping me here so that you can control what I do and because I’m an easy target for you when you’re angry, because I won’t fight back when you take your anger out on me. And that makes me so sad,” Galad said softly. “I wish you knew, Ada. I wish you knew how every solitary word of praise or approving nod from you feels like the best moment of my life, and how devastating it is for me when everything I do, everything I am, is wrong in your eyes. I’m so tired of being sad. Of feeling like my only purpose in life is to soak up your rage and Breigon’s hatred. You frighten me and you hurt me and then you move on like it was nothing, while my only contribution to your life is to make you angry and disappointed. I don’t understand why you want to keep subjecting either of us to that if we only make each other miserable.”

Thranor was so silent and still that Galad feared he had gone too far, that this was the quiet moment when anger gently crept upon Thranor and enveloped him as hot water in a bath works its way into frozen muscles on a cold winter night. But Thranor’s voice when he spoke was still restrained. “I already told you that I will consider letting you go to Glaerobel. You may study there with healers more advanced than Albethon since that is what seems important to you. Glaerobel is close enough that you will return home on your free days and that your brothers and I can keep an eye on you when you are not here.”

“Let me go, Ada,” Galad whispered. “If for no reason other than being apart might make you feel more kindly towards me. Or even help you to love me.”

“Galad,” Thranor said quietly. “I…”

Galad looked up in cautious hope. It faded like a wisp of smoke on the breeze as his father looked away. “You can’t say it. Am I so impossible to love that you can’t even lie to me?”

Thranor had dropped his head into his hands, but he looked up abruptly. “Go to Amon Lanc.”

“W…what?”

“You may go to Amon Lanc,” Thranor said. “I will make the arrangements. But there are conditions. You study at the Temple of Greenwood. Only at the Temple. Your journeys home will be less than if you were in Glaerobel but I will expect you home when you are ordered home. I will have monthly reports from your teachers. And if I see something, anything, that I don’t like, I reserve the right to pull you out of training and have you back here. Is that clear?”

No. It had to be a trick. The cruellest of tricks. But Galad found himself nodding in numb disbelief. “Yes, Ada,” he managed to say. “I…thank you.”

“Very well,” Thranor said. “Get into bed.”

Galad pulled the covers back and settled carefully on his stomach as his father turned the lamp down and left without a word. The click of the door closing behind him echoed in the dark room, and Galad waited until all was quiet before releasing the breath that he was holding. It came out on a bubble of stunned laughter. “He’s letting me go,” he whispered. “He’s really letting me go…”

In the days that followed, Galad wore himself out staying on his father’s good side and pleasing his brothers. He spoke only when he was spoken to, his speech careful and measured to avoid giving accidental offence or causing upset. He went above and beyond in his chores. When he was told to come, he came with alacrity. When he was told to go, he went unhesitatingly. He obeyed without question. When he was not doing those things, he spent time away from home, visiting Healer Albethon or wandering around the village or just sitting in his favourite cedar tree until sunset. He was most comfortable anywhere that was not home. The more he was away, the less chance there was of him ruining the chance that he had been given. He knew that Thranor would use the tiniest excuse to snatch this gift away, and that Breigon was already doing all he could to stop Galad’s escape in its tracks. Every day that it stayed in sight felt like a victory.

Finally, the days turned into hours. It was Galad’s final day at home and he had one thing to do before his last meal with his family and his last night in his own bed. After checking his travel pack for what he had told himself was the last time, even though he knew that he would check it before bed and first thing the next morning, he left the house and took to the path. When he reached the little cottage that he had come to know as well as his own home, it was to find Healer Albethon sitting cross-legged in the grass with a large silver bowl in his lap. The bowl was full of berries and in front of him were flat sheets for spreading the berries out to dry in the sun.

“Galad, my dear boy,” Albethon said, looking up with a smile.

“Hello, Healer Albethon,” Galad replied. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Hello and goodbye in the same breath,” Albethon remarked. “Elflings are always in a rush.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Galad reminded him. “For the south.”

“Ah. Yes. The south. And are you excited for your grand southern adventure?”

“Not yet,” Galad admitted. “Mostly I’m nervous.”

“No harm in that. I suppose that is all part of the fun. It will make the change from nervousness to excitement all the sweeter.” Albethon popped a berry into his mouth and smiled. “If going south is right for you, and I think it is, then you must do it. But I will miss your visits and assistance. You could have stayed here and apprenticed to me. I’d have made a splendid healer of you. And you know, your father will miss you too.”

“You think so,” Galad said without emotion.

“I know so! Don’t forget that I was there to welcome you into the world. Not that Pelassiel needed my help. In fact, I think I annoyed her,” Albethon said idly. “You were her fourth…fifth…what number were you?”

Galad sighed. “Fourth.”

“Fourth, of course you were. Well, she knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t need me giving her instructions. Oh, but your father…” Albethon leaned over the bowl of berries with a conspiratorial smile. “I had never seen an elf so proud as him! I asked him – just out of curiosity, you know – if he had hoped for a daughter after three sons. And he held you in the crook of one arm, clasped my arm with his other, and said, Albethon, you could offer me the pick of a dozen daughters and I would still choose this boy. He was so in love with you, I had to remind him to let your mother have you back!”

As Albethon chuckled and rambled on, Galad brushed the back of his hand over his eyes. If he didn’t have a few hazy memories of Thranor tickling him and cuddling him and lifting him up high, he would have said that the odd healer was misremembering. But Galad did have those memories and so he thought that this charming tale of his birth was likely true. Sometimes he wished that he didn’t have the memories, because knowing what he’d had for five painfully short years, knowing what he could have had a lifetime of, was a cruel torture.

“Thank you for letting me learn from you,” Galad said, when he trusted his voice not to shake. “That always meant a great deal to me.”

“Of course,” Albethon replied bemusedly. “Good luck in the south, my dear boy. You will do well.”

Galad nodded and turned away but he couldn’t make his feet work. Standing still, he stared at the silver birches at the edge of Albethon’s property. Keep walking, he told himself. The voice in his head went unheeded. He turned back abruptly. “Did you know?”

“Know?”

“Did you know?” Galad repeated. “You are the only healer I’ve ever had. So did you know what it was like for me at home?”

“I’m not sure I understand what it is that you’re asking me,” Albethon said, blinking owlishly.

“You’ve known my father a thousand years. You just told me how he reacted to my birth,” Galad said, trying a different approach. “So you must have recognised the difference in him after my mother died. Did you ever talk to him about that? Did you try to help him or give him advice about how to manage without his wife? I think those are things that a healer should be concerned about. Were you?”

“Your father was well supported after Pelassiel died,” Albethon said with an airy wave of his hand. “Don’t forget that he had three other sons to help look after you and take care of the house.”

“Three other sons who had lost their mother,” Galad said incredulously. “They needed support too!”

Albethon sighed and sat back, crossing his arms over the bowl in his lap. “They had it. Your grandfather tried to have all five of you – you, your father, your brothers – move to Amon Lanc to live with him but Thranor refused to leave the home that he had made with Pelassiel. Captain Bregolas could hardly drag you all to the south, so he always detoured to visit when he came this way with the northern patrol. Don’t you think that if there was a problem, the Captain would have handled it?”

Those visits had been wonderful for Galad because Bregolas had been so patient with him. He was no longer certain that such a powerful and impressive elf as Bregolas had truly been interested in him, but when Galad had taken Bregolas by the hand and led him around the garden, shyly pointing out all the different flowers and herbs and leaves, his grandfather had let him do that. He had even repeated the things that Galad was telling him – and remembered them next time! Galad had loved that because it had made him feel that Bregolas was really listening to him, unlike Thranor who just grunted under his breath whenever Galad had felt brave enough to talk to him about plants and healing. Or anything really. But it wasn’t just because of Bregolas that Galad had enjoyed the visits. He had enjoyed them because the house had felt different. Because his father had not shouted and Breigon had not been cruel. As a smaller elfling, he had not understood the correlation. He had not understood that Bregolas’ mere presence had afforded him rare protection.

“I think that if my grandfather had seen with his own eyes anything that caused him alarm, he would have done something,” Galad said finally. “He didn’t see anything, Healer Albethon. But you did.”

“You know how my memory is, my dear boy,” Albethon replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You will have to refresh it for me.”

“I can do that. I was fourteen and my father brought me to you with a broken arm,” Galad said.

“Ah! Yes. A fall from a horse if memory serves me right,” Albethon said. “Thranor told me so.”

“A fall from a horse,” Galad agreed. “Ada left me with you while he went back to work. I was in so much pain that you couldn’t get my shirt off so you cut the sleeve from wrist to shoulder. You examined my arm, lifting it and rotating it and doing what you needed to do. And as you did those things, with my whole arm in your hands and a clear view of it, you saw that the underside was covered in bruises and pinch marks. I know that you saw because you hesitated and then you laughed and made a joke about how I was such a clumsy elfling.”

Albethon popped a handful of berries into his mouth and took his time eating them. As he chewed slowly, he tapped his head as if trying to encourage a memory to emerge. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t remember.”

“But it happened!” Galad said. “And I hadn’t been clumsy. My father and my brothers took it in turns to bathe me and get me ready for bed when I was little. I always dreaded it being Breigon’s turn because he would hurt me. He hurt me in places where nobody else was likely to see and only so much that the marks would fade in a day or two. If he thought that he had gone too far and the marks would still be visible by the time my father or my other brothers were going to handle my care, he would offer to do it for them. And they thought that he was being so helpful, so good. But he and I knew the truth.”

“Boys will be boys, I suppose,” Albethon said. “Playing roughly as they do.”

“Breigon wasn’t a boy!” Galad cried, his voice breaking in frustration and upset. “He was a grown up and he wasn’t playing! But I was a boy. I was a little boy who needed help but had no voice to ask for it, and that day when you looked at bruises that couldn’t possibly have been accidental, you made a conscious decision to ignore them. You could have done anything. You could have asked me about them. You could have told my father – even he would have stopped Breigon hurting me like that – or you could have sent word to my grandfather. You could have done anything other than what you chose to do, which was nothing!”

“Because what happened behind closed doors was none of my business!” Albethon said heatedly. 

Galad went still. He looked silently at the ancient elf. His teacher. His mentor. His friend. On some level he had already feared that Albethon knew. But accepting that fear as fact would have been a pain that he could not bear and so he had tucked it away until he felt strong enough to face it. Albethon looked back at him with remorse in his green eyes – infuriating, unhelpful remorse – but Galad scoffed under his breath and turned to walk away. He only stopped when he heard his name spoken. “What.” He did not turn back.

“You will do well in the south,” Albethon said. “You are going to be a good healer.”

Galad did turn back then. “I’m not going to be a good healer,” he replied. “I’m going to be a great one.”

There was nothing that Albethon could say. He simply inclined his head and continued sorting his berries. Galad walked away, dashing tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and swiping branches out of his way. One of them snagged on his tunic and he scraped his hands trying to pull it loose until finally he flung it away from him with a frustrated cry. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face against his arm, taking deep breaths. He couldn’t go home in such a state. He had to be composed when he got home or he would fall at the last hurdle.

Not until Galad was preparing for bed that night did he identify the feeling that had been gnawing at his stomach all evening. For as long as he could remember he’d had a friend in the ancient and strange village healer. Albethon had been his only friend in the world, which Galad supposed Breigon had been right to laugh about but which had meant something to him even so. That Albethon could know even a fraction of what his life at home was like but still choose to look the other way was a betrayal so immense that it reframed Galad’s view of the entire world. If he could not trust a friend, a healer, who could he trust? What about Bregolas? If Albethon had known but done nothing, why would Bregolas be any different? Maybe Celegnir and Breigon’s friends knew. Maybe Noendir knew about the hurtful things that Breigon did when nobody was there to see. And if so many people knew, and yet so many people had let it happen…Galad’s nightshirt hung loose in his hands as he stared bleakly at nothing. Perhaps it meant that he had deserved it. Or that Thranor was not the only one who found him too difficult to love or care for but that everyone saw him so.

The sound of the door opening pulled Galad from his sad thoughts. Forcing down the wave of self-loathing that had started to wash over him, he pulled his nightshirt over his head and turned as Thranor stepped into the room. His father closed the door and glanced at the travel pack that Galad had put neatly in the corner. “You are packed, then,” he said. “You have everything that you need?”

“Yes, Ada,” Galad said respectfully.

“I have brought something that you will need in the south,” Thranor said.

Galad brightened. A leaving gift! That was the last thing he had expected. A new pen, perhaps. He had already packed pens and inks, but a specially bought pen, one that Thranor had got just for him, well, that would be his favourite pen and he would use it all the time and know that his father had thought of him. “What is it, Ada?” He tried to keep his voice respectful but he thought that a hint of excitement might have crept in.

The object that Thranor pulled out of his tunic was familiar, and Galad could only stare at it in numb silence as hopeful excitement was replaced with crushing disappointment. “You will give this to your teacher,” Thranor said, tossing the wooden paddle onto the bed when Galad didn’t take it. “Whoever he is, he will have greater use of it than I will, though you need not bring it home when you visit. I shall craft a new one. And you had better give it to your teacher, Galadaelin. I will know if you have not. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Galad said quietly.

“Were you expecting something else?” Thranor asked, arching his eyebrows.

Galad shook his head and kept his eyes on the floor. “No, Ada.”

“Then pick it up and put it in your pack,” Thranor said. “Do it now while I am here.”

Ashamed of his own stupidity, Galad obeyed wordlessly. His father’s eyes bored into his back the whole time. He could feel them as surely as if they were fingers digging into him. He was afraid to straighten and turn around, but when he did, Thranor only nodded to the bed. “Finish whatever you need to finish and then get to bed. No reading. Straight to sleep. You have an early start in the morning.”

But Galad did not sleep that night. For hours he tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling before restlessly rolling over and turning the pillow to the other side only to kick the covers off because they made him feel stifled and hot. He was awake when his bedroom door opened in the early hours. He lay still, the coverlet pulled up high so that it hid half his face, and he watched through his lashes as the figure in the doorway stood still and looked in at him in silence. Surely the thumping of his heart must be audible, he thought desperately. But after a few tense moments he was left alone and the door was closed again. He stared into the shadows before slipping from his bed. He crept along the upper landing, tiptoeing past Thranor’s room where a light was visible under the door, and let himself into Celegnir’s room.

Swallowing hard, Galad crossed to the bed and put a hand on his eldest brother’s shoulder. “Celegnir. Celegnir, wake up.”

“What is it?” came the low reply.

“We have to go,” Galad whispered.

Celegnir sat up a little and looked blankly through the darkness. “Go where?”

“South! We have to leave now,” Galad said anxiously. “Ada just opened my door and looked in at me. He never ever does that. He’s going to change his mind, Celegnir. I know he is. Please, can we go now?”

“The sun isn’t up yet,” Celegnir growled under his breath. “Go back to bed and don’t speak to me until I have had breakfast.”

“Muindor, please,” Galad begged tearfully, clutching at his brother’s shoulder. “Ada is going to change his mind!”

Celegnir was never violent, not like Breigon, but he put his hand flat on Galad’s chest and shoved him away. “Adar is not going to change his mind. But I’ll change my mind about escorting you if you don’t get back to bed now and let me sleep. And don’t even think that I’m bluffing, Galadaelin. I have never been more serious in my life.” Galad turned away with a stifled sob of panic, but Celegnir sighed. “No. Wait. Come back here.”

“Why?” Galad asked miserably, as his brother pushed the bedcovers back.

“Because I don’t trust you not to do something stupid like getting on your horse and disappearing into the night while the rest of us lie abed none the wiser,” Celegnir grumbled. “Get here. Now.”

Galad wordlessly got into bed and lay on his side with his arm curled under his head. The two of them lay in silence for a while until finally Celegnir relented with another sigh and put an arm around Galad. “Don’t cry,” he said quietly. “Adar and I were discussing the logistics of the journey south just last night. Escorting you to Glaerobel and handing you over to Master Natholir to take you the rest of the way to Amon Lanc. Adar is hardly thrilled that you’re going but he’s not changed his mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now be quiet and go to sleep, you little pest,” Celegnir said.

“I’m sorry. I’m just so afraid that this is all going to go wrong,” Galad whispered. “This is my only chance to escape. If I can’t make it…”

Celegnir did not speak to fill the silence. He lay still for a moment before abruptly pulling his arm from around Galad and turning onto his other side. “Go to sleep. I won’t tell you again.”

Galad bit his lip but said nothing. He did not – and indeed could not – fall into a deep sleep but rested lightly for a few hours until shafts of pink and gold crept through the window. Returning to his room, he made short work of washing and dressing and fixing his braids. After one final check of his pack he took it downstairs and left it by the front door. He would have liked nothing more than to get his horse and mount up right then but he knew that he must exercise patience until Celegnir was ready to leave. The next hour would feel like the longest of all. He braced himself to face it and went to the kitchen where Breigon was already sitting at the table.

“Eager to leave, are you?”

“I’m being organised,” Galad replied politely.

Breigon sneered at him over the rim of his cup. “Perfect Galad. So organised and well prepared. The truth is that you can’t get away fast enough. I don’t suppose I can blame you for that. But what am I going to do when I get upset and my pretty little punching bag is a two day ride to the south?”

“Maybe try a real punching bag made of leather and filled with sand,” Galad suggested with quiet courage as he turned away to pour himself a cup of water. “Or you could try counting to ten.”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

In the window, the reflection of a broad shouldered figure towered above Galad. “No, Breigon. I don’t.” He waited for a blow to his lower back or his side but it never came. Taking a deep breath, Galad turned and looked up into his brother’s eyes.

Breigon stared back at him for long enough that Galad had to drop his gaze. “I suppose I should be nice to you,” Breigon said. “It is your last morning here, though I don’t suppose it will be long before you’re back. I’m not sure whether you’ll fail spectacularly or just quit when it gets hard, but would you find it awfully rude of me to place a wager on how long you’ll last?”

“I would be unsurprised if you did,” Galad replied.

“Well, good luck then. Try not to get yourself killed,” Breigon said.

Galad watched his brother out of the kitchen, and when he was sure that Breigon wasn’t going to come back to deliver any other parting shots, he sat at the table with a sigh and propped his chin in one hand. He didn’t eat anything. His stomach was already doing somersaults. He still didn’t entirely trust that his family was not playing a trick on him, that at any moment one of them would break the news that he wasn’t to leave at all and that they had been laughing at him this whole time. Before Celegnir came into the kitchen, Galad moved Breigon’s empty plate in front of himself so that his eldest brother wouldn’t force breakfast on him. It worked. Celegnir glanced at the plate and nodded briefly.

“If there is anything that you need to do before we leave, do it now,” he said. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Before Galad had even realised where he was going, he found himself back in his bedroom. He knelt before the chest at the end of his bed and took out something that he had not held for some years. The bear that his mother had made for him did not smell exactly as he remembered. Confinement to the chest had made him smell of cedar rather than…well, whatever his old scent had been. But the eyes that shone back at Galad were just as loving as they had always been. “You’re going to come with me,” he said softly. “I don’t trust Breigon not to rip you in half or pull your ears off while I’m away.”

Galad got up and went to the door, but there he stopped and slowly turned back. He looked around at the room that had been his sanctuary for more than sixty years. At his bed, at his writing desk, at his bookcase and the dozens of books that he was sad to leave behind, and on top of his dresser the farm that Thranor had made for his twelfth Begetting Day complete with field gates and stable doors that swung open, cleverly carved animals, and a sunken pond coated with reflective glass so that it could be filled with water without damaging the wood. Even though Galad had not played with the farm for a long time, he looked at it often. Sometimes he spent a whole hour just admiring the individual leaves on the trees and the fact that Thranor had thought to paint the horses different colours for him. The level of detail, the hours that Thranor had spent working on the farm, were a balm to Galad’s bruised soul because they served as a reminder that his father must have loved him. Then, if not now.

“Thank you for looking after me, room,” Galad whispered, and he left before the sting in his eyes could turn into something more.

By the time Galad had finished wandering from room to room, taking one last look at everything and indulging a few memories – some bad, others better – Celegnir had already brought their horses out of the stable. Galad discreetly tucked his bear into the top of his travel pack. He helped Celegnir finish preparing the horses, but once they were done he did not mount up right away. Celegnir had said that their father was in the workshop and would be out in a moment to say goodbye. But the moment turned into a minute. The minute became five. Ten. The horses were getting restless and it was coming on for half an hour before Galad spoke softly.

“Will Ada not say goodbye to me?”

“He’ll be here,” Celegnir said, though he sounded uncertain.

And indeed Thranor did emerge from the workshop though not before Galad had convinced himself that his father cared so little that he could let his youngest son leave home without a final word or look for him. That frightened Galad more than it upset him. He did not want his escape to the south to be an ending. He loved his father and he did not want to be disowned or Thranor to entirely wash his hands of him. He wanted…he wasn’t even sure what he wanted. The south and healing and freedom, yes, but to know also that he still had a home and a family. To love them from afar and to be safe until he had done enough to earn their pride and their love. Because he knew that he could do it. He knew that he could make something of himself. But it would be a bitter thing indeed if the price was what little love his father had left for him.

Heedless of the upset that he had caused, Thranor strode towards them. “You’re ready then,” he said.

“Yes, Ada,” Galad said quietly.

Thranor nodded briefly. He was holding two leather pouches, and Galad heard the clink of coins from within. “The larger of these bags contains your apprenticeship fee,” Thranor said. “In the second bag are the coins that I have been keeping for you as well as an additional allowance. Celegnir will mind them until you part ways. The allowance is yours to do with as you wish though your guardians at the Temple will likely have rules regarding personal spending. Should you reach the end of your allowance, do not think to write home and request more. Once it is gone, it is gone, and will only be replenished at the end of your visits home. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ada. Thank you,” Galad said gratefully.

“Very well,” Thranor said. “Go on then.”

“May I…” Galad immediately stopped. He already regretted that he had spoken. But Thranor was regarding him with raised eyebrows and it was too late to pretend that he didn’t have something to say. He swallowed his fear and tried again. “May I hug you, Ada? In…in farewell.”

For a horrible moment he thought that Thranor was going to say no. He didn’t think he could have stood the humiliation of such rejection nor the crushing knowledge that his own father found him so loathsome that even a brief embrace was intolerable. But Thranor finally gave a wordless nod. Galad tentatively stepped nearer and embraced him. It took a moment, but then Thranor slowly lifted his arms and put them around his son in the first hug he had given him in…Galad didn’t even know how long. He turned his face against his father’s broad chest, and if he could have shed tears without being harshly judged for them he would have wept to breathe in sweet sawdust and rich wood and the earthy leather of Thranor’s tunic, to feel such strong arms around him. The embrace did not last long, but it was something for Galad to cling to in his heart as Thranor patted his back awkwardly and drew away.

“You will meet our extended family in the south,” Thranor said, moving his hands to Galad’s shoulders. “Aunts, uncles, cousins. Some you already know such as your Daerada Bregolas and no doubt you will wish to know him better. But never forget what little part he and the rest of them have chosen to play in your life. Your loyalty must remain to the family that raised you – to your brothers, to me. You are ours. You belong to us, not to those who never cared to know you before. And if they now deign to recognise you as one of their own, remember that it is us to whom you owe your life.”

“Yes, Ada,” Galad whispered. “I promise.”

Thranor nodded silently. He stared into the distance and his fingers slowly tightened, digging into Galad’s slender shoulders in wordless possession of the son that he was losing after clinging onto him for so long. Galad dared not move, dared not speak as the bruising grip branded him, but his heart cried out a plea to any higher power that might be listening not to let his father change his mind, not to take this hard won chance from him. And just like that Thranor loosened his hold, breathing out slowly as he released Galad and stepped away. Saying nothing, he nodded to the horses.

It took all that Galad had not to run to his horse and leap upon her back and gallop away from the house and the north and everything that he was leaving behind. Celegnir exchanged some low words with Thranor before mounting up and then they were off. Galad hardly dared believe it, but they were. His body ached with the fear that Thranor was going to shout a command to stop, that Breigon was about to step out from behind a tree and stand in his path smirking while Celegnir offered a sympathetic smile and said, “I’m sorry, muindor-laes. You know that this was only ever just make believe.” But none of that happened.

They were leaving.

Galad was free.

Chapter Text

The town of Glaerobel lay less than half a day’s ride to the south. Celegnir and Galad arrived in the middle of the afternoon and went straight to a handsome inn called The Copper Cat where a reserved room was waiting for them. Galad had only been to Glaerobel twice before – that he could remember, anyway – and neither time had been an opportunity for him to enjoy the town because he had been too anxious trying to stay on his father’s good side. While he knew that Celegnir would keep a watchful eye on him, Galad was comforted by the thought that his eldest brother was likely to give him a somewhat freer rein than Thranor would have.

They stabled their horses and left their bags in their room before heading out to wander around the marketplace. It was a busy and bustling place where the cries of a vendor selling fresh spring berries and clotted cream vied with the laughter of crowds watching a troupe of acrobats tumbling over one another as they expertly weaved and waved long silk ribbons that snapped colourfully in the breeze. Celegnir kept Galad close and spoke sharply on the few occasions that he strayed too far from his side. But Celegnir also bought Galad a fruit pastry which Galad thought was kind of him. He was grateful for the fruit pastry in part because it was something that he could focus on that was not a new sound or smell or sight. Glaerobel was not terribly big, at least compared to Amon Lanc in the south – or so Galad understood from the letters that Noendir wrote to him – but it was still bigger than he was used to.

Just when they were about to return to the inn to freshen up for dinner, Galad noticed a shop across the way where books filled every inch of the windows. He stopped with a soft gasp. “Celegnir, please may I look?”

“Quickly,” his brother said, following his gaze.

“Quickly,” Galad repeated in dismay. “But…the books…”

Celegnir waited expectantly for him to finish the sentence and rolled his eyes when Galad could only look reverently at the bookshop. “Just don’t be all day about it. I’ll wait here for you.”

“I could meet you back at the inn,” Galad suggested.

For a moment he feared that he had made a mistake because Celegnir looked briefly disapproving. Then his brother relented with a sigh, tipping his chin up so that their eyes met. “One hour, muindor-laes. I expect to see you walking into our room within the hour. Don’t push your luck and think that you can turn up a minute late and don’t make me come looking for you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, muindor,” Galad said dutifully.

Celegnir nodded. “Go on then.”

The bookshop was a higgledy-piggledy jumble where a history tome and a philosophy scroll happily shared a shelf with a book of princess tales. This frustrated Galad because he liked things that made sense and were well ordered, but there was something exciting about not knowing what he would find each time he pulled a book out. He only managed to find three books about healing, and with some reluctance he settled on the one about healing in battle since he had not forgotten his father’s observation that he was wholly unimpressive in the eyes of his warrior grandfather. Galad did not think that he could be brave enough to specialise in military healing, but he would study it if it meant that Captain Bregolas might take an interest in him.

Despite being away from home there was little easing of the rules. Celegnir sent Galad to bed at the proper time that night while he remained in the common room to have another drink and listen to the minstrels who had set up in front of the fireplace. It was late when he returned to their room. Galad’s eyes flew open as soon as the door handle went down, but he lay still and quiet and listened to the sounds of Celegnir getting ready for bed. He was surprised when his brother did not get into bed. Through lowered lashes he watched Celegnir stand at the window and stare out over the town with one arm braced against the wall. Galad had looked out of that window earlier and noticed that it had a clear and unobstructed view of the bookshop. He had wondered if Celegnir had been watching him during his hour of freedom.

“Are you awake, Galad?”

“Yes.”

“This time tomorrow you will be on your way south and I’ll be back here if not home already,” Celegnir said. “It wasn’t too bad when Noendir left because you were still there. With you gone it will just be me and Adar and Breigon rattling around in that big house. It will take some getting used to.” Galad only made a non-committal sound of agreement because he didn’t know what to say, and for a moment there was silence as Celegnir got into bed next to him. He could feel Celegnir sitting up with his back against the pillows. He had a horrible feeling that his brother had no intentions of sleeping. Sure enough, Celegnir spoke again. “You said something when you were in my room this morning. You said that this is your only chance to escape.”

“I don’t remember,” Galad replied.

“Don’t lie to me,” Celegnir said sharply. 

“I’m not,” Galad whispered into the darkness. “I hadn’t slept all night and I was worried about leaving. I’m not saying that I didn’t say it. I’m saying that I don’t remember it.”

“Well, you did,” Celegnir said. “I’ve thought a lot about that today. Is that truly how you see this? An escape? Was your life so terrible?”

Galad wanted nothing more than to flee the conversation, but he knew that Celegnir wouldn’t let him. He sat up and hugged his knees close to his chest with a sigh. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know how to answer your questions.”

“The truth is often a good place to start.” When Galad said nothing, Celegnir leaned over and gave him a gentle nudge to the ribs. “I’m not Adar or Breigon,” he added with a cajoling smile. “I’m not going to give you a thrashing or rough you up just for being truthful.”

“It makes me hurt and sad that you can say those things with a smile,” Galad said quietly, looking away from his brother’s shadowy gaze. “You’re so desensitised to seeing Ada punish me, and Breigon rough me up, that it doesn’t mean anything to you. It’s an everyday thing where you can smile ruefully or roll your eyes. But it means something to me, Celegnir. It happened to me. You might not feel anything, but I never stopped feeling scared or upset or hurt.”

“I’m aware that it happened to you,” Celegnir replied. “I’m not sure what you think I can do about something that already happened.”

“Why would I think that you could do anything about something that already happened when you couldn’t do anything about it as it was happening,” Galad said. “Or maybe you chose not to do anything, I don’t know.”

For a moment Celegnir did not react. Then he moved so suddenly that Galad flinched, and he was afraid until he realised that his brother was moving away and not towards him. Celegnir got out of bed, pulling his nightshirt off in wordless anger and tossing it onto the bed. Not a word was spoken by either of them as Celegnir got dressed into the same clothes that he had worn to dinner while Galad sat with his head bowed over his knees and his arms tight around them. Only when Celegnir was all the way to the door did he stop and swing back around.

“No, you don’t know, you don’t know what it was like,” he snapped. “You were hardly more than a baby. You think that you have seen the worst of our father’s rages? They are nothing – nothing – compared to the early days after we lost our mother. You didn’t see Breigon pass through every possible stage of grief only to become forever trapped between anger and blame. You didn’t see Noendir cry himself to sleep every night for a year. You didn’t see Adar drinking himself into such a stupor that I had to help him to bed. You didn’t hear him vow to take his own life if he lost anyone else – including you! And you know what else you didn’t see, Galadaelin? You didn’t see me doing my best to hold it together and stop our broken world from completely shattering. You were not in my head to see my turmoil as I found myself torn between begging Daeradar for help and letting him believe that we were managing because I knew that it would drive Adar over the edge if anyone stepped in and took you and Noendir from him. You know the choice that I made and it is a choice that I must live with. I’m not saying that you had it easy, but we did our best in the situation that we were in at the time. Even if, from where you sit and judge, it might not seem like it.”  

Galad sat in stunned silence. Nobody had ever painted such a vivid picture of the aftermath of Pelassiel’s death. “I don’t judge you,” he said when he found his voice. “I have never judged anyone. I can’t imagine what it was like for you, Celegnir, and I’m so sorry that you had to carry our father and our brothers and me when you had suffered the loss of our mother too. I am so desperately sorry. I know that you would have done your best for Ada, and for Breigon and Noendir. I like to think that you would have done your best for me too, but when I think of all the pain and fear that I was required to endure just to be a part of our family, I don’t know if you did. Was I ever a priority for you?”

“You should be careful with difficult questions, Galad,” Celegnir said. “The answers are often equally difficult and you might not like them.”

“Tell me.”

“As you wish. No, you were never a priority for me.” Celegnir met Galad’s tear filled eyes through the shadows, but could only hold them with his for a moment before looking away with a sigh. “Not because I didn’t care for you. Not because you didn’t matter. Not even because I saw you differently to Noendir. You were my baby brother. You are my baby brother.”

“Then why?” Galad whispered.

“You were so little!” Celegnir whispered back roughly. “Not even old enough to say your own name properly! I thought that you were the one most likely to emerge unscathed. You might be confused about where your nana was. You might expect her to be there to read your bedtime stories. But you couldn’t understand death like we did. You wouldn’t feel her loss in the same way. You’d forget about her faster and you wouldn’t remember the pain of losing her. I was jealous of you for that because the rest of us…we all had to live with that pain. And I thought that whatever happened, it wouldn’t matter in five or ten or twenty years because you would remember nothing. I could never say the same for Adar or Breigon or even Noendir. They were my priority because they were the ones I feared for. I thought that all they needed to do was survive the next few years by whatever means necessary, and it would be worth it because eventually things would be all right and we would be a family again, and however they had made it through would be…it would be in the past, Galad. It wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t be remembered.”

Denial slowed understanding’s arrival. But understanding arrived nonetheless in all its crushing devastation. “Did you…did you let Breigon hurt me?” Galad asked distantly.

“It wasn’t meant to be forever,” Celegnir said softly, the words an impossible weight on Galad’s heart. “I knew that he was taking his anger out on you, but I thought that once he got it all out it would be over. You wouldn’t remember, and he would feel guilty but I’d knock that out of him with a wrestling match or getting him drunk at the tavern. But that didn’t happen. Breigon didn’t come out the other side and neither did Adar, and by that point too much time had passed and it was too late to ask for help because that was just…it was our life, it was our new normal. But I tried, Galad. I did try. I’m not stupid. I know that I didn’t see everything and I know that there’s things I didn’t stop. But if I ever saw that Breigon had a certain look about him, if I thought that you were going to be in danger, I’d do what I could to stop him before he went for you. I’m not claiming to have done right by you. But I did my best.”

Galad sat perfectly still in the bed, his eyes fixed on his knees as he hugged them close against his chest. The only movement came from the tears that silently laid their silver tracks down his cheeks. “I wish that I had been with our mother the night that she died. I wish that the storm had taken me instead, or that if she’d still had to die that I had gone with her.”

“Don’t you ever say that, Galadaelin,” Celegnir hissed. “Don’t you ever say it!”

“I wish that I had died the night of the storm!” Galad repeated, looking up. “I stopped being your brother the moment our mother died, Celegnir. You only ever saw me as a sacrifice. I was the price that you had to pay to ensure that Breigon and our father survived their grief, but I was not your commodity to spend. At least my death would have been a worthwhile sacrifice because Ada and Breigon would have grieved me and loved me still.”

“They do love you!” Celegnir said. “We all love you. Their love is just…different. Their feelings for you are their own and I don’t pretend to understand. But I love you truly. I hope that you can take some comfort from that.”

Galad turned onto his side with his back to Celegnir. Beneath the covers, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself. “Yours is as cruel a love as theirs, and if it is the only love that you have to offer me then I don’t want it. I am content to live my life unloved because it will bring less pain. That is a sacrifice that I choose to make.”

No more words passed between them.

Celegnir slipped away in silence and did not return until the early hours of the morning with a smell of liquor about him. He only kicked his boots off before falling into bed. The sun rose little more than an hour later. Galad was quiet as he prepared for the day ahead, and when he was done he drew fresh water for Celegnir and laid out clean clothes, and from his own pack he took a box of ginger sweets and a small vial of mint and chamomile water which he placed with the clothes. He told himself that he was only concerned about Celegnir avoiding sickness and a sore head because he was relying on him to lead the way further south, but that was only part true. He couldn’t bear to see anyone unwell – even if it was self-inflicted. Having done all that he could to care for his brother, Galad went downstairs and ate a small breakfast by himself.

When Celegnir emerged, he looked tired but not too badly off. He briefly thanked Galad for the medicine but they didn’t talk as they sat through the rest of breakfast together. Nor did they talk after breakfast when they prepared to leave the inn or when they mounted up and got back on the road that would lead them south. The only words spoken were ones that they had no choice but to exchange because they related in some way to the journey. That suited Galad well enough. He didn’t know what he would say to Celegnir. He didn’t think that there was anything that he could possibly say to Celegnir, nor that Celegnir could say to him.

At midday they passed through the village of Enederyn. Celegnir took out a map and some directions, and before long they were arriving at their destination; a thatched cottage surrounded by outbuildings – a workshop and a barn, stables, chicken coops, and a handful of small animal pens. Dogs barked and wagged their tails as they approached, causing horses and ponies in the yard to lift their heads, and hens and ducks to scatter in a flurry of feathers. An ellon with red hair in a shoulder length tail strode around the side of the house and shouted at the dogs. Galad flinched, though it occurred to him that the ellon was smiling as he shouted and that the dogs didn’t seem upset. Their tails just wagged faster and they jumped at their master in greeting.

“Celegnir!” the ellon said. “You found the place easily enough?”

“Your map and directions led us straight here,” Celegnir replied, dismounting and gesturing for Galad to do the same. “Master Natholir, this is my little brother Galadaelin. Galad, this is Master Natholir. He will be escorting you the rest of the way to Amon Lanc.”

“Hello, sir,” Galad said quietly. He kept his eyes on the ground and his body angled towards his horse. Riding with Celegnir had been uncomfortable, but he thought that he would rather complete the journey with his brother than this strange ellon who shouted. Celegnir, despite his faults, did not shout. And Galad knew where he stood with Celegnir, even if the midnight revelation made him question how much he had ever truly known his brother, who, just like Albethon, had betrayed Galad when he had needed them most. He didn’t know anything about Master Natholir, the travelling musician who was only taking charge of him because Thranor didn’t want to spare Celegnir for any longer than was necessary. How did Thranor know that Master Natholir was a safe person for his youngest son to be around? How did Celegnir know that something awful wasn’t going to happen to his baby brother the moment he rode away? Did they even care?

“My brother is a little shy,” Celegnir was saying as dark thoughts whirled bleakly through Galad’s mind. “Do not take it amiss.”

Natholir smiled cheerfully and gave a nod of understanding. “No matter. Will you stay for a drink and a bite of something?”

“No, thank you,” Celegnir replied. “I should head for home. I am just glad to have safely delivered my brother to you.”

“He will be well fed tonight and my wife will make a suitable amount of fuss over him,” Natholir said. “We’ll set off early tomorrow and we should be in Amon Lanc around this time. Of course I’ll send word to you that he’s arrived in one piece. Here, let me take that,” he added, and he unstrapped Galad’s pack and took it down from the horse. Then he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and a girl in leggings and a sleeveless tunic darted out of the stables and came running to take Galad’s horse. She grinned at him. She had a spot of dirt on her cheek and a piece of hay tucked amongst her red-gold curls as if it belonged there. Galad just nodded uncertainly, feeling suddenly out of his depth. It took him a moment to realise that with his horse being led away by the girl, and Natholir carrying his pack inside, he was alone with Celegnir.

“Goodbye then,” he said.

“Galad,” Celegnir sighed.

“I don’t have anything else to say,” Galad replied. “Thank you for bringing me here, I suppose.”

Celegnir stepped around his horse with another sigh and put his hands on Galad’s shoulders. “I won’t apologise for telling you the truth. You asked for it, and perhaps an unkind truth is better than a gentle lie. I don’t know. But now you have the truth – my truth, at least – and you can do with it what you will. Perhaps you can use it to make sense of things, maybe to heal if that’s what you need to do. Go south, muindor-laes. Study, train, and make for yourself this life that you want so badly. I know that you will make us proud.”

“I wish that things had been different,” Galad whispered.

“I know,” Celegnir said quietly. “Me too. I’m sorry that they were not.”

Galad was very aware that Celegnir had not said sorry for the part that he had played in any of it. He wanted to hear Celegnir say that he was sorry for that, and yet at the same time he was afraid of hearing it because he didn’t know how much he could trust that his brother was telling the truth. A false apology was no apology at all. So he simply nodded silently and let Celegnir hug him and kiss his brow. He stepped away then, folding his arms, and stared at the floor as Celegnir mounted up. Soon the hoofbeats faded into the distance and Galad was left alone in a strange yard outside a strange house in a strange part of the forest. He breathed out slowly and brushed tears from his eyes.

“Hello.”

Turning, Galad found himself looking at an elfling about his age with hair as bright a red as Master Natholir’s and eyes of summer blue. “Hello.”

“I’m Alphros.”

“I’m Galadaelin.”

“We’re travelling to Amon Lanc together,” Alphros offered. “I’m going to apprentice to Elder Feredir and train as a hunter and forester, and you’re going to be a healer, yes? Maybe you can patch me up when I get hurt. I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I’ll get hurt because I’ll be handling knives and arrows and things. My older brother said that I can get hurt as much as I like as long as I don’t get skewered by a wild boar because there’s probably no coming back from that. I’ve never actually seen a wild boar. Have you?”

“Um…no,” Galad realised after a moment. “I haven’t.”

“Do you think they’re around though?” Alphros asked.

Galad had never been required to consider the existence of wild boar in Greenwood. Now he found himself giving it serious thought. “I think so,” he said finally. “Sometimes the tavern in my village serves wild boar pie.”

“Oh. That’s good to know. Sorry, I talk a lot when I’m nervous,” Alphros said, twirling a lock of red hair around his finger. “Not that you make me nervous. I’m nervous about leaving my family and starting my apprenticeship and meeting so many new people. Are you?”

“Yes,” Galad admitted.

“That makes me feel better knowing that I’m not the only one. Come inside,” Alphros said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll show you where everything is. I share a room with my little brother but he’s going to sleep in Ada and Nana’s room tonight and you can have his bed. I already changed the bedding,” he added hastily. “It’s been made up specially for you. I even tidied that side of the room. Laleithon was meant to do it but he kept forgetting.”

As the tour of the house commenced, Galad learned that Alphros had an older brother and sister, and a little sister and brother, in that order. The girls shared a room and so did Alphros and twenty year old Laleithon. Their brother Glirion was the only one with his own room. It was the smallest bedroom, but that had been the price to pay if he had wanted his own privacy and space – which he had. He even had a lock on his door, Alphros confided enviously, adding that sometimes he wished he could lock certain elflings out. He said that with the air of a disgruntled elder brother.

The house was not what Galad was accustomed to. His house was immaculate, everything in its proper place, run by Thranor with such military precision that Galad would have been afraid to leave something out or not make his bed properly. Alphros’ house was clean and smelled sweetly of freshly baked bread and spices, but it was cluttered in a way that made Galad feel like he wanted to tidy it. And yet, it was not cluttered with things that did not belong. There was an array of musical instruments, shelves of books, chests overflowing with toys and games, a shirt draped over the arm of a chair because the person darning the hole in the sleeve had been interrupted mid-task, and a pile of other clothes that needed to be folded or repaired. The house felt lived in, Galad thought. Lived in and loved.

The rest of the family introduced themselves as and when Alphros and Galad ran into them. Master Natholir had spoken true when he had said that his wife would fuss over Galad. Mistress Trevedril smiled kindly at him with dimples in her cheeks, and plied him with honey cakes and tea. The girl with dirt on her cheek and hay in her hair was Tilien, only six years younger than Alphros, and she would have spent the entire afternoon telling Galad all about her animals had her mother not shooed her away to make herself presentable so that at dinner it would not seem as though they had been joined by an urchin. Little Laleithon was curious about Galad’s braids and he wanted to know why they were different to southern braids and if they meant anything and where all the silver beads and cuffs had come from, but he was respectful and did not touch them.

The eldest children did not return until shortly before the evening meal. Glirion and Melethien were apprenticed to their father, he as a musician and she as a minstrel, and they had been practicing their performances in the village. Like the rest of their family they were interested in Galad and wanted to talk to him and hear his stories of the north. They asked him in hushed voices if he knew anything about Gorthebar in the deepest north where the witch-queen Carphadril wove her dark magic and traded in blood and flesh, served by tattooed warriors and thralls who wore little more than their hair and silver chains. Galad told them quite truthfully that they knew more about Gorthebar than he did. Noendir had once ventured to ask Thranor about it, but Thranor had fiercely commanded him to never mention Gorthebar or Carphadril again. That was the only time Galad could remember his father shouting at Noendir. 

After dinner, the family gathered in the living room to sing and tell stories. Galad stayed long enough to be polite before excusing himself early on the pretence that he was tired after his journey from the north. If he was tired – and he was, a little – it was thanks to two nights of broken sleep. The shameful truth of the matter was that he felt horribly anxious surrounded by such laughter and joy. The sight of a mother holding her second son close to her side and not letting go because she was sad to lose him to his apprenticeship made him uncomfortable. A father who stopped what he was doing the moment any of his children wanted him, because nothing would do but that that child received his full attention, created little bubbles of envy deep in Galad’s stomach. He didn’t know how to be in such a loving environment.

The next morning, everyone rose with the sun and ate breakfast together while Natholir and Tilien prepared the horses. The whole family came out to say goodbye, and Galad thanked them for their hospitality. Trevedril smiled and hugged him. He froze in her embrace, his eyes widening. The last time an elleth had hugged him had been some thirty years ago when his mother’s sister Parveth had paid them a surprise visit. Thranor had been furious and forbidden her from ever coming back. Galad barely remembered Parveth’s embrace and he certainly didn’t remember what it felt like to be held by a mother, to feel a maternal touch on his cheek and a kiss upon his hair. He drew away, quietly thanking Trevedril again, and went to stand by his horse so that Alphros could have some privacy to say goodbye.

Alphros was tearful when they left, so Natholir sang funny songs and told jokes until his son was smiling again. In fact, Natholir spent most of the three hour ride to Amon Lanc singing and telling stories to pass the time and entertain the elflings. Alphros joined in and encouraged Galad to as well, but Galad politely demurred. Again he was struck by the difference in their families. He tried to imagine stern and severe Thranor singing travel songs and throwing his head back in laughter. Once, Thranor would have done those things. But not now. Galad wondered how differently he would have turned out if Pelassiel had lived, if Thranor had not forgotten what it was to love and to laugh. The thought of what might have been, of who he might have been, brought an ache to Galad’s heart and forced him to look at himself in a new light. His shy and quiet nature had always been a measure of protection. Easier to hide from Thranor’s wrath and Breigon’s fists if they did not notice him. But now Galad was embarrassed by it. It made him feel…less.

They reached Amon Lanc at midday. As Galad understood it from studying maps and the letters that Noendir wrote to him, Amon Lanc referred not just to the towering hill where there stood an uninhabited palace but also the town and the surrounding twelve miles in each direction. He had been to Amon Lanc only once before. Immediately after the death of his mother, his grandfather Captain Bregolas had brought him to Amon Lanc for a short while so that his father and elder brothers could come to terms with their loss without having to care for the needs of a small child. Whether Bregolas had made the right decision, both in taking Galad in the first place and later returning him to Thranor, his intentions at least had been good and Galad knew that wishing his grandfather had kept him would not change anything.

Because Galad had only been five when he had last been in Amon Lanc, nothing looked familiar and he had no idea where they needed to go. Natholir seemed to know the exact way. He didn’t even consult a map. As they rode, Galad noticed signs every so often that pointed to the palace, the temple, the nearest healer, even the great waterfalls. It was all very…southern, he thought. He didn’t think he had ever seen a signpost in the north.

“Well, here we are.”

They had stopped in a courtyard outside a building of pale stone where wildflowers danced in the breeze. Double doors inlaid with gold stood open at the far end of the courtyard, but just before the doors to left and right a colonnaded walkway wound around the building with little paths that led to gardens and water features. This was the Temple of Greenwood. There were smaller temples dotted here and there through the forest. But this was the Temple, where people came to devote themselves to Eru, or to study lore, healing, and academia; to seek rest and respite from the troubles of the world and counsel from the priests and priestesses, to join brotherhoods and sisterhoods. This was the place where Thranor had allowed that Galad may study. Here, and only here. It was also the one place that Galad had no intentions of ever stepping foot.

“Come, I’ll see you safely inside,” Natholir said.

“Oh, thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Galad replied. “I think that I’d like to walk around the gardens before reporting to my teachers. Clear my head after the journey.”

“M-hmm.” Natholir gave him a long look through thoughtful green eyes before glancing around at the gardens. “I told your brother that I would see you safely here. I have done that and you will certainly be safe in the gardens. So yes, well enough. But be sure to go straight inside after you’ve had your wander and cleared that head of yours.”

“Yes, sir,” Galad said dutifully.

“It was really nice to meet you,” Alphros ventured. “You could write to me at Elder Feredir’s house.”

Galad had dismounted. He looked up, perplexed. “Write to you?”

So that maybe we could be friends,” Alphros said. “If you want to, anyway.”

Galad smiled and nodded even though he knew that Alphros was only saying it to be nice. He thanked Natholir and Alphros for letting him join them, and watched as they rode off to get back on the road to their final destination. Only when they were out of sight did he take his horse by the reins and lead her away from the Temple. He half expected someone to call his name and march him straight inside where he belonged. But though white robed acolytes wandered around and he passed priests and priestesses clad in the colours of their clan, none stopped him or even glanced at him askance. Surely it couldn’t be that easy, he thought.

And yet it was.

Galad followed the signs to the town of Amon Lanc. He had no concerns about running into Natholir and Alphros since they were going straight to meet Elder Feredir. He was more concerned about seeing Bregolas or Noendir given that he couldn’t know where they were at that precise moment. They could have been on patrol, training at the military garrison, or not even on duty. But all thoughts were pushed out of his mind when he reached the town. Glaerobel had taken him aback with its myriad of shops and stalls and businesses, but Amon Lanc was easily twice the size. Galad was surprised that Amon Lanc was even considered a town. He wasn’t sure at what point a place crossed the line between town and city, but surely Amon Lanc was near that line.

Slowly, he looked around a great square with a three tiered fountain at its centre surrounded by stalls and vendors. A different form of entertainment was taking place in each corner of the square - minstrels, jugglers, a puppet show and a magician. Shops and places to sit and eat ran around the outside, and side streets led to yet more shops and inns and businesses. Galad had never seen so many people and things all in one place, but the town was big enough that it was not crowded and there was space to move around freely. The only trees were slender birches around the outskirts so that no leafy canopy stood above. Galad lifted his face towards fluffy clouds on a breathtakingly blue expanse and closed his eyes as he felt the spring sun warm his skin.

Overlooking the square was an inn called The Great Oak. A prettily painted sign bore an oak tree with gilded leaves. Galad thought that the inn looked costly, and he wanted to be careful with his coins. The second inn that he found was tucked away down a side street. It was called The Mysterious Deer, which Galad thought was a more interesting name. He tethered his horse around the side of the inn, removed his travel pack, and went inside. It was the middle of the afternoon, the quiet time between lunch and dinner service, and Galad was glad of that as he cautiously approached the bar. The curly haired elleth on the other side looked up from the tray of mugs that she was drying.

“Are you lost, elfling?”

“N…no, thank you,” Galad said nervously. “I wondered if you had a room available and stabling for my horse, Mistress…”

“Tegildis.” She gave him a sharp-eyed glance. “Who’ll be staying with you?”

“Nobody,” Galad replied. “It’s just me.”

“And how old are you?” Tegildis asked suspiciously.

“One hundred and seventy.”

“Try again.”

“Seventy,” Galad admitted with a quiet sigh.

A flash of triumph appeared in Tegildis’ eyes. “That’s more like it. And what does a seventy year old elfling want with a room at my inn?”

“I’ve come from the north. I travelled with another boy and his father, but he’s gone straight to his apprenticeship and mine hasn’t started yet,” Galad said, his mouth dry with nerves. “I do have family here in the south but they serve with the Protectors so they’re very busy. Please let me have a room, Mistress Tegildis. I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”

“Elfling, I run an inn favoured by young warriors. I’m not concerned about keeping you in line.” Tegildis flung her cloth over her shoulder, tossed her bronze curls, and planted her hands on her hips as she regarded Galad. “Right. I’ll give you a room but these are the conditions. I’ll be taking your name. Your full name, mind you. You tell me or my husband when you leave the inn and you report to us when you come back. You eat three meals a day. I won’t have you starving under my roof. I don’t care what time you turn out the lamp in your room, but you make sure that you’re out of the common room and upstairs by the time the warriors start trickling in at nine o’clock with their coarse language and bawdy songs. Stick to those rules and we’ll do just fine. Disobey and I’ll be taking my wooden spoon to you.”

“Are you allowed to do that to your customers?” Galad asked warily.

“How about this. I do what I like in my inn, and when you have an inn of your own you can run it as you see fit,” Tegildis said.

Galad nodded obediently. “Yes, Mistress.”

“I’m glad that we understand one another,” she replied.

Truth be told, Galad thought as he gave the innkeeper his name and paid for three nights, he didn’t have much of a plan. He had not lied when he had told his father that he would like to train with Elder Nestaeth. He couldn’t imagine anything better than studying under the tutelage of the greatest healer in the forest. But he was sensible. Realistically, he knew that the chances of securing such a prestigious apprenticeship were slim, and just because Alphros had landed an apprenticeship with one of the Elders that didn’t mean Galad would have the same luck. But he didn’t need to study with Elder Nestaeth. What he needed was a private apprenticeship with any of the other hugely talented southern healers, because he could never go to the Temple. It unnerved him that Thranor had been so adamant that he study there. If his father and his brothers knew where to find him, it was only a matter of time before they came for him. That could never happen.

The room that Tegildis led Galad to was at the back of the inn looking over a herb garden. Fragrant lavender and basil drifted up to the open window. It was not a large room, but there was a writing desk at the window and a comfortable armchair tucked into the corner which looked a perfect place to curl with a book. The room even had a little private bathing chamber. Not all the rooms did, Tegildis said. But, she added, levelling a stern look on Galad, she wouldn’t have him wandering about the place after dark. Galad gave her another obedient nod and thanked her as she handed him the key.

“Mistress Tegildis,” he said, before she left. “Where might I find Elder Nestaeth? Or any of the really good healers?”

“We don’t make a habit of having mediocre healers in Amon Lanc. You ought to visit the House of Healing here in town and make enquiries,” Tegildis said. “As for Elder Nestaeth, she spends a couple of days a week there or you’ll find her at the palace on the hill handling Elder business. Though I’ve not seen her for a few weeks. Every now and again she travels around the mortal settlements, tending to the humans and their ailments, and she’s often away on study trips or gathering herbs out in the woods. But if she is here, the House of Healing or the palace are your best bets.”

“Can just anyone go to the palace?” Galad asked doubtfully.

“If they’ve business there,” Tegildis replied. “Enough questions, elfling. As pleasant as you are, you’re keeping me from my work. Make yourself at home – and don’t forget my rules.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Galad said.

As soon as she was gone, he let out a deep breath and marginally relaxed. He unclasped his cloak and dropped it on the floor. He could leave it right there and spend his time just stepping over it and tripping over it and nobody would shout at him or box his ears. He wasn’t going to leave it there because seeing it on the floor bothered him so much that he picked it up right away and hung it neatly on the back of the door. But he could leave it there if he wished. He could read until midnight or leave his bed unmade. He could open the window without asking permission. He could eat an entire meal without having to be cautious about upsetting anyone lest he be ordered from the table before he was finished. He could do anything he wanted or nothing.

“I did it. I escaped,” he whispered, and he laughed in giddy delight.

Chapter Text

The first night that Galad spent at The Mysterious Deer was one of the best nights of his life. After unpacking, he curled in the corner chair with his book until it was time to wash and go downstairs for dinner. There was a choice of honeyed lamb served with figs and roasted potatoes, quail with wild mushrooms and hazelnut vinegar, or river trout wrapped in bacon with onions and greens. Galad chose the quail, and for dessert he had baked apples with cream and caramelised sugar. Mistress Tegildis softened a little and smiled at him when he shyly thanked her and told her how much he had loved her food. There was a musician playing the lute while her companion sang, and Galad sat and listened for an hour until Tegildis glanced at him with lifted eyebrows. He dutifully went to his room. He had intended to read some more, but instead he got into bed. What followed was the most incredible sleep he could ever remember having. Because he had felt safe, he realised wondrously when he woke the next morning. Safe, and relieved of a burden that he had been carrying for more than sixty years.

After breakfast, Galad decided to go for a walk. He headed out of town and wandered the woodland paths until he came to a crossroads where a signpost indicated the way to the Great Falls and the palace. Galad would like to see the Great Falls, but he was in no rush; he had seen plenty of waterfalls in the north, but no palaces. Privately, he thought that it was ostentatious of the Elders to have built themselves a palace. He understood that they were very important elves, but they were hardly kings and queens. Besides, they had managed splendidly without a palace for hundreds of years. Perhaps that was what happened when people became important, he reflected. Perhaps they forgot about the things that were truly important.

Galad had been walking whilst thinking. His path had taken him up a serpentine road that rose gently to the top of a great hill. The huge gates at the top were flung open and guarded by warriors, and Galad paused expectantly for them to stop him or at least question why he was there. They didn’t, simply eyeing him flatly. He walked past them into a wide courtyard bright with blossoming trees and rainbows of wildflowers. The palace looked out over them all with quartz-veined columns gleaming in the sunlight and turrets and towers pointing towards the sky. Galad tried counting the windows but gave up. “Why do they need this?” he whispered. Another pair of guards stood on duty at the entrance to the palace. They looked at him more intently than the ones on the gates, but they must have deemed him no threat for they did not hinder him.

The first thing that struck Galad as he cautiously stepped inside was the smell of the palace. It reminded him of the meadow at home where he had spent many a day reading beneath the clouds and falling asleep to the hum of buzzing bees and the fragrance of honeysuckle, cornflower, and forget-me-not. A tall statue of a leaping stag stood on a plinth in the centre of a marble pool where ornamental fish swam contentedly around him. Passageways to either side of the entrance hall led away to unseen rooms and hallways, and at the rear was a grand split staircase that curved around to a wide landing. Galad slowly went up the stairs. The palace was eerily quiet. Galad did not know much about palaces, but he did know that they ought to be full of life, with a colourful court of lords and ladies, ambassadors from distant lands, a handsome king and his beautiful queen, and princes and princesses all daring and fair. So the stories said, anyway.

The landing at the top of the stairs widened into an oval antechamber with double doors and more passageways to left and right. Galad was looking around and wondering where he should go when he heard what sounded like doors opening somewhere down below. He stood still, listening, and heard laughter and the low murmur of voices. He ventured back to the staircase, holding himself just out of view as he looked down into the entrance hall. Four ellyn were standing by the stag, deep in conversation, though they paused it to farewell two ellith who passed them arm in arm. The laughter had come from the ellith. One was gowned in green with dark chestnut hair in a plaited bun, and her companion whose paler brown hair was escaping its braids wore fitted leggings and heeled boots. Galad wondered if either of them was Elder Nestaeth, but he dared not make himself known.

“Elfling. What are you doing here?”

Galad shrank back but it was too late. The ellith had left through the front doors and the ellyn had turned to look up at his hiding place. Swallowing hard, he made his way back down the stairs. The one who had spoken was tall and robed in silver and blue, his pale golden hair braided with opals and sapphires to match his eyes. Galad mentally named him Elder Blue-Eyes. At his side was a young ellon in hunting leathers who Galad recognised as Elder Feredir. Just a few years ago, the Sons of Araw had passed through his village in pursuit of a rabid wolf. Thranor had allowed Galad to go and see the hunt, and their young leader with glinting green eyes and russet hair lifting in the wind had blown on his silver horn and smiled at Galad. Galad remembered that, but he supposed Elder Feredir didn’t.

The third ellon was clad in the green and grey uniform of a Protector with gold braiding on his tunic and a sword at his hip. Galad guessed that he must be Elder Dirnaith, commander of the Protectors and the Elder in charge of overseeing the defence of the forest and its people. At his side was an elf dressed in black, his only adornments a silver circlet holding his raven dark hair back and a ring of rubies and diamonds on his right hand. He held a black leather folder against his chest and watched Galad with cool apathy. Galad named him Elder Green-Eyes.

“I will ask you again, elfling,” said Elder Blue-Eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” Galad had reached the bottom of the stairs. He shifted uncomfortably and swallowed. He had barely managed to get his words out to Mistress Tegildis and now he had to try and address one Elder while three other Elders looked on! His nervousness earned him a sympathetic smile from Feredir and a nod of encouragement from Dirnaith. “I…I just wanted to see the…the palace, my lord. I was told that anyone could come if they have business here. And the…the guards, they didn’t stop me coming in.”

“And do you?” asked Elder Blue-Eyes. “Have business here?”

“Not…not really,” Galad said anxiously. “But I was hoping to see Elder Nestaeth. I’m going to apprentice to her.”

Dirnaith and Feredir exchanged glances with one another. It was Elder Green-Eyes who spoke. “Do not lie to us, little boy.”

The voice as cold as a winter night made Galad freeze. But only for a moment, because he noticed Dirnaith very discreetly elbowing Elder Green-Eyes to the chest and murmuring something that might have been, “Be nice.” Elder Green-Eyes said nothing, simply lifting his shoulders in the tiniest of elegant shrugs and giving a minute eye-roll. That made Galad wonder if perhaps he was not all that frightening after all and that had just been his make-elflings-behave voice. “I misspoke, my lord,” Galad offered tentatively. “I meant to say that I am hoping to apprentice to Elder Nestaeth or at least ask her to help me find an apprenticeship.”

“Elder Nestaeth is not here at present,” Elder Blue-Eyes said. “But I shall ensure that she receives your name.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galad said. “My name is Galadaelin Thranorion.”

Dirnaith stirred slightly. “Thranorion. I know that name. We have a new recruit from our most recent intake with the same name.”

“My brother Noendir,” Galad replied.

“Ah. Then Captain Bregolas is your grandfather.” Eyes as blue as a cloudless sky sharpened as Dirnaith looked intently at Galad. “He did not mention that you were coming to Amon Lanc.”

“No, sir,” Galad said promptly. “The arrangements were rushed and there was no time to write to him.”

That seemed to mollify Dirnaith. “He must be happy to have you here.”

Galad made a non-committal sound. He knew very well that at some point he would come face to face with Bregolas and Noendir and that he must answer their questions. Not because he had no desire to see them had he avoided seeking them out after walking away from the Temple. But they were a reminder of the life that he had left behind. When finally he reunited with them, he would have to face the past. He would have to remember and accept everything that had happened. For the first time in his life his past held no sway over him. He need answer to nobody but himself – Mistress Tegildis and her wooden spoon notwithstanding – and he intended to savour his freedom for as long as he could. No matter the consequences.

“I am sorry to have taken up your time, my lords,” Galad said. “Thank you for speaking to me. It was very kind of you. And…and I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have been here.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Feredir said, speaking for the first time in a merry and light tenor. “Don’t you worry about this lot. I left my brand new apprentice at home just to come here and meet with them today. Did I get a word of thanks? From a single one of them? I did not.”

“Thank you for showing up and doing your job, Feredir,” said Elder Green-Eyes in a tone as flat as a millpond.

“You are so welcome, Faelind,” Feredir replied. He put his hand on Galad’s shoulder and gave him a friendly smile. “Come. I’ll walk down the hill with you.”

Galad was unsure if he should bow to the other ellyn. He decided against it in part because he’d never had to bow before and he didn’t want to get it wrong and look stupid, and because he was fairly certain that being an Elder did not make one entitled to receive the sort of gesture usually reserved for royalty. In the end he settled for giving them the sort of respectful nod that he would give his father. He supposed, as he followed Feredir outside, that it must have been acceptable since Elder Blue-Eyes nodded to him in return and Dirnaith smiled at him. Elder Green-Eyes – Elder Faelind, he corrected himself – had  already looked away.

“So you’re not from around here.”

“I’m sorry? Oh!” Galad blushed as he realised that Elder Feredir had spoken. “No, sir. I’m from the north.”

Feredir winced. “Don’t…just Feredir is fine.”

“I couldn’t…you’re an Elder,” Galad said, horrified.

“Yes, but if you call me sir then I’ll think that my father’s here and I’ll get a sore neck looking around for him,” Feredir said. “And definitely don’t ‘my lord’ me. That’s fine for Rethedir and Faelind. They’re those types. And sir is fine for Dirnaith. He’s a military elf and they’re all about respect. Not that I’m about disrespect. That’s not what I’m telling you and not what you should take away from this conversation.”

“I understand,” Galad said. “Are Elder Rethedir and Elder Faelind always so, um…”

“Terrifying with a hint of threatening? Yes. All the time. But they are also intrinsically good and kind people, and being terrifying is part of the…” Feredir gestured vaguely. “The act. I became an Elder exactly one hundred years ago.” He sounded extremely proud of that. “Last week we had a feast to celebrate. But for the first year after I swore my oath to serve the forest and its people, I barely looked at Rethedir and Faelind let alone spoke to them even when we gathered for meetings. I was so nervous of them! One day they took me aside and asked what they had done to offend me. I can’t tell you how awkward it was to admit that they frightened me. They laughed about that – well, they’re not really big on laughter, but Rethedir raised his eyebrows and Faelind half smiled – and we’ve been fine ever since.”

Galad nodded dazedly. He had a feeling that Feredir and Alphros would get on splendidly if the quickfire way that they chattered was anything to go by. They had been walking down the hill as they talked, cutting through by using steps carved into the banks, and it suddenly occurred to Galad to ask a question. “Why is there a palace?”

“What? Oh. Reasons,” Feredir said.

“What reasons?”

“Secret reasons.”

“What secret reasons?”

They had reached the bottom of the hill. Feredir turned and looked at Galad with perplexed green eyes. “You’re a curious elfling.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Galad asked warily.

“No, not at all! But you should find something else to be curious about,” Feredir said. “Look, I need to get home to my apprentice. Do you know where you’re going from here?”

“I know,” Galad replied. “Thank you for walking with me, Elder Feredir.”

“You’re welcome,” Feredir said, and smiled warmly before disappearing into the trees.

Galad headed back to town and dutifully reported his safe return to Mistress Tegildis. She rewarded him with a lemon cake. He went upstairs and lay on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head. As he stared at the ceiling, he considered his next steps. Elder Nestaeth seemed not to be in Amon Lanc. That meant waiting for her to come back or else going to the House of Healing for guidance in finding an apprenticeship. Somehow that seemed more intimidating. Elder Nestaeth was important and impressive but she was still only one person. The House of Healing would be full of healers and Galad would have to find his way around a place that he didn’t know and speak to strangers and… “You just explored the palace and spoke to four Elders all in one go,” he chided himself in a whisper. “Anything else should be easy after that.” Perhaps he would summon the courage to go there the next day, then.

As it happened, matters were taken out of Galad’s hands the next day when he wandered around town in the vague direction of the House of Healing and noticed an unusually large concentration of Protectors gathered around the fountain. The warriors began moving amongst the market stalls and going in and out of shops. Keeping a wary eye out for Bregolas and Noendir, and a curious ear out for information, Galad overheard a pair of ellith whispering. “…never arrived at the Temple when he was meant to,” one of them was saying to her friend. “I heard that the last person to see him was Elder Feredir. How does an elfling just disappear?”

“Maybe someone has taken him,” said the second elleth with a pretty shiver.

The first one nodded sagely. “That’s why so many of the Protectors are here. All the Elders have joined the search and Elder Feredir is going to summon the Sons of Araw to help find the missing boy.”

Galad stood perfectly still even after the ellith had drifted away still gossiping. He realised that he was holding his breath and let it out slowly. Not for a single moment had he thought that anything like this would happen. He had supposed that when he failed to appear at the Temple, they would have given it a day or so to allow for delays before writing him off as having changed his mind. That anyone would care enough to fear that something had happened to him had never once crossed his mind. Now the Protectors were searching, and the Elders and the Sons of Araw, and surely by now Bregolas and Noendir would have heard what was going on. As terrified as Galad was by the prospect of handing himself in, he could not in good conscience allow it to go on any longer.

Swallowing hard, he found his courage and approached the nearest warrior. “Um, ex…excuse me.”

“What is it?” the ellon said brusquely.

“It…it’s about the missing boy,” Galad said hesitantly. “I…that’s me.”

“What?”

“I’m the boy that you’re searching for.”

The warrior turned cool grey eyes upon him and gave him a long look with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Finally, the warrior scoffed under his breath. “Here’s the thing about missing boys. One, they tend not to show up in plain sight. Two, they don’t generally announce themselves. Now stop wasting my time and get out of my sight before I give you a clip around the ear.”

Galad took a nervous step back. “My name is Galadaelin Thranorion and I’m staying at The Mysterious Deer. That’s where you can find me.”

“Out of my sight,” the warrior repeated with a growl. “Now!”

Well, Galad thought. He had tried. It wasn’t his fault that the warrior was stupid. Confused, he turned and slowly made his way back to the inn. Coming face to face with Tegildis was nerve-wracking, but she clearly hadn’t heard about the search; if she had, Galad was sure that she would have taken him by the ear and marched him to the nearest Protector – probably after getting in a few whacks with her spoon for good measure. But she just smiled at him and waved him to the nearest table with a promise to bring lunch as soon as it reached midday.

Galad was just finishing his salad of spring greens with chopped apple and pine nuts when a shadow fell over him.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

“Hello, Noendir,” Galad said quietly.

“Hello, Noendir. Hello, Noendir?” Galad’s older brother leaned over the table and jabbed a finger in his face. “You came all the way south for an apprenticeship without bothering to write and let me know. Then you failed to turn up for said apprenticeship and decided to have yourself a little holiday here in town while the Temple reported you missing and the entire Amon Lanc garrison was turned out to find you before something horrific happened to you, and the only thing that you can pull out of your ridiculously clever head is hello, Noendir?”

Galad sighed and gently moved his brother’s finger away from his face. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“I don’t know whether to hug you or smack you!” Noendir hissed.

“You’re welcome to use a private room for the latter,” Mistress Tegildis said from behind him.

Wincing, Galad gave her an apologetic look. She just raised her eyebrows pointedly at him before returning to the bar. “I’m sorry, muindor,” Galad said, as Noendir relented and gave him a hug. “The only reason I didn’t write to let you know I was coming is because it happened so quickly and I thought that I’d arrange to meet up with you once I got settled here in the south.”

“But you didn’t do that,” Noendir said. “You hid out here instead. Daerada was worried sick about you when the report came in this morning!”

“Where is he?” Galad asked warily.

“Out looking for you! Where else do you think he would be?” Noendir demanded. “As soon as Mistress Tegildis heard what was going on and came to tell the Protectors that you were here, I sent word to Daerada letting him know that I would take you straight to his house. So that’s where we’re going.”

“But-”

“Now, Galadaelin.”

“I did make myself known to one of the warriors,” Galad said unhappily as he followed his brother. “He didn’t believe that I was telling the truth. He threatened to clip me around the ear if I didn’t stop wasting his time.”

Noendir sighed but said nothing, and they walked in silence to a house that Galad didn’t remember though he had spent some months living there after the death of his mother. He had a vague memory of the front door and the window frames because they were painted a pretty pale blue. What he did remember, which he did not know that he remembered until the memory came flooding back, was the way that the house smelled tantalisingly sweet and earthy all at the same time, like candied fruit and freshly fallen leaves. He breathed it in and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t enjoy it for long because Noendir ushered him straight to the study.

“You should probably be in the corner,” Noendir said. “But I suppose you might as well sit while you’re still capable of it.”

Swallowing, Galad sat and tucked his hands under his thighs. He realised that this was his first time ever seeing his brother dressed in uniform with a sword at his hip. It made Noendir seem older, more authoritative. “I haven’t seen you for two whole years, not since you came home for Yule,” Galad said miserably. “I feel as though you’re mad with me.”

“I am mad with you,” Noendir replied, though he sounded quiet and resigned. “I’m mad with you because I love you to death and because I thought…I know now that you’re safe, Galad. But before I knew that, anything could have happened to you. You could have been kidnapped or lying hurt somewhere or lost in the woods. That terrified me. I’m still processing and accepting that you are here in front of me. That you are safe.”

“I’m sorry that I frightened you,” Galad whispered. “I didn’t think any of this would happen.”

“But I don’t understand,” Noendir said. “What is this? Did you run away from home?”

Galad took a breath. The door swung open before he could answer, and Captain Bregolas strode through it. Bregolas pulled Galad to his feet without hesitation, putting both hands on his shoulders and looking him up and down with sharp blue eyes. Galad braced himself, but to his immense surprise his grandfather hugged him. Of all the things he had expected from Bregolas, a hug had been at the very bottom of the list – if it had even made it onto the list at all. He felt Bregolas exhale into his hair, a ragged and unsteady breath of relief that Galad realised with a start had been genuine. He would have squirmed with guilt had he not been held so firmly.

“I ought to turn you over my knee right now, elfling,” Bregolas said sternly, drawing back and giving Galad another searching look. “Are you hurt?”

“Not at all. I promise,” Galad replied hastily. He thought that it was nice – if unexpected – that Bregolas seemed so concerned about him. He had thought…well, he wasn’t sure what reaction he had expected from his grandfather. He had preferred not to think about it. The picture that Thranor had painted of Bregolas was hardly of an ellon who would appreciate being lumbered with his youngest grandson. “I’m sorry that I worried everyone,” Galad added. “I really am.”

Bregolas stepped back and pointedly folded his arms over his chest. “Explain.”  

Explain. Galad had known that he must do exactly that. He had been prepared for it. But no words came out. To his great horror and shame, he started to cry. As Bregolas unfolded his arms in surprise and Noendir gasped softly, Galad sank onto the couch and buried his face in his hands. He cried for the horrors of the last month; for his father’s hand that he could still feel around his throat, for Albethon’s betrayal and Celegnir’s confession, for the sixty years of sadness that had brought him there. He tried to stop crying. Oh, he tried, bracing himself to be shouted at, to be ordered to stop. That didn’t happen. Instead Bregolas sat next to him and put a strong arm around his shoulders, while Noendir knelt before him with both hands resting on his knees.

“You did run away from home, didn’t you?” Noendir whispered.

“No, I didn’t,” Galad promised shakily. “I didn’t run away. But…but I…”

“Deep breaths, daerion,” Bregolas said quietly.

Galad tried to stem the flow of tears with his hands against his eyes as he breathed in slowly. “Everything went wrong. I never meant for things to go wrong but they did and it was my fault. It got worse after you left, Noendir. I’m so sorry to say that because you had to leave, just like I did. You had to get out and I don’t blame you for that. But it did get worse and-”

“What do you mean that it got worse?” Bregolas interjected. “What got worse?”

“Home,” Galad whispered. “Home got worse.”

Bregolas looked at Noendir. “What does he mean?”

“Ada wasn’t… he wasn’t managing very well,” Noendir said reluctantly, sitting back on his heels and staring at his hands. “He always shouted at Galad and punished him for things that he wouldn’t punish me for. I would have to talk him out of it or distract him from being angry with Galad. Sometimes I could and sometimes I couldn’t, but…but I tried my best. When I left to come here and train, I asked Celegnir to please, please, protect Galad. And he said that he would. He promised he would. I would never have left if I didn’t believe him. And I did believe him because he’s our big brother and he’s so grown up and…and…did he not, Galad? Did he not look after you?”

“I think that he protected me from Breigon when he could,” Galad conceded. “But he never spoke against Ada.”

Tears shone in Noendir’s eyes as he looked up. “You didn’t tell me. You didn’t put that in any of your letters. I would have come home, muindor-laes. I would have come for you even if it meant smuggling you out in the middle of the night. Why didn’t you tell me that it was getting worse?”

“Because I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” Galad said helplessly.

Noendir let out a sad little laugh. “What do you think I’m feeling now?”

“No, enough!” Bregolas snapped. “I don’t understand this. What do you mean that Celegnir protected you from Breigon? Why would he have ever needed to do that?”

“You…you know why!” Galad whispered. “You must know! You may not have ever seen anything with your own eyes, but I wrote to you at least three times when I was younger and bad things had happened. I begged you to please help me but you didn’t. You didn’t even write back! You only replied to my letters when they were nice, when I wasn’t crying out for you to come and rescue me!

“No, daerion, you did not ever write such letters to me,” Bregolas said incredulously. “Not once have you asked for my help. Do you think that I would have ignored you if you had?”

“But you did ignore me! You did, you…” Galad went still. A voice echoed in his head. Bold of you to assume that your letter will reach your grandfather or that you will even make it out of the house with the letter intact. “Ada was reading my letters,” he whispered in stunned realisation. “He…he was reading my letters, choosing which ones went to the courier and destroying any that revealed the truth.”

“Are you telling me,” Bregolas said, very quietly, “that your father and your brothers have been hurting you, Galadaelin?”

Galad closed his eyes against stinging tears of shame. “Not Celegnir. He didn’t hurt me. But Ada and Breigon…yes, when I deserved it. And I deserved it all the time. I tried to be good, Daerada. I really did try so hard. But I was never good enough.”

“Enough of that, daerion-laes. I will not hear it from you or anyone else.” Drawing Galad closer to his side, Bregolas took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shakily. “Noendir. When did it start? This…not managing well?”

“Not long after you brought Galad home and left him with us,” Noendir whispered, bowing his head. “I thought nothing of it when Ada was angry all the time because I felt angry too, angry that Nana had died. I started feeling less angry as time went on and I thought that Ada would feel better too, but he didn’t. He was forever shouting at Galad and smacking him for no reason, sending him to his room or the corner for hours at a time, and it upset me so much because Galad was only a baby and he didn’t understand. He wasn’t even allowed to cry. Ada would scream at him if he did.”

Galad did not move, but he dared to lift his gaze slightly to look at his grandfather. Bregolas was sitting perfectly still. His handsome countenance was blank, his blue eyes unblinking. Galad lowered his eyes again as his brother continued. “One day I rode to the village with a letter for you, Daerada,” Noendir was saying. “Celegnir caught up to me before I got there. He told me that if I sent the letter you would come and take Galad away again and that it would destroy Ada and we would lose him too. He said that we’d had the best of Ada, that we would have the best of him again if we just waited for his grief to pass. I thought that he was telling the truth and maybe he thought so too. But I believed him because if I had got better, why wouldn’t Ada?”

“Thranor never permitted me to see any of this when I visited,” Bregolas said distantly. “Suddenly I recall comments that he made about you both, things that made no sense because I saw so little evidence of them. He said that you both lied often but that he did not wish me to address it because he felt that it was a reaction to the loss of your mother. And Galad, he said that you were the most wilful and disobedient of his sons, that he must discipline you often but that he did not resent it because he understood that losing your mother so young had traumatised you. All along he was protecting himself so that if either of you tried to ask me for help he had already made sure that I would dismiss your pleas as lies borne of grief.”

“I’m sorry, Daerada,” Galad whispered, horribly aware that Bregolas was realising all this about his own son.

Bregolas shook his head silently. His arm tightened around Galad’s shoulder. “What about Breigon?”

“I…I’m not sure. Breigon always had a temper,” Noendir said falteringly. “Even before Nana died he had a temper. She would scold him because if he made a mistake on a piece of work he would get so mad that he would throw the whole thing to the ground instead of trying to fix it. He never seemed to understand that throwing the wood would just mean more things to fix. After Nana died, I suppose he lost his temper more easily and sometimes he would say mean things, but I don’t know anything else about Breigon.”

“He did things in secret,” Galad spoke up softly. “Things that hurt me.”

“What?” Noendir breathed. “When? After I left, or…”

“Always,” Galad whispered.

Noendir recoiled as if he had been physically struck. His soft brown eyes became silvered as tears welled in them. The tears fell and he bowed his head though not before Galad saw his face crumple with grief. Bregolas didn’t remove his arm from around Galad’s shoulders, but with his free hand he guided Noendir to his other side and wordlessly held his youngest grandchildren as they cried. They reached across Bregolas, seeking each other’s hands, and held on to one another. Neither of them spoke. There was too much to say and not enough. Only when they had exhausted themselves of tears did Bregolas speak again.

“How have you come to be here, Galad?” he asked. “Given what I have learned, I find it hard to fathom that your father would have simply let you go.”

“It happened suddenly. I think that I would still be there now had we not talked of my future,” Galad said huskily, his throat aching. “I told Ada that I wanted to be a healer and train in the south because the best healers are here. That…that was only partly true. I did want to train with the southern healers, but I also saw coming south as a way to free myself from what was happening at home. I knew that Ada wouldn’t let me leave if I couldn’t give him a good reason. I thought that becoming the best healer I could possibly be, making a name for myself and making the family proud, would be enough to convince him. But it wasn’t. We had a big fight. He gave me such a terrible paddling, and at the end of it he threw me to the floor and he…he hit my face and put his hand around my throat.” Galad swallowed uncomfortably. The mere memory made him nauseous. “I thought that Ada was going to kill me,” he finished in a whisper.

There were no tears or gasps from Noendir this time. He just leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Rubbing Noendir’s back with one hand, Bregolas used the other to tuck one of Galad’s braids behind his ear. “What happened after that, daerion?”

“Ada agreed to let me come here. I don’t understand why,” Galad admitted. “But I think perhaps he knew that he had gone too far. Because he had never hurt me like that before, Daerada. Never ever. Maybe it was a turning point for him and he understood that we needed to be apart from one another. He made arrangements for me to study at the Temple and become a healer under the tutelage of the teachers there. I didn’t think that it would really happen. I was sure that Ada would come after me and drag me home and tell me that it had all been a cruel trick.”

“So you were expected at the Temple two days ago,” Bregolas said. “You did not report there. Why?”

The question made Galad’s stomach flip unpleasantly. He knew what Thranor would do to him for such disobedience. He had no idea what Bregolas would do. “Ada was so adamant that I study there and only there,” Galad said, desperate for his grandfather to understand. “He would know where I was. He could turn up at any time or my brothers could come and take me home. I thought that if I got a private apprenticeship I would be protecting myself because Ada wouldn’t know where to find me unless I told him.”

“What was your plan, then?” Bregolas asked. “Why did you not immediately seek out your family here in Amon Lanc?”

“Aunt Parveth serves at the Temple and I knew that I wouldn’t be stepping foot there,” Galad said slowly. “I knew that Aunt Ethirel has a shop that sells sweets but I didn’t know where to find it. I didn’t know my way to your house, Daerada. I could have found my way to the garrison because I saw it signposted, but I didn’t know if either of you would even be there. And not just that, but…”

“Go on,” Noendir encouraged him.

“I was free for the first time in my life,” Galad whispered, staring at his hands. “I wanted to enjoy that while I could. I got caught up in being by myself and not having to think or worry about anything. I’m so sorry for frightening you both and wasting everyone’s time. That was never meant to happen. I was planning to track you down after a few days. I promise that I was.”

“All right, daerion,” Bregolas said. “Given the circumstances, we need not discuss that any further. But we do now find ourselves in something of a difficult situation. I must consider what happens next and where you will go.”

Galad went still. He felt horribly as if he had been plunged into icy water. “I…I can’t stay with you? Are you going to send me home?”

“Your home is in Amon Lanc now,” Bregolas said grimly, the words rushing through Galad to drive out the chill. “And yes, you will stay with me. Unfortunately, I am due to leave on patrol this very night. I am already leading this patrol for another captain and the chances of finding someone to take over from me at this late stage are slim. In normal circumstances, I would have you stay here in my absence. It is not a requirement that Noendir live in the trainee quarters at the garrison. He chooses to because he enjoys being with his friends, but I am sure that he would not object to staying here with you until my return.”

“Of course,” Noendir said without hesitation. “And you could have Aunt Parveth and Aunt Ethirel check on us once in a while.”

“Yes, but these are not normal circumstances,” Bregolas pointed out. “Should word reach your father as to what has happened and he takes it upon himself to come looking for your brother, this is the first place he would look. I will not leave either of you here alone.”

“Uncle Lindamir is already away with the western patrol,” Noendir said, glancing at Galad.

Bregolas had five children and Lindamir was the youngest by a wide margin. The entirety of his birth family had been wiped out in the Sack of Eregion some three hundred and fifty years ago. His mother had lived long enough to be discovered by the aid party sent from Greenwood. She had pushed her infant son into the nearest pair of arms, sighing out his name with her last breath. Bregolas had carried Lindamir home and never let him go. So Celegnir had told Galad, anyway. Celegnir had also said, when Galad had curiously asked, that Thranor had been politely perplexed by the new addition to the family. Galad couldn’t imagine his father being politely perplexed. Thranor’s feelings towards Lindamir had clearly soured since losing Pelassiel, as they had soured towards everyone and everything, because Galad had never heard his father speak Lindamir’s name without a derisive sneer. Still, Lindamir had always been sweet and kind to Galad on the few occasions that they had met.

“Perhaps I could stay with Aunt Ethirel,” Galad suggested.

“Ethirel and Lestoril have two-bedroomed accommodation above their shop, and their children share the second bedroom,” Bregolas replied. “The only place for you there would be on the couch. You deserve better than that.”

“Then where will I go?” Galad asked quietly.

“Oh, the garrison!” Noendir said hopefully. “You could stay with me in the trainee quarters. I share a room with a few other boys. Everyone is so friendly and I know that they would make you feel welcome.”

Galad summoned a small smile because he knew that his brother meant well. But Bregolas settled Noendir with a touch on his shoulder. “That is not the right fit for your brother, Noendir. The trainee quarters are far too loud and boisterous. I would suggest that Galad stay with one of the Elders until I return. My preference is Faelind or Dirnaith since I would trust nobody more than them to protect one of my grandchildren. Dirnaith has a large family. His home is not quiet, Galad. You might be more comfortable with Faelind.”

“I met Elder Faelind already,” Galad said warily. “He’s quite frightening.”

“Oh, he’s absolutely not,” Bregolas scoffed.

“Respectfully, Daerada, you have a long history with Elder Faelind,” Noendir said. “Of course you don’t think he’s frightening. And he’s not, really. But he’s not exactly warm and fuzzy either. I think Galad would do well with someone a little less…frosty. What about Elder Galawen? Galad could help her tend the trees and gather herbs. Or Elder Feredir? He’s so nice. And if he can hold off a pack of rabid wolves then he can definitely hold off our brothers.”

“Elder Feredir was very kind to me when I met him. I know his apprentice, too,” Galad said slowly. “Alphros and I travelled together on our way here. But I don’t want to spoil his apprenticeship with all of…” He gestured vaguely. “This.”

“I would not send you to Feredir anyway,” Bregolas replied. “Feredir would certainly protect you, but if the Sons of Araw are called to the hunt then he must go with them and you would be left alone. I am inclined to choose Elder Nithaniel. Her home may be somewhat busy, but it is not always, and you would have the chance to spend your days as you wished – reading, drawing, studying. Besides, Nithaniel keeps a household guard with four warriors on duty at any given time. It would put my mind at ease to know that you were so well protected, daerion-laes.”

“I will do as you think is best,” Galad said.

“Good boy. Then I will go now and speak to her.” Bregolas stood, but then he stopped and turned back to look down at Galad. “This is temporary. I will make arrangements for another captain to relieve my command so that I may return home as soon as possible. Then you will stay with me. You will be safe. You will not ever return to the north unless it is your wish.”

“Thank you, Daerada,” Galad whispered.

Bregolas nodded and left them alone. The door closed, and Noendir looked down with a soft sigh. His brow furrowed as he stared at his hands. Galad didn’t try to speak. He knew that his brother had much to think about, much to come to terms with and much inner turmoil to reckon with. Quietly excusing himself, Galad slipped out of the study to catch up to Bregolas. He didn’t have to go far. He found Bregolas sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands. It took Galad a moment to realise that his grandfather – his strong, brave, warrior grandfather – was crying. Not loudly, and not obviously, but the shudder that swept through Bregolas as he let out an unsteady breath was plain. Galad immediately pulled back, but Bregolas looked up.

“Come here, daerion.”

Galad swallowed and reluctantly stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Did you need something from me?” Bregolas asked quietly, lowering his hands and resting his arms on his knees instead.

“Not…not really. I just wanted to know what will happen to my father and my brothers,” Galad replied.

“I do not yet know. But they have mistreated you and I have no choice but to report them,” Bregolas said.

Galad bit his lip. “Ada is your son.”

“And you are my grandson. Thranor…” Bregolas stopped abruptly, and Galad glanced away as his grandfather gathered himself. “Thranor is my son, yes,” Bregolas continued finally. “What that means, Galad, is that I love him unconditionally as I love all my children and grandchildren. I cannot turn that love off. I cannot hate him. But I can hate what he has done. And I do hate it. He has done a terrible thing and he will answer for it. Whatever else has happened, you have told me that he struck your face and held you by the throat. That is an assault. It goes against the laws of our people.”

“I don’t want him to be in trouble,” Galad whispered uncertainly. “He’s my father and I love him. I love Celegnir and even Breigon. Please don’t let anything bad happen to them.”

“One thing at a time. You are my priority right now.” Bregolas stood up and stepped down off the stairs to place his hands on Galad’s shoulders. He released a heavy sigh as their eyes met. “I didn’t know what was happening, Galad. None of us here knew, but I acknowledge that ignorance is a poor excuse. I am so sorry that we let you down. I am sorry that I returned you to your father when you were a little boy, that I left you with him and never saw the truth behind the lies. I will spend a lifetime making amends to you and in my heart it will never be enough.”

“I don’t blame you, Daerada,” Galad said. “I don’t blame anyone.”

Bregolas drew Galad into his arms and held him close. “You are a good and kind-hearted boy. One day your father will realise what he lost.”

Hearing himself praised, being told that he was good, were strange concepts to Galad. So strange that he didn’t know how to respond. The ache in his throat would have stopped him speaking even if he had known the right words. He just closed his eyes, and Bregolas tightened the embrace that he was wrapped in. It had never occurred to Galad that anyone should say sorry to him for the course that his life had taken. He had never expected to hear an apology. Never even wanted to all that much. And yet, hearing Bregolas apologise to him more times than he had ever been apologised to in sixty years gave him such a sudden sense of validation, of worthiness, that it took his breath away.

“Return to Noendir, daerion-laes,” Bregolas said gently, drawing back. “I must go now and make the appropriate arrangements. And Galad…you need not fear anymore. You are safe now. You are home.”

“Home,” Galad echoed in a whisper.  

Chapter Text

Galad spent the night at his grandfather’s house. So did Noendir. Bregolas should have left on patrol that very evening, but he had arranged to follow the warriors after sunrise while his second in command led them through the night. Galad had been afraid that Bregolas would want to talk to him and ask questions. Bregolas probably did want to ask questions, but he had restrained himself. Instead he had seemed only concerned with ensuring that his youngest grandson was fed, comfortable, and as happy as could be expected.

Noendir was less subtle about wanting to talk. When the brothers went to bed that night in the spare room that Noendir always used – Bregolas had promised that when he returned from patrol, Galad could have his choice of the other rooms and decorate it however he liked – they had lain silently in the darkness until Noendir had finally whispered, “I really didn’t know about Breigon, muindor-laes. I promise.” Galad had quietly replied, “I know,” but he had not spoken beyond that. There would be time for talking. Time when his memories of home were not so raw. 

Early the next morning, Bregolas took Galad to Elder Nithaniel’s house while Noendir went to The Mysterious Deer to collect Galad’s horse and the belongings that he had left there. Nithaniel smiled warmly but offered no embrace. Galad was glad of her perceptiveness. Bregolas hugged him though. It was not like the unwilling hug that Thranor had given when Galad had left home. That had been discomfiting, awkward, unpleasant. This was a real hug, given freely and without hesitation. Then Bregolas drew back and lifted Galad’s chin so that their eyes met. Galad braced himself to have his chin gripped, but it was not necessary. His grandfather’s touch on him was gentle though he could feel the power and strength behind it.

“You will be all right, daerion-laes,” Bregolas said softly. “I won’t tell you to behave and mind Elder Nithaniel. You’re a good boy. I know that you will. All I ask is that you stay within the safety of her home unless someone accompanies you beyond the grounds. Don’t wander around by yourself. All right?”

“Yes, Daerada,” Galad promised.

Bregolas nodded and gave his shoulder a squeeze, briefly thanking Nithaniel before leaving to catch up with his patrol. Galad watched him go, and turned slowly to face Nithaniel only when Bregolas was out of sight and he had no reason to keep watching. Slender, and only a little taller than Galad, Nithaniel had white golden hair that lay in silky ripples to her waist. A circlet of blue lobelia petals shading into violet matched the colour of her eyes and gown. As their eyes met, she gave Galad a sympathetic smile.

“This must feel so new and strange to you,” she said. “I know that my home is not where you would most like to be. Still, you are welcome here. There is no expectation that you should work, but if it is your pleasure to cook or toil in the garden, I will arrange for you to speak with the staff so that you may help them. Otherwise, your days are your own. You may paint, draw, read, explore the grounds, or join riding or swimming excursions. There are elflings here both older and younger than you. It is my hope that you will leave with a friend or two, but nobody will force you to spend time with others if that is not your wish. Now, let me give you a tour.”

Nithaniel’s home of pale brick was nothing short of stunning with décor in soft shades of calming blues and lilacs and pinks, and tinkling water features and fragrant flower garlands, but Galad kept quiet until they reached an inner courtyard with a sheltered walkway wrapped around it. “Are those lemon trees?” he asked before he could stop himself, his gaze drawn to potted trees standing in each corner of the courtyard.

“They are,” Nithaniel said, following his gaze.

“I have never seen a lemon tree before,” Galad said excitedly. “I’ve used lemon as an ingredient in medicine and tea and even soap, but the traders have to bring citrus fruits to the village and sell them there. Lemon trees don’t grow so well in the north of the forest where it is colder and more sheltered and-” He cut himself off abruptly. Elder Nithaniel doesn’t care about lemon trees. Idiot.

But the smile that she gave him was kind. “No. The southern climate is somewhat better for them.”

Galad nodded but said nothing more. He was sure that Nithaniel must already think him terribly dull. Or stupid. Or both. They continued the tour through the kitchens, the art rooms, and a small library, before heading upstairs. Nithaniel pointed out the nursery and then led Galad around the upper walkway which had a view down into the courtyard. Doors off the walkway led into bedrooms and bathing chambers. She stopped outside one of the doors and opened it into a pleasant and bright room decorated in silver and green with pale furniture. There were two beds, one on either side of a large window, but Galad was quietly relieved to see that the room did not appear to be occupied.

“I can’t promise that the room will remain all yours,” Nithaniel said as if she had read his mind. “But it is for now. You may choose whichever side of the room you prefer. There are few rules here. You are simply expected to keep your room clean and tidy, and respect the other elflings and staff. But I think that we will have no difficulty with you.”

“No, my lady,” Galad promised.  

Staying at Nithaniel’s home was a mixed experience. Galad felt safe there because he knew that his father and his brothers wouldn’t know where to find him. He could spend an entire day reading or drawing and nobody would knock his book from his hands or ruin his work. The older elflings were polite and engaged with him on his terms, and he only had to see the small elflings occasionally because most mealtimes were staggered so that the more mature children could have respite from the younger ones. Galad was glad of that. The small elflings had been fascinated by his braids, and one little boy had grabbed a handful of them with sticky fingers. That had been upsetting and frustrating.

Galad had regular visitors. Noendir came every day that he was not training and sent messages on the days that he was. Galad also received a visit from his mother’s older sister Parveth. She held him tightly and whispered that she was sorry. When he quietly asked Parveth if she had not been alarmed when his father had forbidden her visits, she sat back and stared at her hands and said that she wished it had. She would only say that her relationship with Thranor had always been difficult; without Pelassiel to unite them, it had not seemed such a stretch of the imagination that he would no longer want her around. Galad was not much comforted by the explanation. But it was an explanation nonetheless and he felt that he must accept it. A few days after Parveth’s visit, his father’s sister Ethirel came to see him. Her cheeks burned red with anger at the mention of her brother and eldest nephews, until her partner Lestoril soothed her with a gentle touch on the back of her hand. Ethirel didn’t force Galad to talk about anything that had happened. Nobody did, although Nithaniel made cautious overtures and even tried to broach the idea of having Galad speak with a healer. Galad turned his face away when it was brought up. He was horribly aware that he had already betrayed Thranor by revealing the truth to Bregolas. He would not betray him again.

The days passed slowly. Not until the beginning of the third week did Galad realise that he might be staying with Elder Nithaniel for longer than he had first thought. It was an unhappy realisation but one that he accepted with little more than a quiet sigh. Two more weeks passed before he finally received word from his grandfather. Bregolas had written to apologise for his long absence. He was vague and said only that developments in the far north had made it impossible to return sooner but that he would be home by the end of the next week. Included with the letter was a packet of snowberry roots which Bregolas had collected for Galad from the northern borders. Galad stared at the roots, both surprised and touched that his grandfather would think of him enough, and somehow know him enough, to understand how deeply he would appreciate such a gift.

His mind already whirling with thoughts of what he could do with the snowberry roots – perhaps a cooling salve for burns or a gentle soap – Galad jumped up and left his room. His paper supply was running low and he would have to replenish it so that he could make notes as he worked. But as he neared the stairs that would take him down to the courtyard, movement below caught his attention. Elder Nithaniel was walking around the courtyard in company with a boy who Galad didn’t recognise. He was small and thin, his hair dark and shiny, and he was idly playing with an amber pendant as he followed Nithaniel. Galad stood there for a moment, watching with his hands resting on the balustrade, but just then the other boy lifted his head and started to look upwards. Catching his breath, Galad hastily pulled himself back around the corner. He had no wish to run into any new elflings, so he returned to his room and closed the door behind him. The paper could wait.

He did not get to enjoy solitude for long. The door opened to admit a familiar face and a cheerful, “Hello!”

“Alphros!” Galad was so startled that he closed his book without marking his place. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Alphros replied. “Though I wouldn’t have to ask if you had done what you said you were going to do.”

“I…what?”

“You didn’t write to me,” Alphros said, sounding hurt. “You said that you would write to me at Elder Feredir’s and you didn’t. I would have written to you at the Temple but you didn’t stay there. Don’t look so surprised that I know. Everyone heard about the boy who disappeared. So I couldn’t write to you after that because I didn’t know where you were. But you knew where I was and you still didn’t write.”

Galad blinked slowly. “I didn’t think…”

“What?”

“That you really meant it,” Galad said awkwardly. “I thought you were saying it to be nice.”

“I was saying it to be nice. I am nice,” Alphros replied. “But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been real at the same time.”

“No. No, I suppose not,” Galad sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings and I’m truly sorry that I did.”

“Thank you for saying that. But why would you think that I wouldn’t want to hear from you? Or for us to be friends?” Alphros waited expectantly, but didn’t push the matter when Galad glanced away with a small shrug. “Well…never mind all that. I’m here now. Elder Nithaniel said that we could share a room seeing as we already know each other and we got on well. Do you mind?”

Galad would miss the peace, but Alphros was pleasant and affable, and he did not begrudge sharing with him. “I don’t mind. But why are you here? What happened to your apprenticeship?”

“Nothing. Elder Feredir got called away to deal with wolves coming down from the northern mountains. I’m too new in my apprenticeship to go with him so here I am.” Alphros dropped his pack onto the floor at the foot of the unoccupied bed. He sat on the mattress and bounced up and down a few times before getting up and going to peer out of the window into the garden below. “Is Lutha here yet?”

“I don’t know who Lutha is,” Galad replied.

“You haven’t met him then. You’d know if you had.” Alphros was anxiously nibbling his lower lip as he turned back from the window. “I’m worried that he hasn’t come here. I would have asked Elder Nithaniel, but it was one of the older elflings who showed me around and he didn’t know. Lutha was staying at Elder Feredir’s too,” Alphros added. “As his ward, not an apprentice. He was really upset that Elder Feredir had to leave and we had to come here. He promised me that he wouldn’t run away but now I’m worried that he changed his mind.”

“I saw Elder Nithaniel with a boy I had never seen before,” Galad remembered suddenly.

Alphros brightened. “Small? Dark hair? Pretty eyes?”

“He was small with dark hair,” Galad said. “I didn’t see his eyes.”

“Well, that sounds like him anyway. I’m so relieved! Come, you must meet him. I’m trying very hard to be his friend and your friend, and maybe the three of us can be friends together,” Alphros said with hopeful enthusiasm.

Galad was not excited by the prospect of meeting someone new, but he had to make amends to Alphros. Privately, he was stunned that Alphros had been so upset by his failure to write and even more so that Alphros seemed to want to be his friend. Breigon had often teased Galad about his lack of friends. On one level, Galad thought that it had never been his fault. How could he have made friends when Thranor had kept him on such a tight rein? On a deeper and more hurtful level, he wondered if there was truth in Breigon’s taunts and that it was simply that nobody had wanted to be his friend. After all, his brothers had friends and their friends had younger siblings or nieces and nephews. One even had a son. Galad would have liked to have been friends with any of them, but it had never happened, so he had to question how much of that was his fault, how much of it was because he was simply…unlikeable. And yet here was Alphros, cheerfully confusing matters by clearly stating that he wanted to be Galad’s friend. Thoughtfully setting his book aside, Galad got up and crossed the room, but Alphros had paused at the door.

“Just…before you meet Lutha, you should know that he’s…um…”

“Is he not nice?” Galad asked warily.

“No! No, that’s not it. He is nice but he…well, he’s a bit like an onion,” Alphros said. “You have to peel some layers before you find the nice part.”

The comparison did not fill Galad with confidence. “I don’t like onions,” he said awkwardly.

“Right, but he’s not an actual onion,” Alphros laughed. “Look, it’s not for me to tell his story. I couldn’t do it justice anyway. I’m sure that I don’t know the half of it. But Lutha isn’t like us, Galad. He’s had a difficult life. A really difficult life. And that’s left a mark on him. He doesn’t trust easily, he snaps quickly, he wakes at the slightest noise so he’s always tired, and he’s as protective of his food as any hungry dog I’ve ever seen. But none of that is his fault because he’s had to be that way. He is nice. Just be patient with him.”

Galad nodded slowly and followed Alphros downstairs for lunch, but Lutha was nowhere to be seen. Alphros looked worried again until Elder Nithaniel gently assured him that Lutha was just settling into his room and was not expected to take lunch with everyone else. He immediately relaxed and started chatting to the other children around the table as if he had known them for a year and not a minute. As a profoundly introverted elfling, Galad both admired and felt horrified by Alphros’ ability to be so at ease around so many people. Galad had been there over a month and still inwardly panicked when someone asked him to pass the salt.

After lunch, Galad accompanied Alphros to the kitchens where a tray of food had been prepared for Lutha. They took it upstairs and found that Lutha’s room was just a few doors along from theirs. The first thing that Galad noticed as Lutha turned to face them was that he did have pretty eyes – a clear and shining grey with long dark lashes that looked as if they had been painted on. Lutha was shorter than Galad, and shorter again than Alphros, and painfully thin where they were both slender. Galad glanced back to meet Lutha’s eyes and felt immediately dismayed and startled to realise that those pretty grey eyes were staring a defiant challenge at him. He returned Lutha’s stare, curious but mostly wary, but he couldn’t hold it. Years of submissively lowering his eyes before Thranor and Breigon meant that he looked away first. 

“Hello, Lutha,” Alphros said, happily oblivious. “This is my roommate Galad. He wanted to meet you.”

That wasn’t true. Galad supposed it might be nice for Lutha to think that it was. “Galadaelin Thranorion,” he clarified.

“Try and be nice,” Alphros scolded him. “Lutha only just got here.”

Galad blinked twice. He had been nice. Offering only a shortened first name at a first meeting was impolite. “What is Lutha short for?” he asked, to make conversation.

“It’s short for thanks for the food but mind your own business,” Lutha replied.

Warmth flooded Galad’s cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” Lutha said with a shrug.

Galad was surprised to realise that he suddenly felt upset. He hadn’t even wanted to meet Lutha but he had come anyway and Lutha was just being horrible to him. He blinked again though this time it was to try and hide the tears that he could feel stinging his eyes. “You’re not sorry. We brought you lunch because you decided to be antisocial and hide up here and you haven’t even genuinely said thank you.” The words spilled out of him in a rush, words that he wished he could call back because he understood the desire for solitude, but it was too late for that.

“Elder Nithaniel said that I was allowed to take lunch here,” Lutha said. “So I’m taking lunch here. Goodbye.”

Lutha might not have said it but Galad knew when he was expected to leave. He also knew what happened when he did not do as he was told. He turned swiftly, his braids flying around his shoulders, and briefly caught a look of disappointment on Alphros’ face. There was neither time, nor space in his heart or head, to think of whatever Alphros might be feeling. Galad returned to the safety of his room and sat on his bed with his back against the wall and his knees hugged tight against his chest. He kept his eyes on the door, waiting for it to fly open.

It was a full hour before Galad managed to relax. He carefully sorted through his thoughts now that they were calmer and reviewed what he knew of Lutha. That amounted to very little. Alphros had said that Lutha had lived a difficult life. He was defensive of his food and distrustful. He didn’t sleep well. Galad had seen for himself how thin Lutha was, how wary the look in his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Perhaps taking it personally was not the right thing to do. Galad didn’t do well meeting new people either, and being in a new place was always hard. His thoughts turned to something that he might do to ease the transition for Lutha. As he looked around for inspiration, a small bottle on his bedside table caught his eye. Lavender oil. It was his own blend and he used it on his pillow to help him sleep on the nights when rest eluded him.

The prospect of coming face to face with Lutha again was daunting, so it was another half hour before Galad finally ventured back to Lutha’s room with the bottle of lavender oil in hand. He gathered his courage and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He waited and knocked again. Still no answer. Galad stood still and considered what to do. There were rules about respecting other people’s private space in Elder Nithaniel’s house, but entering a room without permission was allowed if one had a true reason for doing so. Galad opened the door and slipped inside. He took a bit of paper from the writing desk and neatly wrote an explanation of what the oil was and how Lutha should use it. Then he opened the top drawer of the bedside table to put the note and the oil in there, only to pause at the sight that greeted him: a sandwich, an apple, and some biscuits and nuts.

Galad stood there for a long time, staring at the hidden away food until the memory that he had been trying so hard to refuse finally barged to the front of his mind. Twelve year old Galad had been so excited to have a tea party with his bear and his other animals. And it had been a lovely tea party, just Galad and his stuffed friends, and when it was over he had put the leftover biscuits and strawberries in his bedside table for later. Except he had forgotten about them until one morning when he had woken to the unpleasantly sweet smell of rotting fruit and a trail of ants marching under his bedroom door. Thranor had been incandescent with anger. The juice from the strawberries had stained the inside of the top drawer and leaked down to the second and third drawers, staining them too. He had smashed the bedside table to pieces while Galad had cowered in the corner, terrified of the flying wood splinters. Galad didn’t like to remember everything that had happened next, but he’d had to sweep the ants out of the house, trembling and sore from the spanking his father had given him with a long piece of wood from the ruined bedside table. The broom had been too big for him to comfortably handle, but nobody had been allowed to help.

Before he knew what he was doing, Galad had taken all the food out of Lutha’s drawer. Better to get rid of it now before Lutha got into trouble for it. He put the lavender oil and instructions into the drawer instead and took the food downstairs to dispose of it. Once that was done, he detoured to the kitchens and asked for two things: one, that Lutha be given an extra serving at mealtimes; two, that Lutha have extra biscuits when the elflings were given biscuits and a warm drink before bed. Galad thought that if Lutha was able to fill up more at mealtimes, he might not feel that he needed to hoard food.

Lutha joined the rest of the household for dinner that evening. He didn’t speak to Galad, but Galad didn’t take that personally because Lutha didn’t speak to anyone other than Alphros. The extra slice of roasted ham and the large serving of spring greens on Lutha’s plate suggested that the kitchen staff had paid attention to Galad’s request. Galad was pleased about that although he didn’t think that Lutha had noticed the extra food. In fact, Lutha seemed distracted and distant even when Alphros spoke to him, and Galad remembered that Lutha was upset about Elder Feredir having gone away.

Later that night, after Galad had made ready for bed, he sat on his bed with his back against the wall and read his book. Or at least he tried to read his book, but Alphros was talking so excitedly about his apprenticeship that Galad had to stop reading and listen politely. He was glad for Alphros that the apprenticeship with Elder Feredir was going well, but he couldn’t help but feel a touch of secret relief when Alphros settled down and concentrated on getting ready for bed too. Galad liked Alphros, but he had come from a place where his contributions to conversations had rarely been wanted or appreciated. It was going to take time for him to feel comfortable with the easy back and forth chatter that Alphros wanted. He picked up his book again, but had only made it through two pages when the door flew open and slammed against the wall. Galad’s hands shook and the book fell from them.

“It was you, wasn’t it!”

Lutha might be small, but his grey eyes were feverish and wild with anger, his fists clenched so tightly that they trembled. “What was me?” Galad asked nervously, pulling himself back slightly as Lutha stormed towards his bed. He was horribly aware that with the wall behind him and Lutha in front of him, he was trapped.

“Is this your idea of a joke? What am I meant to do with this?” Something came flying through the air, and Galad caught it before it could smash against the wall. As he looked down at the bottle of lavender oil, Lutha snapped at him, “What did you do with my food?”

Oh. Galad exhaled as he realised. “It says on the paper,” he tried to explain. “You drip the oil on your pillow. The scent will help you sleep. And you can’t keep food in your room because it could attract ants. I didn’t want you to get in trouble at room inspection. So…you’re welcome.” Galad didn’t really know why he had added that last part. He had intended for it to come across as a light-hearted joke. Hearing it out loud, it just sounded sarcastic. Even worse, he knew that Lutha had perceived it that way because he saw Lutha’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

“You should have told me!” Lutha spat, throwing the scrap of paper with the instructions to the floor. “This is no good to me!”

Galad watched in confusion as Alphros tried to soothe Lutha’s temper with a hug. “What do you mean it’s no good to you? You can’t read it?”

“No, I can’t read it,” Lutha said angrily, shrugging his shoulders to make Alphros let go of him and taking another threatening step towards the bed. “I can’t read. What of it?”

“How was I supposed to know?” Galad asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked away. He wanted desperately to hide from the confrontation, for Lutha to understand that he didn’t want this, but Lutha stayed right where he was, so hurt and enraged that he couldn’t control his breathing and it came out hard and fast – just like Thranor, just like Breigon, when they were hurt and enraged. Galad closed his eyes. He braced himself. He already knew that he wouldn’t fight back when the blow came. He wondered if Alphros would help him. But the blow never came. Instead, Lutha spoke again.

“What did you do with my food? Give it back.”

“I gave the apple to your horse and I put the nuts and biscuits in the garden for the birds,” Galad said quietly. “I threw the sandwich out. None of it would be any good to you sitting in a drawer.”

“Not if I just left it there, but I was going to eat it!” Lutha spun around and kicked the chair by the writing desk. It fell with a clatter. Galad froze, and through the familiar sound of water rushing into his ears he could Lutha shouting, shouting at him. “The food was mine for if I got hungry and I couldn’t get more. Now I have nothing to eat and it’s your fault!”

“Then go to the kitchen and get more! Just go away!” Galad cried in a panic. “Please go away!”

“Boys.”

Lutha turned and tried to run past Elder Nithaniel standing in the doorway, but Galad stayed perfectly still. They were going to be in trouble, he thought desperately. Both of them, they were going to be in trouble and Elder Nithaniel was going to punish them and…and she had her hand on Lutha’s shoulder and she was speaking calmly to him, gently soothing him, and he was slowly settling. Maybe Galad would be the only one who got punished. That was a bleak thought. And yet, not so different to home where he had so often been in disgrace while Noendir had always been spared. But though Nithaniel’s attention seemed wholly on Lutha, her gaze flicked past him and rested briefly on Galad. She gave him a small smile. He swallowed and looked away.

“Lutha was hiding food less and less at Elder Feredir’s house,” Alphros was saying. “Most days not even at all. But…”

“But this is not Elder Feredir’s house. This is a new house with new people and I have not yet been able to prove myself as Feredir did,” Nithaniel said. “Lutha, I promise that you will have three meals a day and that you may help yourself to food from the kitchen if you are hungry between meals. But, until you learn to trust me as you trust Feredir, I will look the other way from this hiding of food. Do what you must. Nobody will hold it against you.”

“Do you promise?” Lutha whispered.

“I promise,” Nithaniel said with gentle patience.

Galad had been listening without speaking. Now he stirred and said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I…I still don’t understand. But clearly it wasn’t the right thing to do. It won’t happen again.”

“You tried to do a good thing,” Lutha said, turning so that his eyes met Galad’s across the room. “I can see that. I’m sorry that I lost my temper and shouted at you.”

“You don’t have to be,” Galad said quietly.

“I do.”

Galad was caught off guard by the vehemence in Lutha’s voice. He stayed still a moment longer before cautiously getting up and holding out the bottle of lavender oil. “Take this. I find it difficult to sleep in a new place but the oil helped me.”

“He made it himself,” Alphros offered. “So it’s really good.”

Lutha accepted the bottle and offered quiet thanks. He left with Nithaniel, and both Galad and Alphros waited until the door was shut before moving. Alphros let out a long breath. Galad sank onto his bed and leaned forward to put his head in his hands. His legs would have gone out from under him if he had tried to stay upright. Not since being at home had he faced anger like that or feared violence. The worst of it was knowing that it had been his own fault, that he had invited Lutha’s fury through his own stupidity and that he would have deserved anything that Lutha had chosen to do to him.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Alphros said wondrously. “I thought for a moment Lutha was going to hit you.”

“So did I,” Galad said, his voice low and muffled in his hands.

“He was so angry,” Alphros added. “I’ve never seen anyone be so angry!”

Galad dropped his head from his hands and gave Alphros a long look. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think there was anything. How could he tell sheltered and kind Alphros that the anger that had burned hot in Lutha was but the flame of a bonfire compared to the raging inferno that he had spent his life consumed by? How could he put into words that he may not have known hardships like Lutha but that darkness had plagued his existence even so? That when Alphros had remarked that Lutha wasn’t like them, Galad had wanted to say that he wasn’t like Alphros either? Galad didn’t have those words, so he moved his book to the bedside table and got into bed, turning onto his side. As he pulled the covers to his chin and stared at the wall, he heard Alphros quietly getting ready for bed on the other side of the room. Neither of them spoke until Alphros broke the silence.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to sound…I wasn’t excited about what happened. I just…well, maybe I was? I don’t know.”

“Adrenaline,” Galad replied quietly.

“What?”

“Adrenaline.”

“What’s that?”

Galad was not inclined to engage in further conversation that night, but eventually he sighed under his breath and half sat up to look over his shoulder at Alphros. “We have it inside us. It’s what makes your heart beat fast when you’re scared of something. It helps you to run away from threatening situations. So when Lutha was kicking the chair and shouting, that wasn’t nice, and your body was doing lots of things inside in case you needed to escape. You were probably nervous, not excited.”

“How do you know all that?” Alphros asked.

“I read it,” Galad said. “I expect you will learn about it with Elder Feredir as well.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. Galad immediately lay down and pulled the covers to his chin. The door opened and he heard Elder Nithaniel’s soft voice. “Lutha is well, Alphros. I had hoped to speak with Galad.”

“He’s sleeping,” Alphros said promptly.

“Perhaps tomorrow, then,” Nithaniel replied. “Sleep well, Alphros.”

Galad waited until the door was shut before speaking quietly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Alphros said softly.

Chapter Text

Not until the moon hung high and heavy in the sky did Galad fall into a restless sleep, but even so he woke at sunrise as was his wont. Careful not to disturb Alphros, he prepared for the day ahead, and after neatly making his bed he sat on it with his back against the wall and his legs crossed. He opened his book, but by the time he was joined in wakefulness by Alphros he was still on the same page though an hour or more had passed. It appeared that Alphros was not at his best first thing in the morning, because as he got dressed he was quiet instead of offering his usual chatter. Only when he was washed and dressed did he speak.

“Are you coming to breakfast, Galad?”

“No.”

“You’re not hungry?” Alphros asked, giving him a long look. “Or are you still trying to avoid Elder Nithaniel and Lutha?”

“I’ll have breakfast later,” Galad said, discomfited by the other boy’s perceptiveness.

“M-hmm.” Despite sounding unconvinced, Alphros didn’t push the issue as he sat on his bed and brushed his hair. Unlike the multiple braids woven into Galad’s hair, Alphros fashioned his into a single thick plait down his back. He frowned in concentration as he tied it off. “I’ve been thinking about last night. You know, the thing with Lutha. I was insensitive.”

“I don’t remember that you were,” Galad replied. “But talk it through with Lutha if you’re worried about it.” 

“Not to Lutha,” Alphros said, blushing as brightly as his hair. “I was insensitive to you.”

Galad blinked. “To me?”

“Last night was unpleasant for me to witness and I wasn’t even the one being shouted at. It must have felt really horrible for you,” Alphros said. “I’m not saying that I don’t understand why Lutha got mad. Food is such a trigger for him that I’m not surprised he was upset. But what I am saying is that you didn’t deserve to be shouted at or made to think that Lutha was going to hit you. I’m sorry. Both that it happened to you and that I didn’t think to ask last night if you were all right. I’m asking now. Are you all right?”

It took Galad a moment to realise that he was staring blankly. He blinked and looked away. “I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?”

Galad nodded quietly, touched that Alphros would ask not once but twice. “Thank you for asking.”

“You’re welcome,” Alphros said, giving him a small smile. “Now won’t you please come to breakfast? You can’t avoid Lutha forever.”

“I know. I just don’t want to come right now,” Galad said.

“Oh, fine,” Alphros conceded. “I won’t make you. But I’m not giving up.”

“On what?”

“On the three of us becoming best friends,” Alphros said, and he offered Galad a smile before slipping out of their room.

Galad had not returned the smile. Perplexed, he sat back against the wall. He did not pick his book up. Instead he rested his head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. Nothing but his own thoughts had kept him awake the night before. Now the conversation with Alphros whipped them into a frenzy. He didn’t understand why Alphros wanted to be his friend. He didn’t know what Nithaniel had wanted with him last night and he didn’t know what would happen when he came face to face with Lutha. He didn’t know who his next visitor would be. He didn’t know when Bregolas was coming back. As for his apprenticeship, he had no idea when or even if that would ever happen. Galad had never known so little in his life. He hated that. At home, he had understood how things went. He had known what to expect if Breigon looked at him a certain way. He might not have been able to predict when Thranor would lose his temper, but once Galad had seen clenched fists or a tense jaw he had known that it was on the horizon. A whole other language had been spoken at home; slammed doors, chair legs scraping on the floor, cutlery being smacked onto the table instead of gently placed, a cup of water being flung down a throat rather than sipped. Galad had understood those things. They had meant danger. But here he understood nothing. That seemed almost more dangerous. How could he protect himself if he didn’t know what he must protect himself from?

Really, home had not been so terrible. He would never lie and tell anyone that he had escaped a brutal reality of daily beatings, of starvation and humiliation. It hadn’t been like that. Celegnir had always been nice to him. Breigon hadn’t, no, but there had been some good times like when the four brothers had raced their horses and Galad had won. He had been so worried that Breigon would fly into a rage at having lost to him, but Breigon had shrugged the loss off and praised Galad for riding well. Then there was the time that Galad had come first in the village fair’s archery competition, and Breigon had enthusiastically – and a little drunkenly – flung his arms about Galad and loudly proclaimed to his friends, “That’s my baby brother!” There could be more times like that. As for Thranor…until the night that had been the catalyst for Galad’s escape to the south, his father had never put hands on him like that.

Galad turned his face against his upper arm and breathed in deeply. His shirt smelled faintly of lavender and thyme from the bag of herbs that had hung in his wardrobe at home. He had not prepared those herbs himself though they were two of his favourites. Instead Thranor had bought scent packets from the village chandler as he had done for as long as Galad could remember: cedarwood for himself, lavender and thyme for Galad, wild mint for Celegnir, citrus for Breigon, and jasmine and rose for Noendir. Surely he wouldn’t have done that, wouldn’t have included Galad in having nice smelling clothes if he didn’t care. He wouldn’t have made the animal farm if he didn’t care, wouldn’t have sent food up to Galad when he was confined if he didn’t care, wouldn’t have taken Galad to Healer Albethon when he was hurt if he didn’t care. But he had done those things and that had to mean something. It had to. Suddenly Galad was struck by another memory, of himself carefully removing a wood splinter that had become embedded in his father’s finger. Thranor often got splinters – a natural occurrence in his profession. The last time Galad had taken out a splinter, Thranor had smiled at him. It had only been fleeting but it had been a smile. Who would get the splinters out if Galad wasn’t there? What if his father had a splinter right then? What if he was hurting?

Never forget what little part they have played in your life. Your loyalty must remain to the family that raised you – to your brothers, to me. Thranor was right, Galad realised with a thrill of horror. His southern family had played only a small part in his life. He had imagined them to be a whole world away when in truth it was little more than a two day ride. Two days was nothing. They could have visited if they had cared. And where was Bregolas now? He wasn’t even there. He had left on patrol with not a second thought for his youngest grandson, and the best he had been able to manage in the weeks since was a short letter and a handful of snowberry flowers in apology. He didn’t care, but the lavender and thyme that Galad breathed in with every panicked breath was a reminder of who truly cared and where he should be.

Galad jumped to his feet and ran to the door, not knowing what he intended to do but flinging it open even so. On the other side stood Elder Nithaniel with a breakfast tray balanced on one hand and the other hand poised to knock. She lowered it with a rueful smile that faded as she took in Galad’s wide eyes and anxious face. “Were you going somewhere?” she asked gently.

“Home,” Galad whispered.

“Ah.” Nithaniel stepped past him and pulled the door shut. She placed the tray on the table and seated herself, the slit sleeves of her rose pink gown falling back from her arms. “Come,” she said, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Nobody goes hungry in this house.” She waited until Galad had cautiously sat down before speaking again. “So you want to go home. I understand Captain Bregolas would like you to live with him. Is that where you were thinking of returning?”

“I spent one night at my grandfather’s house and then he brought me here,” Galad replied. “His house is not my home. The south is not my home. The north is.”

“Then you were thinking to return to your father and your brothers,” Nithaniel remarked without judgement.

“I am going to return to them,” Galad said. “They would have me back.”

“Of that I am quite sure,” Nithaniel said. “Will you tell me why you wish to return to them?” She waited expectantly until Galad looked away in silent refusal. “Perhaps you are upset about the events of last night,” she added. “I had hoped to speak with you after getting Lutha settled so that I could check on your wellbeing, but you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Galad said quietly. “Alphros lied for me.”

“Yes, he did.” Nithaniel smiled as Galad cast her a suspicious glance. “I do not hold it against either of you. You were not ready to speak with me. It was your right not to. That is still your right and I shall leave if you wish. Though, I do hope that we might talk.”

Then or later, Galad supposed that they would have to talk at some point. He sighed to himself and stared at his hands folded in his lap. “I thought that you might shout at me or punish me for going into Lutha’s room and throwing out his food and upsetting him. I haven’t done anything else wrong since coming to stay with you, my lady, and I didn’t know what would happen. I was…nervous.” Galad thought that sounded braver than admitting that he had been scared.

“Telling you that I would not have shouted – or indeed, that I never shout – will not mean much,” Nithaniel replied. “It is something that must be proven over time, as must all matters of trust. And punishing you would serve little purpose since you already apologised to Lutha and accepted that your actions, albeit well intentioned, were perhaps not what you should have done. I have no doubt that if you could have that moment again you would do it differently.”

“I would,” Galad whispered. “I would do it so differently. But that doesn’t seem like a reason not to punish me. I still did wrong. I still upset Lutha.”

“Lutha became upset. His reactions to challenging situations are not yours to control. However,” Nithaniel said, “if you believe that you require punishment then perhaps a day working in the garden will suffice.”

“But I…I like the garden,” Galad said uncertainly.

“You may not say so after a day of weeding, sweetness,” Nithaniel laughed.

Galad shook his head and looked away. “That’s why I want to go home.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how it goes when I do something wrong at home. I know what will happen. But I do something wrong here and you call me sweetness and punish me with a day in the garden when you know that I like the garden,” Galad said in frustration. “It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense here and I like things that make sense. Home makes sense. So I want to go home.”

“Captain Bregolas told me that you were not treated very well at home,” Nithaniel said gently.

“It still made sense,” Galad whispered. “Nobody can stop me going home.”

A sympathetic light shone in Nithaniel’s pretty hyacinth eyes. “That is not quite true. You are underage. If the adults in charge of your care knew that you would be returning to an unsafe environment but still permitted you to go there, they – I, in this case – would be acting contrary to the law. I want you to stay here because I care about you, Galad. Because I believe that Amon Lanc is the best place for you. But even setting those feelings aside, even if I did not care about you, I could not act against the laws of our people. I would also be committing an offence if I knew that you were at risk of running into danger but I did nothing to ensure your safety and thus gave you an opportunity to slip away. Safeguarding you might involve making the Protectors aware that they must keep an eye out for you, putting a lock on your door or stationing a guard outside your room, or asking Alphros to stay with you at all times. I do not wish to do any of those things, Galad. Will they be necessary?”

“No, my lady,” Galad said, his eyes downcast.

“I understand that this is difficult for you. Adapting to a new place when you have been accustomed to a volatile and challenging situation is hard, but I cannot let you return home and so I ask that you try your best to be patient and trust that it will become easier.” Galad just nodded mutely, so Nithaniel stood and went to the door. She paused there and glanced back at him. “Please eat your breakfast. Don’t go hungry. And when you are finished, you will receive a visit from someone who has asked to see you.”

Galad was not interested in his breakfast, but he was nothing if not obedient. He had not long finished and set the tray aside to return to the kitchens when there was a knock on the door. He looked up expectantly, waiting for Noendir to burst in as he usually did, but instead the door opened to admit an unfamiliar elf. The elf was tall – though not remarkably so – and he wore a tunic of gold embroidered green slit to the hips over grey leggings and a pale shirt. His eyes were the green of a leaf trapped in a ray of sunshine, and his hair was straight and fine and a shade of light brown not far off Galad’s. It was held out of his face by a band of braided leather with a green stone at its centre. His movements were small and quiet as he closed the door and turned with a faint smile.

“You must be Galadaelin,” he said. “Though Elder Nithaniel tells me that you prefer to go by Galad.”

“I have no preference, sir,” Galad replied. He hesitated, and then volunteered, “But I am most often called by my long name when I have done wrong.”

“Then we will stick with your short name since you have done no wrong,” the ellon said with another smile. “My name is Nestorion. You need not call me sir, but I recall being your age and feeling singularly uncomfortable when told to address an older elf by their name. In the interest of your comfort you may call me Master Nestorion or Healer Nestorion. I, too, have no preference.”

“Thank you, Healer Nestorion,” Galad said guardedly.

Nestorion gestured to the chair that Nithaniel had occupied earlier. “May I sit with you?” Not until Galad had nodded his consent did Nestorion pull the chair out and sit down. He rested one slender hand atop the other and looked steadily at Galad. “I know that you didn’t expect this visit, so forgive me for springing it on you, but I wished to meet with you sooner rather than later. I understand that you have come to Amon Lanc to train as a healer. You were due to attend the Temple but your apprenticeship there did not go ahead. Tell me about that, please.”

It took a moment for Galad to realise that he was tightly gripping the edge of the table. Tucking his hands under instead, he considered if it would be deceitful to carefully select what he revealed of his decision to forego the Temple. The prospect of his father and eldest brothers being able to find him whenever they felt like it had been the main and most important reason, but not the only one. Surely there was no need for a stranger to know anything about his past. “I…I’m quite shy,” Galad finally said, awkwardly. “And unaccustomed to being around many people. I understand that studying at the Temple would mean being part of a group of students. I worried that my lack of confidence and my…my social inexperience, I suppose, would hinder my studies.” His cheeks were hot with shame as he admitted it.  

“None of those things are a barrier to you being a wonderful healer or indeed a wonderful person,” Nestorion said gently. “You would not force a puzzle piece into a spot where it did not belong. You must simply find the spot where you fit. I want to help you do that.”

“Thank you,” Galad whispered, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Nestorion smiled slightly and nodded. “I also understand that you wished to apprentice to Elder Nestaeth. Is that right?”

“It…no, not entirely, Healer Nestorion,” Galad said carefully. “I simply thought that perhaps I might apprentice to her, or that she might help me find someone willing to be my teacher.”

“The difficulty with apprenticing to the Elders is that they each have their own way of managing such things,” Nestorion said, propping his chin in his hand. “Elder Faelind, for example, rarely takes an apprentice. Elders Serellon and Thavron might have four or five apprentices at any given time. As for Elder Nestaeth, she does teach, but she only takes a student once every yen. She spends the first part of that time training her apprentice. The second part is for herself, to conduct her own studies, projects, and travel. Her last apprentice finished his training just six years ago. So…”

“So she isn’t looking for another apprentice,” Galad said.

“No,” Nestorion agreed. “But I am, and I would be grateful if you would allow me to tell you what I can offer should you accept an apprenticeship with me.”

Two thoughts occurred to Galad at the same time. The first, which he kept to himself, was that he was suddenly presented with an opportunity to train as a healer but had just willingly laid out a decent percentage of his flaws. The second thought came out before he could stop it. “But shouldn’t I convince you that I would be a good student instead of you convincing me that you’re a good teacher?” His eyes widened as he realised that the thought had not stayed strictly internal. “Sorry!”

Nestorion looked briefly startled. Then he laughed, and it was a merry and burbling laugh that lit up every part of his handsome face and made his eyes sparkle. “I don’t have to convince you that I’m a good teacher, Galad. I will tell you straight that I am a good teacher. One of the best, actually, and it is not vanity to say so. No, what I must convince you is that I am the right fit for you, that the learning environment is right for you as the Temple was not, and that you would be making the right choice by studying with me. It does go both ways, of course. I have been paying close attention to you since I stepped into this room, looking for signs of rudeness or arrogance or unpleasantness. Had I seen such signs, I would consider that you were perhaps not right for me. But I have not seen those things and I don’t think that I shall find them lurking under the surface either.”

“No, Healer Nestorion,” Galad said hastily. “At least I don’t think so.” 

“Then this is what I can offer you,” Nestorion said. “I only ever have one apprentice at a time. That is not to say that I do not offer support and guidance to other healers in training when the need arises or that you would never have to work alongside them at the House of Healing, because healers must often work together and it is an important skill to master, but you would be my only formal apprentice. Further to that, I am a master healer. Do you understand what that means, Galad?”

“I have seen that title written in books and supposed that it must mean that anyone who bears it is the best of healers,” Galad said slowly. “But I have only ever known my village healer. He wasn’t a master healer.” 

“Being a master healer means that I have achieved mastery in every aspect of healing. General healing, battlefield healing, midwifery, surgery, burns and breaks, mind healing, and the compounding of medicines, to name but a few,” Nestorion said, ticking each one off on his fingers. “There are only five master healers in Greenwood at this time. I am one. Elder Nestaeth is another.”

“Why are there so few?” Galad asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Every healer in training receives at least a grounding in each of those areas, but many prefer to specialise in just one or two,” Nestorion replied. “It will take time for you to decide which path you wish to take. And just because you choose one path that doesn’t mean to say that years later you may not decide that you would like to further your development in a different area. There is time to do it all, Galad, as much or as little as you desire. It will be your path. Unique to you. Nobody will tell you what you must do or who you must be.”

Galad managed a small and hopeful smile, and Nestorion returned it. “Speaking of time,” he continued, “I do not rush my apprentices. Their teaching is carried out at the pace that best suits them. Four days a week are dedicated to the apprenticeship. You might spend that time studying the theory of healing, seeing patients in the private surgery that I have at home, visiting patients in their home, working in the House of Healing in town or in the healing wing at the military garrison, or collecting and compounding herbs. The rest of the week would be yours to do with as you pleased and you would also be allowed time off for festivals or celebrations. If there is any private project that you wished to take up, you must tell me so that time could be allocated for you to pursue it.”

Immediately, Galad thought of his book. “I…I started writing something,” he said falteringly, when Nestorion gestured for him to speak. “A book. But it’s not very…I mean, I haven’t done much of it and I don’t think it is all that good. But I did start it and I suppose that one day I would like to finish it.”

“May I see it?” Nestorion asked gently.

Galad stood slowly and went to his bedside table. He took his book out from the drawer and held it protectively against his chest. His mind went to Breigon shredding his leaf to pieces and threatening to rip his pictures. To Thranor flipping impatiently through the pages when Galad had been brave enough to show him the book. And to Celegnir who had admired Galad’s pictures and praised him for them whilst at the same time seeming politely perplexed as to why his baby brother was so fascinated by leaves and herbs. Galad took a deep breath and returned to the table. As Nestorion accepted the book with thanks and turned to the first page, Galad sat and stared at his hands. 

“You drew this?”

Galad glanced across the table at a picture of vervain. It had taken him hours to perfect each of the little buds and petals. “Yes. I drew it.”

“But it is incredible, Galad,” Nestorion said wondrously. “I have seen art that captures every strand of a person’s hair or the glint in an animal’s eye, but never have I seen such lifelike plant drawings. It is as though the vervain has jumped onto the page and never left. As for this calendula, the detail is exquisite. And here, you display excellent knowledge and understanding of how these plants can be used in healing. Of course there are herbal compendiums already but none like this with such extraordinary art so that one could pick an unfamiliar plant and see it drawn here and immediately know what they had in their hand.”

“Th-thank you,” Galad whispered.  

“I will not stop you working on this in your free time,” Nestorion added. “But I will give you a day out of your apprenticeship to work exclusively on it. When it is complete and you are happy with it, I will help you have copies made. Any good healer ought to have this book on their shelf.”

Your book. Your pointless, waste of time endeavour that nobody in the world but you is ever going to see. Breigon’s words rang cruelly in Galad’s ears. “Even finished it would not be good enough!” he said in dismay.

“I see that you think so. Whoever made you believe it was wrong, and I look forward to the day when you realise your worth.” Nestorion reached across the table and took one of Galad’s hands in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze, holding on until Galad slowly looked up and met his eyes. “Now then,” he said softly, “I believe that I have told you all that you need to know about apprenticing to me – aside from the logistics, the rules, and so on, but they can be worked out later. How do you think it sounds so far?”

“I…I think it sounds wonderful,” Galad said quietly.

“But…”

Galad sighed and lowered his eyes back to the table. “My father gave me my apprentice fee, but that was when he thought that I would be studying at the Temple. I don’t think that I should use it for anything else. And I think private apprenticeships probably cost more, and I can’t…I mean, I would have to ask my father for more money and he…I don’t think that he would…”

“Whether you apprentice to me or another healer, it has been paid for,” Nestorion said.

That made Galad look up quickly. “W-what?”

“The cost of your apprenticeship is being covered,” Nestorion repeated.

“But who…who would do that for me?” Galad whispered.

“Can you think of nobody?” When Galad said nothing, Nestorion reached into the pocket of his tunic and drew out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and began reading aloud.

To Master Healer Nestorion,

Greetings, from Captain Bregolas with the Northern Border Patrol.

I write concerning my youngest grandson Galadaelin Thranorion. Originally from the north, Galad recently travelled south to train as a healer. Through no fault of his own an apprenticeship at the Temple fell through and he is now seeking alternative education. I recall from our conversation some months back that you were considering taking an apprentice. Whilst it will be for Galad to make the final decision as to who he learns from, he does not know any of the Amon Lanc healers and so I ask that you meet with him in my absence and assist him in finding a suitable placement.

Whether Galad secures an apprenticeship with you or another healer, I will cover the full cost of his apprentice fee. My command of the northern patrol will end soon and upon my return I shall sign any relevant documents, but Galad has my permission to commence an apprenticeship before that time if he so chooses. He need not await my return. No doubt the living arrangements will be discussed in due course, but until they are formalised I consent to Galad dwelling wherever he will be best placed and most comfortable. All communication pertaining to my grandson must come directly to me. No information is to be passed to his father or brothers.

I am grateful to you for your assistance in this matter. You will find my grandson to be a quiet and studious boy, good hearted and kind with a natural talent for learning and healing. He is shy and unsure of himself, but he simply needs patience, time, guidance, and understanding. I know that you, Nestorion, have plenty of those to offer.

Nestorion finished reading and passed the letter across the table for Galad to look at. “What do you think of that, then?”

“I think it…it sounds like my grandfather wants you to be my teacher,” Galad said slowly.

“Yes, that last line is rather pointed, is it not,” Nestorion said with a laugh. “So. I am offering you an apprenticeship. Captain Bregolas is offering to pay for it. Would you like some time to think about-”

“No.” Galad felt his cheeks flaming. “I…I don’t need to think about it. I would like to…to accept, please. If you will have me.”

Nestorion smiled warmly. “I am delighted to hear it. In that case, my apprentice, all that remains is to work out the logistics. Elder Nithaniel told me that you were going to live with Captain Bregolas. You may still do that and come to me each day, but you may find it more beneficial to live with me during your apprenticeship.”

My apprentice. Galad was silent, reeling at the idea that he was an apprentice now. A real apprentice with a real master to help him become a real healer. He stirred, and made himself focus. “I would like to live with you, please.”

“You will still have plenty of free time in which to visit your friends and family,” Nestorion said. “And you may have a choice of two rooms. They are about the same size. One is at the side of the house and overlooks a pond which is home to a family of ducks. The ducks are pleasant to watch but they can be noisy. The other room is at the back of the house, two doors along from my room, with a view of the wildflower garden.”

“Wildflowers,” Galad said immediately. “Please.”

“A fine choice,” Nestorion said. “I shall make everything ready for you. How about I come back to collect you at midday three days from now?”

Those three days would be agonisingly slow, but nothing compared to the years of waiting that had gone before. Galad found himself smiling as he nodded and said, “Yes please.” 

Nestorion returned the smile and got up, but he didn’t go to the door. Instead he stopped on the other side of the table and gently lifted Galad’s chin with his fingertips so that their eyes met. “I think that life has not been kind to you,” he said softly. “Whatever has happened, it is over now. This is a new start for you, Galad. You are going to have the life that you always deserved and nobody is going to take that from you. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Galad whispered.

When Nestorion had left him alone with another warm smile, Galad rushed to the door, excited to tell someone – anyone – his news. Then he stopped and rocked uncertainly on his heels as it occurred to him that he didn’t have anyone to tell. Noendir, he supposed, but he wasn’t allowed to leave Elder Nithaniel’s alone and he didn’t even know if his brother would be available to speak or if he was busy at training. Galad sat down again and took out paper and ink to write a cautiously worded letter home. Even now, even after everything, he was still a son who wanted to share his happiness with his father.

There was no way that he could write to Thranor and not mention his failure to report to the Temple. He had to assume that Thranor already knew about it. Galad kept it brief, apologising for things not having worked out the way that they had been intended before moving on to tell his father that he had been accepted into a private apprenticeship. He made no mention of who it was with. He just hoped, to his core, that Thranor could be just a little proud of him and maybe even happy for him. Galad put that at the end of his letter.

Just when he was thinking about whether he should send the letter or not, the door opened. Alphros came in and promptly fell facedown onto his bed, twisting mid-air so that he ended up on his back. “I’m bored!” he proclaimed, crossing his arms behind his head. “Do you want to do something, Galad?”

“Something with you?”

“Yes, something with me,” Alphros said. “I already asked Lutha but he said no. I think he’s depressed because he misses Elder Feredir. He told me to go away, and when Lutha tells you to go away, you go away.”

Galad had sat up straighter at the prospect of being invited to spend time with Alphros, but he sat back quietly when he understood why he had been invited. Alphros immediately sat up with a gasp. “No! I didn’t mean it that way,” he said hastily. “I was hoping that the three of us could do something together. I saw Lutha first so I asked him first. I would have asked you first if I had seen you first. But I didn’t. I saw you second so-”

“So you asked me second, it’s fine,” Galad interjected.

“So…shall we do something?” Alphros asked hopefully. “We could go into town and see where we end up.”

Galad nodded to that. He tucked his hands under his thighs and slowly swung his feet back and forth as he waited for Alphros to get ready. His mind returned to Nestorion and his kind eyes and gentle smile, and the warmth that had flooded him when Nestorion had called him my apprentice. Biting his lip, Galad looked over at Alphros pulling his boots on. “Um…Alphros? Could I tell you something?”

“Of course,” Alphros said.

“I got an apprenticeship,” Galad said shyly.

Alphros looked up quickly. His boot fell from his hand as he stood there staring. Then a smile broke out on his face. “You did? Galad, that’s wonderful! You must be so happy!”

“I am,” Galad admitted with a small smile of his own.

“I’m happy for you,” Alphros said, and he ran – or hopped, with only one shoe on – over to Galad’s bed and leaned down to hug him. “I’m so happy for you! Who is the apprenticeship with?”

“Master Healer Nestorion,” Galad replied.

“Oh, I met him in town one time with Elder Feredir. He seemed so nice!” Alphros said, hopping back across the room to pull his other boot on. “We’ll go to the garrison first because you’ll want to tell your brother the good news. Then we’ll go into town and I’ll get us cakes to celebrate. We can eat them at the Great Falls.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Galad said, both surprised and touched by such generosity.

Their visit to the garrison coincided with Noendir being on a break between training sessions. He greeted them enthusiastically, throwing his arms around Galad and proudly introducing him to every single one of his friends. It was a lot for Galad to meet so many new people, and he felt worn out by the time he had finished putting faces to all the names that Noendir had mentioned in his letters home. Galad had never been surprised to learn that Noendir had made so many friends in Amon Lanc. The youngest of his older brothers was affable and easy-going, and everyone always took to him quickly. Noendir was also free with his feelings, and when Galad told him about the apprenticeship, he burst into happy tears.

Before long the trainee warriors were called back to their lessons and a young but stern looking Protector shooed Alphros and Galad away. They went into town and Alphros bought jam cakes which they took to the Great Falls. It was quite an obvious name for the waterfalls which were…well, great, tumbling down from on high into Caldron Pool. The boys ate in companionable silence, watching the falls and the rainbow spray that bounced off the surface of the water.

Eventually, Alphros frowned thoughtfully at the remainder of his cake. “Galad, can I say something? I’m only asking because I’m worried that it might upset you – and I know, I probably shouldn’t say it in that case – but I think it might be an important conversation for us to have. And it’s not a criticism. More of an observation.”

“Go on,” Galad said, though he was immediately wary.

“I get the impression that you’re not used to having friends,” Alphros said slowly. “First of all you didn’t write to me because you thought that I hadn’t really wanted you to. This morning when I said that I had been insensitive, you straightaway assumed that I was referring to Lutha. It didn’t occur to you that you might have been the one I had wronged. And then the thing where I asked Lutha first about doing something. You thought it meant that I’d wanted to spend time with him and not you. I just…am I right?”

Galad put his cake down and brushed crumbs from his fingers. He stared at his hands as he folded them atop the picnic table. “My father sent me to the village schoolhouse after my mother died. I had friends there but Ada pulled me out after only a year and tutored me privately at home. Our house is a couple of miles north of the village. That’s not much if you can jump on a horse or go for a walk, but it was isolating for me as a small child. I lost touch with the friends I had made. It wasn’t their fault any more than it was mine. I would see them in the village when I accompanied my father or brothers, but it was never the same. They had moved on.”

“And later?” Alphros asked.

“Later…” Thoughts of Albethon came into Galad’s mind. Memories of fingers stained green from long hours collecting herbs for his ancient healer friend, or winter nights when wind had howled around the cottage and Galad had sat in front of the fireplace listening wide-eyed to Albethon’s tales of a time when the sky was lit only by stars. And all along, Albethon had known his pain. Known it and ignored it. Galad wondered if that would ever stop hurting. He swallowed painfully and looked away with a quiet admission. “I don’t think that I have ever had a real friend at all.”

“You do now,” Alphros offered, and the two of them exchanged small smiles. “Can I tell you something? I’ve never had a real friend either.”

That was a surprising revelation. Galad had expected a boy as outgoing and likeable as Alphros to have dozens of friends. “No?” he replied carefully.

“There’s not even a full century between my oldest brother and my youngest brother with me and my sisters in the middle,” Alphros said. “We all get on well enough, and are close enough in age, that the five of us have just always been friends. Maintaining friendships outside the family was never easy because we so frequently travelled away from home with our father. I love my brothers and sisters but I’ve often thought that I might like to have a real friend.”

“Well,” Galad said. “Now you do, too.” 

“It feels nice, doesn’t it,” Alphros said.

Galad thought about it and a smile slowly crept across his face. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

Chapter Text

The next three days passed slowly. Knowing that they would did not make it easier. Galad distracted himself with books and art and walks around the garden, and chats with Alphros and a visit from Noendir. He often checked the time and calculated how many hours remained until the start of his apprenticeship, the prospect of which delighted and terrified him in equal measure. But finally it was the third day, and after breakfast he sought Elder Nithaniel. Finding her in conversation with Lutha, Galad politely held back out of sight and earshot.

Galad and Lutha had apologised to one another after the incident with the food. They had even been formally courteous on the few occasions that they had seen each other since then. And yet…Galad was still wary of Lutha. On some level he felt that was ridiculous. Lutha was small and on the unhealthy side of slim. He looked nothing like towering Thranor or powerful Breigon. But that had not mattered when Galad had looked into his eyes and seen the unbridled rage that lay there, as violent and tempestuous as a storm waiting to unleash its wrath.

On the other hand, Galad thought uncomfortably that he was being unfair. That night had been the one and only time that Lutha had shown any signs of anger. He had appeared frustrated when the small elflings had pestered him to read them a story, but he had simply removed himself from the situation and retreated to his room. If he could not read, his frustration was fair. He also seemed to view the world at large with wary distrust, and that too was fair given what little Galad had learned about him from Alphros. Galad didn’t like to think that he was the sort to judge a person after one unfortunate encounter and never let them have another chance. He wanted to let Lutha have another chance, because Lutha deserved that as much as Galad did. He just wished that he could shake his nerves.  

When Lutha had finished his conversation with Nithaniel, Galad waited for him to disappear from view before cautiously approaching their silver haired host. “I’m sorry to bother you, my lady. May I have a moment of your time? It won’t take long.”

Nithaniel smiled, but it was a strained smile that did not reach her eyes. “Galad. I had intended that we should speak before you leave with Nestorion. Come, walk with me.”

Galad couldn’t help but feel relieved that Nithaniel had added ‘before you leave with Nestorion’ because that meant it was still happening. So grave was her expression that Galad might have feared that Nestorion had changed his mind otherwise. He walked with Nithaniel, their path taking them around the inner walkway past quartz veined columns and the lemon trees in their terracotta pots. As a faint breeze blew the tang of citrus behind them, they reached Nithaniel’s private study, a bright and sunny room with children’s art on the walls and flowers all around in a rainbow of colours.

“You go first,” Nithaniel said, sitting behind her desk and gesturing for Galad to sit opposite.

“I wrote a letter to my father a few days ago,” Galad said. He took the letter out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I was undecided if I wanted to send it or not, but I think that he should know that I’m starting my apprenticeship. I…I want him to know. And so I wondered if my letter could go to the courier, please?”

Nithaniel reached across and picked the letter up. She turned it slowly in her hands before setting it aside. “I expect that you have given this a great deal of thought. And of course, it is only natural that you wish your father to know your good news. Had you asked this of me yesterday I would have cautioned you against it given your family circumstances. I still caution you against it, but more strongly now.”

“Why?” Galad asked warily. “What has changed?”

“This.” Nithaniel took another letter from the top drawer and pushed it across the desk. “It arrived this morning from the north.”

“From my father,” Galad whispered, recoiling. “How does he know where I am?”

“Peace,” Nithaniel said gently, taking his hands. “He does not know. He sent the letter to Noendir with a demand that he pass it to you – wherever you might be. Noendir didn’t know what to do and so he gave it to me. You do not have to read that letter, Galad. Tell me to destroy it and I will light the fire right now and throw it in.”

“No,” Galad said quickly. “I should know what he has written to me.”

“Would you like me to sit with you while you read it?” Nithaniel asked.

Galad looked down at the letter and shook his head hesitantly. “I would like to return to my room if I may.”

“Very well.” Nithaniel was silent as Galad stood with the letter in his hand, and she spoke only when he had reached the door. “Galad. This day is the start of something new and special for you. Whatever is written on that paper, it changes nothing. You are still going with Nestorion. You are still his apprentice. Do not let your father ruin that.”

“Yes, my lady,” Galad whispered, though his heart was already heavy with dread as he returned to his room and dropped the letter onto his bed. A few times he paced back and forth before swinging around to face the bed, chewing anxiously on his thumbnail as he stared at the sealed missive. It only contained words, he told himself. Just words on paper. They couldn’t jump off the paper and hurt him. He sat on the bed with his back against the wall and closed his eyes as he summoned the courage to break the seal and read his father’s words.

Galadaelin,

How long did you think you could get away with it? Did you think that I would never learn of your wilful disobedience? That the Temple would not send word to me, your father, when you failed to appear? No doubt you think yourself clever, but this is a formal order commanding you to return home. I expect you to obey that order as swiftly as if I was standing before you. Celegnir and Breigon will await you in Glaerobel twelve days from the date of this letter. They will wait three days. If you are not there by the end of the third day, they will come for you in Amon Lanc and bring you home by whatever means necessary. Do not make this worse for yourself. Come home. Come back where you belong.

This ends now.

Adar

The paper was torn slightly where Thranor had signed the letter. Galad knew that his father had been in a rage when he had written it. He could well imagine Thranor jerking the pen across the page and then flinging it away. The ink smeared words bounced dizzily up and down, and Galad didn’t understand why until he realised that his hands were shaking. He dropped the letter and pulled his knees to his chest, burying his head in his hands as his breaths came quicker. He couldn’t stop them. Blazing heat and icy cold flooded him all at once, and his breathing was too much, his lungs working overtime to try and accommodate the short, sharp breaths that kept coming and wouldn’t stop. Galad stumbled to his feet in panic, desperate to escape the sense that he was drowning, but there was nowhere to go.  

The door opened and Galad whirled around. He caught a glimpse of a familiar cheerful face. The smile drifting in and out of focus before his eyes disappeared, replaced by grave concern as Alphros rushed forward to put his hands on Galad’s shoulders. Alphros was speaking but Galad couldn’t make out what he was saying, only that the words were soft and soothing. He reached up to put trembling hands around Alphros’ forearms, anchoring himself against his friend. His breathing gradually slowed, and Alphros nodded encouragingly.

“Good, Galad,” Alphros said. “That’s better. See? You’re all right. Aren’t you?”

“I…I’m all right,” Galad repeated, the words sounding distant to his ears.

“Yes, you are. Do you want to tell me what happened?” Alphros asked gently.

Galad slowly lowered his hands. He held the letter out in silence and looked away as Alphros took it. Alphros was quiet for long enough that he must have read it at least twice. “If I was not where I was supposed to be, my father would scold me,” Alphros said finally, cautiously. “But…” He bit his lip and looked down at the letter. “But not like this. I don’t get a good feeling about this. Is your father…is he…I don’t even know what I’m trying to ask.”

“He’s not like yours,” Galad whispered.

“Are you scared of him?”

“I…” Everything about the question caught Galad off guard; the intensity of it, the gravity on Alphros’ face, the prospect of having to reach deep inside himself for an answer that he had known most of his life but which he had never dared speak aloud. He looked up and met Alphros’ eyes with a minute nod. “Yes. I am scared of my father.”

“Then you must show Healer Nestorion this letter so that he can protect you. You do already have some protection simply by being his apprentice,” Alphros said. “Once you sign your papers it would be a breach of contract for anyone to try and keep you from your apprenticeship – even your father or your brothers. But do tell Healer Nestorion all the same. In the meantime I’ll write to my father. The north road to Amon Lanc goes right through my village. Ada knows what Celegnir looks like at least. If my family spot your brothers, they could delay them and send word here.”

“You would do that for me?” Galad asked softly.

“Of course, you’re my friend,” Alphros replied without hesitation. “Now, what normally makes you feel comforted? You always have a book in your hand.” 

“Books,” Galad agreed.

“Then you read your book and I’ll write my letter,” Alphros said.

Galad managed a small but grateful smile. He took out his book and sat in his preferred position on the bed with his back to the wall. The book lay open in his hands. He didn’t turn the page or take in the words. But he didn’t need to. Just the sturdy weight of the book, its slightly musty scent and the bindings beneath his fingers, were a soothing and steadying comfort. Only a few minutes passed like that before the door opened. Galad glanced up and saw that it was Lutha. He focused on his book, supposing that Lutha had come for Alphros.

“I just thought you should know that I’m going to stay with Elder Faelind,” Lutha said.   

“Why are you leaving?” Alphros asked, dropping his pen in disappointment. “Don’t you like it here?”

“Not really,” Lutha replied. “I need to be somewhere quiet.”

Galad stayed out of the conversation and stared at his book. Privately he wondered at Lutha going to stay with Elder Faelind. Since he didn’t know either of them well, he knew that it was not fair to judge, and yet he couldn’t help but think that they did not seem well suited. He had no more time to mull it over. He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of his name – by Lutha speaking his name. He went still, buying himself a few moments by slowly marking his place in his book. When he looked up, Lutha was watching him, but the rage that had been in the other boy’s grey eyes just days before was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Lutha staring a challenge at him as he had on their first meeting. He looked almost…friendly, Galad thought.

“You know you asked me what my name is short for,” Lutha said. “Ask me again.”

Galad obliged though he was wary of walking into a trap.

“Luthanar. It’s my new name,” Lutha announced. “What do you think?”

“It is a real name,” Galad said. “It sounds good.”

“Do you think so? I don’t know if I like it,” Lutha said, and he looked uncertain for the first time since Galad had met him.

“If it’s not the right name then you’ll figure out one that is,” Galad replied.

Lutha smiled – actually smiled – at him. “I have to go. I’m taking the lavender oil with me.”

“By all means. It was a gift.” To be polite, Galad added, “Will you come back to visit?”

“If you want me to. Does that mean we’re friends?” Lutha asked.

Galad was glad that he had put his book down because he was so stunned that it would have fallen from his hands. “Perhaps. Would…would you like that? Being friends?”

“I suppose so,” Lutha said casually. “Would you?”

“Yes,” Galad said, after noticing a small nod of encouragement from Alphros. “I would.”

“Good. Enjoy studying,” Lutha said. “And good luck with the healing stuff.”

“Thank you. Actually, I…” Galad stopped nervously, but Alphros gave him another nod and a smile. “I got an apprenticeship with Master Healer Nestorion.”

Lutha smiled again. It was a nice smile. “That’s wonderful. Healer Nestorion is really good. And he’s nice.”

“Yes, he is. He is coming by to collect me later this morning. So, um, even if you do come back to visit, I won’t be here,” Galad admitted, blushing a little. “But once I’ve signed my apprenticeship papers and I’m bound to Master Healer Nestorion’s service, my older brothers can’t drag me home by my ears. They would be breaking the law.” He glanced at Alphros for confirmation, and Alphros nodded firmly.

“They sound like bastards,” Lutha said.

“No!” Galad protested hastily, startled as to how Lutha had reached that conclusion. “Our parents were married!” 

Alphros laughed. “Not that kind of bastard.”

“Not that kind of…” Well, that made more sense. Galad felt his blush deepen as he belatedly understood. “I see. No, they…they’re a lot older than me. The situation is complicated. I suppose I just…didn’t fit in all that well with my family. I’ve never really fit in anywhere.”

“You just haven’t found where you belong yet,” Lutha said, more kindly than Galad had expected from him. “I think you’ll fit in well with the healers.”

“I hope so,” Galad whispered, half to himself. He glanced up, and as he did so his gaze landed on the bookcase at the side of the room. Most of the books were not suitable for Lutha, but Galad remembered seeing one that must have ended up there by mistake. Glad that he had forgotten to return it to its proper place, he went to retrieve it. “Elder Nithaniel won’t mind you borrowing this,” he said, offering Lutha the book. 

“What am I meant to do with it?” Lutha asked warily, as if he expected to be tricked. “Are there pictures?”

Nodding promptly, Galad turned to a page at random and then flipped a few more pages. Each one was printed with a large letter and a picture of something that began with that letter. “You can use it to help with your reading,” Galad explained. “You are going to learn, aren’t you?”

“I want to,” Lutha admitted.

“Then take it and you can show us what you’ve learned next time we see you,” Galad suggested. 

Lutha hesitated, and Galad feared for a moment that he would take it the wrong way. But Lutha accepted the book willingly before taking his leave of Galad and Alphros. As the door closed behind him, Alphros turned with a smile. “See? I knew everything would be all right. And I’m happy for you and Lutha that you’re both going where you want to be, but I can’t believe that both of my friends are leaving on the same day!”

“I’m sorry,” Galad said with a sympathetic wince. “What will you do?”

“Oh, I won’t go anywhere,” Alphros said readily. “I’m happy here. Maybe I’ll leave it a week or so and if Elder Feredir isn’t back by then I’ll visit my family for a few days.”

Galad nodded to that. He sat on his bed again and hugged his knees to his chest, glancing down at his book with an uncertain frown. “I’ve still an hour until Master Healer Nestorion arrives. Where do you think I should wait?”

“Does it matter?” Alphros asked.

“I suppose not. I just don’t want to appear desperate or overeager by waiting downstairs,” Galad tried to explain. “But I don’t want to wait up here if that would make me seem not eager at all.”

Alphros had gone back to writing his letter, but he put his pen down and swivelled around on his chair. “Most of the elflings here want nothing more than to find where they belong. Do you really think anyone would judge you for being excited that you have found your place? Equally, nobody would think less of you for staying here where you’re comfortable. Healer Nestorion certainly won’t be upset either way. Try not to be anxious, Galad.”

“I’ve been anxious since I was six years old. At this point it’s a character trait,” Galad said with a sigh.

That prompted a quiet snort from Alphros as he returned once more to his letter. Galad thought about it some more, and by the time he had decided to stay in his room he only needed to wait half an hour before there was another knock on the door. It was one of the older elflings come to collect his pack and inform him that Nestorion had arrived. Galad stood up, nervously smoothing his tunic down and brushing invisible specks of dust from it.

“You’re going to be wonderful,” Alphros said, hugging him tightly. “But promise that you’ll write to me.”

“I won’t write to you,” Galad said. “What if I come to see you instead?”

Alphros had drawn back with a flicker of doubt in his summer blue eyes, but then a smile broke out on his face. “Yes! Yes, you must visit me and I’ll visit you, and we can both visit Lutha and he can visit us.”

The excitement was so contagious that Galad found himself smiling too. He looked around to make sure that he had everything, and after exchanging a final farewell with Alphros he headed downstairs where he found Nestorion waiting with Nithaniel. Nestorion turned and gave him a warm smile as he approached. “Good morning, Galad. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Galad replied shyly.

“It has been a pleasure to have you here in my home,” Nithaniel said, putting her hands on Galad’s shoulders. “I will miss you, but I look forward to seeing you excel in your apprenticeship.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Galad said. “And…thank you for everything.”

Nithaniel smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. He caught a sweet scent of dewdrops on wildflowers as she drew back. She guided him outside where his horse had been made ready, his pack already lashed into place. Galad didn’t mount up since Nestorion appeared to have come on foot and instead wrapped his horse’s reins around his wrist to lead her. As they set off he lifted his other hand in farewell to Nithaniel, and she returned the gesture with a dip of her head.

“So,” Nestorion said, “how slowly did the last three days pass?”

“Very slowly,” Galad admitted.

“I can imagine,” Nestorion said with a laugh. “Well, you will have to wait at least one day more to begin your apprenticeship properly since today will be about getting you settled. I thought that I would start by taking you home and giving you the grand tour. This afternoon we might go into town to get some supplies and a late lunch, and then this evening will be yours to unpack your belongings and spend at your leisure. Does that sound all right to you?”

“That sounds wonderful, Master Nestorion.” Galad hesitated and took a deep breath before venturing to ask, “Will I sign my apprenticeship papers today?”

“Ah, you are a step ahead of me,” Nestorion replied, though he didn’t sound cross. “Yes, you will. The papers have already been drawn up and we will sign them together, but because they are legal documents they require a witness. Perhaps I’ll take you to the House of Healing when we go into town this afternoon. You can meet my colleagues – or rather, our colleagues – and we shall do the signing there.”

Galad nodded, but his mind went to the letter from the north tucked away inside his pack. Living with Thranor had taught him to be careful when he spoke, to plot sentences in his mind before he spoke them so that there was less chance of speaking out of turn and bringing rage down upon himself. He tried to formulate a sentence now, something to explain the contents of the letter to Nestorion without delving into the entirety of his past. Galad didn’t want to do that, but surely some context would be required if he was to tell Nestorion about the letter. Nor did he want to burden Nestorion with his troubled history, or, on the very first day of his apprenticeship, present himself as a helpless elfling in need of protection instead of a capable young elf that Nestorion should be pleased to teach. He thought of the other letter, the one that he had written. Perhaps it would suffice to send that as a response to his father’s letter. Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of hopeful desperation, Thranor would read it and see that he was happy and leave him alone.

“You seem deep in reflection,” Nestorion observed gently.

Galad caught his breath as he realised that he had been noticed sorting through his thoughts. “Oh. I…I’m just grateful that you have given me this opportunity, Master Nestorion. This is all that I have ever wanted.” That was not a lie, but Galad was unsure if Nestorion believed that it was the only thing on his mind. Thankfully, his master smiled slightly and nodded without forcing the issue.

Like a silver ribbon dropped on the ground, a stream curved around the border of Nestorion’s home before disappearing into the treeline at the edge of the property. There were two outbuildings – stables with an attached dovecote where Nestorion kept his messenger birds, and next to the stream a rounded summer house full of plants and herbs with a sheltered veranda at the front. The gardens surrounding the house were dedicated to herbs and wildflowers, and with every step Galad caught the scent of something different – lavender, feverfew, poppy, yarrow, sage, and rosemary. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as the drone of bees filled the air.

The house itself was of pale stone with a brightly painted flowerbox at each window. Aside from the living quarters which were bright and spacious, there was a side room with a separate entrance where Nestorion saw patients who did not wish to attend the House of Healing in town. It was equipped with medicines and salves, bandages and dressings, a variety of tools and blades safely locked away, and a table for examinations and surgeries. Just off that room was a smaller room. The smaller room was furnished with a neatly made bed, soft chairs, a vase of sunflowers in the window and a floral painting on the wall. This, Nestorion explained, doubled as a recovery room and a private space for mind healing sessions that was both comfortable and safe.

Finally, Galad was taken to his own room. Just as Nestorion had promised, it had a stunning view of the wildflowers that danced in the breeze outside as well as the stream wending its way through the garden. The room was decorated in shades of calming green and soothing blue with hints of silver and gold. Furniture was provided but there was plenty of space for Galad to add anything else that he might want, and space on the walls which Nestorion invited him to fill however he liked.

They spent only a little time at the house before going into town. Nestorion took Galad first to the House of Healing, a tall building which Galad had seen but never dared venture into. He was introduced to several of the healers there including Healer Nielinyë, a Noldorin elleth whose military healer husband was serving in the north alongside Captain Bregolas; Healer Landiauril, a distant cousin of Alphros with sharp eyes but cheeks that dimpled sweetly when she smiled; Master Surgeon Nathrondur, a pleasant ellon who welcomed Galad with a friendly smile and a firm clap on the shoulder; and Apprentice Healer Tuilas, who Galad learned was Elder Feredir’s youngest nephew. Galad was relieved not to meet too many more than that. Meeting new people was tiring.

Signing the apprenticeship papers was all at once momentous and not a spectacle at all. A single signature from Galad, Nestorion, and their witness Nathrondur were the only things required to make the apprenticeship a legally binding contract. And yet as Galad looked down at the three signatures, at the promise of a new life and protection from his family contained in the swirls of a pen, he felt the sting of tears and had to look away before the healers could notice. He thought that Nestorion had realised that it was overwhelming for him, because his master put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Nestorion was kind enough not to say anything though.

They returned home shortly after having lunch together in The Great Oak, and Galad went straight to his room to unpack. He took his time over it, finding the perfect place for all his belongings, and only when he was nearly at the end did he stop because his fingers landed on something that he had forgotten about. Swallowing, he tightened his grip on the wooden paddle and pulled it out. Thranor expected him to give it to his new master. Galad had not forgotten that. He slowly ran his finger along the rounded edges and the straight sides, but he dared not touch the flat surface that had caused him such pain. He tried to but his hand jerked back almost of its own volition. Galad wondered what Nestorion would say if he offered him the paddle. He wondered if Nestorion was expecting it or if such a thing had even crossed his mind. There had been a section in the contract about Nestorion having the right to use physical chastisement if and when it was necessary to teach a lesson or correct misbehaviour, but there had been nothing about specific implements, only that any discipline given must be fair and not excessive. That was not reassuring to Galad. The line between fair and excessive had become blurred long ago.

A knock on the door pulled him from his fretting. He hastily shoved the paddle into the pack and went to open the door. Nestorion was standing there with a smile that was both warm and apologetic. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Galad,” he said. “I am to visit a patient this evening. I did say that your apprenticeship will not start properly until tomorrow and that the rest of the day was your own, but you would be very welcome to come with me – though, you are under no obligation to accompany me if you would prefer to stay here.”

“Oh, yes please,” Galad said immediately. “I would love to come with you, Master Nestorion.”

“Good. The case is quite straightforward. Perfect for your first one,” Nestorion said. “And I believe that you already know the patient.”

“I…I do?”

“Lutha,” Nestorion said. “He stayed with Elder Nithaniel for a few days.”

Galad caught his breath. “Yes. We…we met.”

“Is something the matter?” Nestorion asked.

“We had a falling out his first night there. It was my fault more than his,” Galad admitted. “We each said sorry and even agreed to be friends. But…”

“But Lutha is unpredictable and you don’t like unpredictable,” Nestorion said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded as he gave Galad a long and thoughtful look. “And though you have apologised to each other and started a tentative friendship, falling out with someone is always an unpleasant thing and naturally it feels uncomfortable for a while after. But may I tell you something that might make you feel better? Lutha probably feels just as wary of seeing you again. One of you will have to make the first move. You have the opportunity to do that. I won’t force you, Galad. It is your right to change your mind and stay here. But sometimes it is easier to get a thing over and done with rather than prolong it.”

“I will come with you,” Galad said before he could talk himself out of it.

“Good boy,” Nestorion said, and Galad thought fleetingly that his master sounded almost proud of him. “Of course it might be that Lutha will request that I tend to him alone,” Nestorion added as they headed downstairs. “Patients have the right to choose their healer. We always try to respect their wishes although there are times where we must make decisions for them. Can you think of an example or two?”

“Perhaps if a patient was not lucid,” Galad suggested. “Or if they were so badly hurt that there was no time to spare.”

“Yes, very good,” Nestorion said approvingly. “Lutha is lucid – though stubborn – and not an emergency. That means that he may have some say in his treatment. Why do you think he may only have some say and not complete autonomy?”

It took a moment longer for Galad to decide on an answer for that one. “Because he is an elfling.”

“Indeed. The same would apply to you or indeed any child,” Nestorion explained. “Sometimes it is necessary for a parent or guardian to intervene and explain things in a way that their child can understand, or to give their consent for the use of certain medicines or procedures upon their child.”

Galad nodded in thoughtful understanding. “Do you think Lutha will be upset if I am with you?”

“He’ll be fine,” Nestorion replied. “Just watch out for the biting.”

So casually had his master spoken that it took Galad a moment to realise what had just been said. “The…the what?” he asked faintly. “Lutha bites?”

“Oh, he claims to bite. No doubt he would – and likely has – in a truly dangerous situation, but on the whole I think that we can dismiss it as an idle threat,” Nestorion said, as he picked up a finely tooled leather bag of healing supplies and gestured to the front door. “Besides, I suspect that if he felt the need to bite he would go for me rather than you.”

That was not entirely reassuring. “Would you like me to carry your bag for you, Master Nestorion?” Galad asked instead as they set off. He thought that seemed like the sort of helpful thing a good apprentice might do.

“You’re fine, thank you,” Nestorion replied with a smile. “Now, you may know that Lutha has gone to stay with Elder Faelind. I understand that you have already met Elder Faelind.”

Galad took a breath. Then he stopped. If Nestorion knew that he had met Elder Faelind then he must know that Galad had been to the palace back when he had first come to Amon Lanc which likely meant that he also knew that the apprenticeship at the Temple had not just fallen through as Bregolas had kindly described it in his letter but that Galad had simply failed to present himself. It was only some comfort that Nestorion did not seem interested in talking about that. “Y-yes, Master,” Galad said when he had swallowed his nerves. “I met Elder Faelind only briefly some weeks ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

“You are likely to meet him again tonight. I tell you that because it can be startling to come face to face with an Elder when you are unaccustomed to them,” Nestorion said. Galad offered guarded thanks, earning himself a speculative look. He may have only known Nestorion for a short time but he had a feeling that his new master was about to make one of his perceptive comments. Sure enough, Nestorion said, “Was there a problem when you met Elder Faelind?”

“Not a problem, Master Nestorion,” Galad said cautiously.

“You may speak candidly before me,” Nestorion said, a note of gentle chiding in his voice. “I won’t be cross with you.”

“I…I found Elder Faelind intimidating,” Galad admitted. “But I have been told by Elder Feredir and my grandfather that he is not unpleasant.”

Nestorion laughed softly at that. “A charming assessment. Allow me to add my voice to theirs. Elder Faelind is not at all unpleasant. He is one of my dearest friends.”

“He is? But you’re…”

“What?”

“Nice.”

“Thank you for saying so. But do you think that you spent enough time with Faelind to make a true judgement on his character?” Nestorion asked.

Suitably chastened, Galad swallowed and shook his head. “No, Master. I’m sorry.”

Nestorion reached out, and Galad flinched before he realised that his master was just putting a hand on his shoulder. “Peace,” Nestorion said kindly. “I’m not upset. I am well aware that Faelind presents in a certain way and I can hardly fault you for having a first impression. But I have known him since I was ten years old and he a young warrior. He is not as he was in those days. Still, his heart is just as good.”

“May I ask how you met him?” Galad said respectfully.  

“You may. It might surprise you to know that I was born in the north even as you were though my home was much further north than yours. I don’t know what happened to my birth family, but I ended up with a foster family in a little village near the eaves of the forest,” Nestorion said. “They were not cruel to me, my foster parents, but they had opened their small home to many elflings and even some orphaned children of the Woodmen. I truly believe that they had good intentions, but I was just one more mouth to feed. One day, Elder Nestaeth visited our village in company with Elder Sandirith – Nithaniel’s predecessor. They had come to relieve the pressure on my foster parents and ensure that some of the children were placed in other homes while those that remained were properly cared for. My mother certainly did not intend for that visit to end with her adopting one of those children herself. But she did, and I became Nestorion Nestaethion.”

Galad pressed his hand against a tree to steady himself. “I…I didn’t realise.”

“That Elder Nestaeth is my mother?” Nestorion said with a wry smile. “No. Sometimes a prospective apprentice already knows, but if they don’t then it is not information that I divulge until they have signed their contract. I prefer my apprentices to become students of mine based on what they think I can teach them and not because they think that it will give them an opportunity to get close to Elder Nestaeth and learn from her. It does give you that opportunity,” Nestorion added dryly. “You will meet her and get to know her on a personal level as well as a professional one. But you didn’t need to know that before.” 

“So…so you came to live in Amon Lanc,” Galad said, trying to focus.

“Yes. And I met Faelind because his father-” Galad thought that Nestorion had grimaced ever so slightly, “-was Chief of the Elders at that time. Not long after bringing me to Amon Lanc, my mother took me to Elder Elrain so that she could sign the adoption papers making me legally hers. Faelind was coming out of his father’s office as we arrived. Oh, he had a face like thunder. I never did discover why. But I looked at this tall and handsome young warrior with cold fire in his eyes and a hand on his sword, and I stepped back because for a terrible moment I feared that he might cut me down as I stood in his path. But instead he took his hand from his sword and looked down at me with such a warm and kind smile that I knew I was safe.”

“It is difficult for me to imagine that he would smile like that,” Galad ventured cautiously.

“Understandably so. You are not likely to ever see that smile. Nor, I suppose, will I ever see it again,” Nestorion added with a small and sad smile of his own. “But though his smile has gone, his goodness endures. You will always be safe with him, Galad. If you need help and for whatever reason I am not there or you cannot reach Captain Bregolas or Noendir or anyone else you trust, go to Faelind and he will help you with no questions asked. Those are not empty words. I speak from experience.”

Galad was nervous at the thought of asking Nestorion to elaborate. He didn’t want his new master to think him insolent when he was simply curious. But Nestorion seemed comfortable talking, so as they turned to walk up a long carriageway lined with trees, Galad dared to ask, “How so?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know where to start. I recall him as a young Captain watching my back and protecting me from bad tempered patients and stray arrows when I did my military tenure,” Nestorion said. “He was my staunchest ally when I found trouble with my mother – much to her exasperation. And of course there was the incident when I stole from the market.”

“You stole,” Galad echoed before he could stop himself, both startled and dismayed.

Sunlight through the trees glinted on Nestorion’s chestnut hair as he threw his head back and laughed. “I didn’t think that I was stealing! I had become separated from my mother and as I looked for her I realised that I could no longer ignore my hunger pangs. I did what I would have done in the north and took an apple from a market stall, but immediately felt my wrist grabbed from behind. The Protector who had caught me looked at me severely and called me a thief. He even threatened to take me straight to Elder Elrain. That meant little to me at the time, but I knew that I was in trouble. Then out of nowhere, Faelind appeared and bore down on us. ‘I did not know that the Greenwood was suffering such an apple shortage, Amathlogon,’ he snapped, deftly drawing me to his side. He reached for the apple that Amathlogon had taken from me, but Amathlogon held it high in the air. Faelind looked long and scathingly at him before turning to the fruit vendor and saying, ‘I wish to purchase all these apples that my small friend here might have his pick of them without himself being picked on by overzealous warriors with little better to do than bully elflings.’”

“He bought every single apple?” Galad repeated. “How many were there?”

“More than he could afford with the coin that he had on him at that time,” Nestorion said dryly. “He told the vendor to claim the remainder of the payment from his unit leader Captain Bregolas, and after saying something rude to Amathlogon and reuniting me and a portion of my fruit with my mother, he disappeared so as not to be present when poor Captain Bregolas discovered that he was in debt for over one hundred apples.”

“But what happened when my grandfather did find out?” Galad asked, unable to keep a hint of eagerness from his voice.

“I don’t know,” Nestorion laughed. “All I saw later that day was Captain Bregolas shouting at him, ‘Apples, Faelind! Bloody apples!’”

Galad laughed too, but as they reached the top of the carriageway and a grand house with a tall fountain burbling in front of it, he thought back on Nestorion’s words in dismay. “Daerada shouted at him?” he said quietly.  

“Yes, he did, but there are different kinds of shouting,” Nestorion replied gently. “Bregolas did not shout harshly or even angrily. He was simply exasperated. And with good reason. I say this with the greatest love and respect, but Faelind was exasperating in those days. When I did my stint as a military healer I discovered that the older healers used to call Faelind and his dear friend Dirnaith ‘Menace and Disaster’.”

Galad thought that was funny, but he also thought that it might be inappropriate to laugh at the youthful misadventures of two esteemed Elders. Instead, because he was grateful to Nestorion for having had the presence of mind to reassure him about Bregolas, he gave his master a small smile before turning to take in the impressive house standing before them. He took a step forward, but was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He stopped and looked up into Nestorion’s green eyes.

“I cannot promise to never shout at you, Galad,” Nestorion said, intently and honestly. “But what I can promise is that if ever I raise my voice to you it will be for good reason – because I can see that you or someone else are in imminent danger, or because I must quickly get your attention. I will never shout at you for making a mistake or asking a question or disobeying me. Ever. You have my absolute word.”

“Thank you, Master Nestorion,” Galad said. “I know that I will make mistakes. But I won’t disobey you.”

“And I won’t hold you to that. You’re so young yet,” Nestorion replied with a smile that was both sympathetic and kind. “Now I must choose my words carefully, because any adult who gives an elfling in their care permission to be disobedient will have only themselves to blame when it comes to pass. But should you disobey me, you may do so knowing that you have not done some terrible thing from which there is no coming back; that any discipline given will be given calmly, for the purpose of teaching you, and not given in anger or to exact vengeance upon you. It will take time for you to learn that for yourself. But for now I hope that my words are of some comfort.”

“They are,” Galad said softly. “Thank you.”

Nestorion bestowed another of his pleasant smiles on Galad before glancing past him to the house where a blonde elleth in a gown of heather grey was waiting at the front door. “Good evening, Lothwen,” Nestorion said. “My apprentice and I have come to visit Elder Faelind’s ward.”

“Elder Faelind told me that you might be dropping by,” the housekeeper replied. “He is occupied in his study at present so he asked that you go straight up. Luthanar has been given the first guest room on the west side of the house.”  

“Luthanar,” Nestorion murmured as they headed inside and up a sweeping staircase. “Lutha decided to take a long-name then?” 

“He only decided on it this morning,” Galad replied. “But I think that he doesn’t much like Luthanar. He said that it doesn’t sound right.”

Nestorion hmm’d thoughtfully to that but said nothing more as they reached Lutha’s room. He knocked, and the door was opened by Lutha who greeted them with a suspicious glance which cleared when he saw who his visitors were. “You can come in,” he said graciously, stepping back. “But I’m not in need of healing, thank you all the same.”

“Every other week,” Nestorion said with a trace of sympathy. “You get a visit from me every other week. That was the agreement that I reached with Elder Feredir.”

“Elder Feredir is gone,” Lutha replied. “Elder Faelind is looking after me now.”

“And unless you want Elder Faelind to decree weekly visits, you had best cease your fussing,” Nestorion said briskly. “Now then,” he added, ploughing on before Lutha could speak, “I have brought my new apprentice with me as you can see. I know that you have already met. Do you object to Galad being here?”

Lutha eyed Galad. Galad looked back at him warily. “Did you tell him about the rules?” Lutha asked finally.

“No,” Nestorion said calmly. “They are your rules. You may tell him yourself.”

“Do they involve biting?” Galad ventured.

“They do.” Lutha sounded pleased. “The rules are that if I get touched anywhere I don’t like or if anything happens that I don’t like then I’m allowed to bite.”

Nestorion took a quiet breath but just about restrained himself from speaking, which made Galad suspect that Lutha was in fact not allowed to bite but it was understood that he would if he felt the need. “I expect that I shall only observe today,” Galad said. “But if I did something that you didn’t like, you would bite me?”

“Mmm…no,” Lutha decided after a moment. “Nestorion would get bitten on your behalf.”

“Charming,” Nestorion said. “Take your shirt off and get on the bed, Lutha.”

“Most people ply me with wine first,” Lutha drawled. “I see that you are an ellon of hastier desires.”

Galad was all at once confused by the comment and appalled that Lutha would dare speak so casually to someone as respectable as Nestorion. He also couldn’t help some reluctant amusement, and he laughed under his breath until he realised that Nestorion’s expression had darkened and his eyes looked sad. It lasted only a moment, but that was long enough for Galad to falter in his amusement and wonder at what he did not understand. He held his tongue and stood aside as Lutha lay facedown on the bed and Nestorion sat on the edge of it.

Silky hair the colour of a starless sky tumbled over Lutha’s back, so Galad didn’t know what he was meant to be looking at until Nestorion gently gathered Lutha’s hair in his hand and swept it aside. The skin of Lutha’s back was as smooth as his face, but not unblemished. A dozen pink scars shone vividly. Most were clearly distinguishable from one another, but there were two that criss-crossed in the middle. Galad was relieved that Lutha was facing away from him because his eyes widened in shock before he could stop them.

As he watched Nestorion gently probe the scars with his fingertips, Galad found his thoughts drifting to home. He was no stranger to the bruises left by a paddle or a brush wielded in anger nor even to the beads of blood that a poorly cut switch could bring forth. But Galad had never been left scarred by any punishment that his father had inflicted on him, and so he wondered what had done that to Lutha. A whip, perhaps. And he wondered who. He wondered who would do that to Lutha, who could be so cruel. 

“Are they gone yet?” Lutha asked, crossing his ankles and slowly kicking them back and forth.  

“No. Nor did I tell you that they would be gone yet,” Nestorion replied gently. “They will fade in time, Lutha. But these two that cross over each other – already they look somewhat cleaner than the first time I saw them. Just be sure to-”

“Keep using the salve, I know,” Lutha said. “Can I get up now?”

“In a moment.” Nestorion put his hand on Lutha’s ankles to stop him swinging them and glanced over his shoulder at Galad. “Consider these scars, my apprentice. You have heard that Lutha already has a salve for them. What ingredients do you think such a salve might contain?”

Galad looked thoughtfully at the scars, though he was mindful of giving Lutha space and did not venture nearer to the bed. “Calendula, lavender, comfrey, and rosehip all work well to reduce the appearance of scars.”

“Those are excellent choices. What about marshmallow root?” Nestorion suggested. “I find that to be particularly useful for older scars.”

Making a mental note to write that down later, Galad nodded. “And perhaps bee balm?”

“You’re not wrong, but bee balm tends to do better on smaller marks,” Nestorion replied. “Lutha’s salve contains comfrey, lavender, and marshmallow root on a base of beeswax. It has shown efficacy so we shall continue its use for a while yet.”

“Are you two done talking about plants?” Lutha asked.

“Yes, we are done,” Nestorion said ruefully. “Thank you for your patience. You may turn over now.”

But Lutha got up instead and gestured proudly to his chest. “No bruises.”

“No bruises,” Nestorion agreed, sounding pleased. “Well enough then. You may put your shirt back on. Is there anything else that I need to know about or that you wish to discuss with me?” 

Lutha shook his head. “Mm-mm.”

“In that case I will leave you to enjoy your evening,” Nestorion said. “I have brought a new jar of salve for you. Galad, kindly take it out of my bag while I speak to Elder Faelind. Meet me downstairs in two minutes.”

“You can’t get anywhere in two minutes,” Lutha said under his breath.

Galad suspected that Nestorion was being mindful of his wariness around Lutha and letting him have a chance to stay and talk to his new sort-of friend whilst also giving him an escape route should he need it. He nodded respectfully to his master and turned away to look through the medicine bag while Lutha got dressed. They exchanged no words. When Galad turned with the jar of salve, Lutha was sitting on the bed with his hands tucked under his thighs. Lutha accepted the jar and set it aside. Then he slipped his hand back under his thigh and slowly swung his legs back and forth.

“Can we talk about the thing that happened at Nithaniel’s house?” he asked. “You know the thing with the food and me getting mad?”

“We both said sorry for that,” Galad replied, reluctantly wondering if he would have to use the escape route that Nestorion had offered.

“I know. But I’ve thought a lot about it,” Lutha said. “I would never have hit you – at least I don’t think so – but Alphros told me that you thought I was going to. That you both thought I was going to.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Galad said quietly.  

“No, it does matter!” Lutha insisted. “It matters because that’s not…that’s not me, Galad. The person you saw that night wasn’t me. I mean, it…it was me. Obviously it was me. But I felt scared when I saw that my food was gone, and when I get scared it comes out as anger. But I’m not an angry person. I’m nice. Most of the time. And I don’t make a habit of getting angry and frightening people.”

“I’m nice too,” Galad ventured. “I don’t normally steal food.”

“I do!” Lutha said happily.  

Galad laughed, but only because he hadn’t realised that Lutha was being serious. He started to suspect that might be the case when Lutha pulled open one of the drawers in his bedside table and gestured proudly at a dish of sweets. “Where did those come from?” Galad asked in dismay.

“From the kitchen,” Lutha replied. “I doubt they’ll be missed since there was a whole jar of them. Would you like one?”

“I don’t think that I should participate in thievery,” Galad said dubiously.

“You’re not,” Lutha said. “The thievery is already done. You would just benefit from it.”

“I think that’s a crime too!” Galad protested. “But…I’ll have a sweet. Thank you.” It had occurred to him belatedly that whether the sweets had been stolen or come by honestly, Lutha’s willingness to share them was a peace offering. Besides, it might be pleasant to enjoy them together. Sure enough, Lutha looked so pleased as they shared sweets and smiles that Galad felt as though the unpleasantness at Nithaniel’s house was truly behind them. That was worth indulging in stolen confectionery.

“I suppose you had better go back to Nestorion,” Lutha said finally. “He gave you two minutes and you’ve been here five.”

“See you soon, Lutha,” Galad replied. “Enjoy the rest of the sweets.”

“I shall,” Lutha said mischievously.

Galad laughed under his breath as he picked Nestorion’s bag up and slung the strap over his shoulder. As he headed out of the room and along the hallway he glanced down into the bag to check that he had left nothing behind. By the time he looked up he was at the point where he should see the staircase, but instead he found himself face to face with his own reflection in a tall window that looked over the gardens at the side of the house. Galad stepped back, startled, and looked around in confusion.

“Are you lost, elfling? Or on another of your adventures?”

The cool and neutral voice from somewhere behind him made Galad freeze. He swallowed hard and turned slowly to see Elder Faelind standing further along the hallway, regarding him with both hands clasped behind his back. Galad tried to read Faelind’s expression but it gave nothing away. “I…I took a wrong turn out of Lutha’s room, my lord. Forgive me. I should have turned right but I was distracted and I turned left.”

“Indeed you should have turned right,” Faelind said, and for a moment Galad was afraid until Faelind spoke his next words. “But you have done no harm. Come. I shall return you to your master.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galad said meekly. Faelind did not respond and turned with a swish of his midnight dark robe, the light glinting off the silver circlet that he wore at his brow. As Galad followed him along the hallway to the staircase, he tried to imagine Faelind buying out an entire apple stand simply to spite a fellow warrior and being such a frequent annoyance that Bregolas had shouted at him in exasperation and the healers had nicknamed him Menace. He failed to imagine it.

“I trust that my ward shared his purloined sweets with you,” Faelind remarked as they reached the stairs.

Galad was so startled that he almost tripped over his own feet. Suddenly he found himself torn between getting Lutha into trouble when they were so new in their friendship and daring to lie to Elder Faelind himself. Thinking quickly, he concluded that since Faelind clearly already knew about the stolen sweets, there was only one choice he could possibly make. “Lutha was very generous with his sweets, my lord,” he said.

“No doubt,” Faelind said flatly.

“Oh…oh, please,” Galad protested. “I hope that you won’t be angry with him.”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Faelind stopped and turned to look up at Galad standing three steps above him. “I choose my battles more wisely than that. I wish Lutha joy of the sweets. Now look,” he added, gesturing past the stairs. “There is your master. Freshly returned from plundering my kitchen, it seems.”

“I had thought to find you in your study. Not finding you there, I detoured to the kitchen after visiting the sun room,” Nestorion said, popping the last piece of a biscuit into his mouth. “Your orchids are looking beautiful.”

Faelind lifted his shoulder in a casually elegant half-shrug. “I shall tell Echuiaeron that you said so. Are you staying?”

“Not tonight. I ought to get my apprentice home,” Nestorion replied. He looked at Galad with a smile. “Wait outside. I will join you in a moment.” 

Galad nodded obediently, and gave Faelind a respectful nod before quietly retreating. Leaving the older ellyn to their private conversation, he went out to the fountain at the front of the house and perched on the edge. The water was sweetly cool as he trailed his fingers through it, the rays of the setting sun pleasing and soft as he tilted his face upwards. Galad closed his eyes and tried to pinpoint the strange feeling that did not course through him like a rushing river but rather wrapped him from head to foot like the gentle warmth of the sun on a spring day. He smiled when he realised that it was peace.

Chapter Text

Leaving his youngest grandchild behind tore at Captain Bregolas’ heart.

Bregolas had walked away but not gone far. He had stood on the path and stared into the trees for long minutes, every fibre of his being desperate to turn around and take Galad home, and the patrol that he was expected to lead be damned. But unlike the feelings that had niggled at him sixty-five years ago when he had returned Galad to Thranor and left him there, feelings that he had pushed aside because he had trusted his son and believed in him, these were not driven by a deep and uneasy sense that something might be wrong. Bregolas would never forgive himself for ignoring his instincts when a helpless child had needed him. But he could recognise that his desire to retrieve Galad now was rooted only in a wish to hold his grandson and never let him go – not because Galad was at risk. Because of course he was not at risk, Bregolas sternly told himself. Not with Elder Nithaniel.

By the time Bregolas forced himself to move, the sun had risen high in the sky and the chill of early morning had gently burned away. It was going to be another pleasant spring day. He met another of his grandchildren on the path to the garrison, and as they came face to face Noendir slowly lowered Galad’s pack which he had retrieved from the inn. “You’re leaving now?” he asked.

“Within the hour,” Bregolas replied.

“I wish that you didn’t have to,” Noendir said.

“You are not alone in that. I would stay if I could, but I have much to think about,” Bregolas said. “This time away on patrol will give me time to consider what will happen next.”

“What will happen to my father and older brothers, you mean,” Noendir said under his breath.

Bregolas simply nodded silently.

“And…and what will happen to me.”

“To you, daerion?” Bregolas repeated, startled. “Did you hurt Galad? Somehow I think not.”

“I never hurt him, but I might as well have. I didn’t know that Breigon hurt him in secret, only that Breigon could be sharp tongued and unkind, but I knew and saw that Ada treated Galad differently. That sometimes he treated him cruelly even,” Noendir confessed, dashing tears from his eyes. “And I did nothing, Daerada. Nothing! Nothing but try to shield Galad and distract Ada, and what good did that do! Nor did Celegnir do anything, so I’m no better than him and whatever you do to him you should do to me too. In fact I want you to!”

Bregolas strode to Noendir, but not to shake him nor punish him. Instead he took his grandson into his arms and held him tightly. “When you lost your mother, you endured a grief that you should never have known. But you trusted in your father and your big brothers, who until that point had never let you down. You trusted that the Thranor you knew and loved would come back. You believed Celegnir when he promised that it was not forever. You had faith in Breigon that he could not be capable of doing what he did.”

“Celegnir and Breigon lost their mother too,” Noendir said tearfully.

“They did. I do not discount that. Nor do I discount that Thranor lost his wife,” Bregolas said. “Both are pains that cut deep. I know that. I have felt them myself. Your father and your brothers turned down the wrong path to cope with their grief, but they are not mindlessly evil villains with no hope of redemption. I cannot think that of them. But you, Noendir…you were a child. How can I hold you equally to blame in this?”

“Because Galad is my baby brother and I wasn’t there for him,” Noendir whispered.

“You were there for him a damn sight more than any of us here in the south were,” Bregolas replied grimly. “You did the best you could in the difficult circumstances that you were put in through no fault of your own. I cannot speak for Galad, but I believe that you were a light for him when his life was darkest. Take comfort in that, daerion, and do not let your guilt eat away at you.”

Noendir stepped back, squaring his shoulders with a determined nod. “I will look after Galad while you are away. But come home soon, Daerada.”

“As quickly as I can,” Bregolas promised, and he forced his grandchildren from his thoughts and his gaze to the north.

But try as he might, Bregolas could not keep Noendir and Galad from his thoughts. They were always there, lingering on the edges of his mind. So was Thranor, and with him were Celegnir and Breigon. Bregolas was careful not to let his family intrude on the decisions that he made nor his leadership of the warriors under his command, but thoughts of what had been, thoughts of what might have been, of what should never have been, plagued his dreams. If he was not dreaming of Thranor’s hands around Galad’s throat, hands that became his own hands around Thranor’s throat, he was lying awake staring at the stars that winked their taunts at him through the trees. For the first time in many a year he took advantage of his rank to avoid night watch. He did not trust his mind not to give in to distracted thoughts.  

That was on the nights that painted warriors from the far north did not cross the border that had long ago been agreed between Queen Carphadril of Gorthebar and the Elders of Greenwood. The Protectors pushed them back each time until one afternoon when the Gorthebar warriors made so bold as to raid one of the northern settlements in broad daylight. The Protectors rushed to meet them and battle ensued beneath the trees. Bregolas directed his warriors with shouted commands even as he fought alongside them. He had never been the sort of captain to stand back with his sword sheathed and command from afar. Some were. Bregolas had tried to be when he had returned to duty after the birth of his eldest son, because his wife had begged him to think of her and Ereglas and not to do anything that might leave them alone.

And he had thought of them. He had thought of them all the time, and of Thranor when he had been born forty years later, and of his and Lissuin’s youngest son Laeros, and his later adopted children Ethirel and Lindamir, and all his grandchildren. He thought of them now and wondered what Lissuin would say to him if she knew how lost he had allowed Thranor to become, if she knew what their hot headed but always kind middle child had done. He thought of Thranor’s boys, all four of them lost in their own way too, and he thought of Thranor and what it was his responsibility to do now that he knew the truth about his son. And as he thought of those things Bregolas found himself faltering. His sword felt heavy in his hand and he let it fall point first to the ground as he stood there staring blankly at nothing.

“Cover the Captain! Cover him!”

Bregolas distantly heard the screams of his warriors. He looked up in a slow daze. Coming back to himself, he started to lift his sword but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of raven dark hair and emerald eyes surrounded by black paint. His breath caught. The Gorthebar elf smirked and swung his sword. Bregolas felt it as something heavy and forceful so that he wondered at first if he had not simply been struck with a gauntleted fist. The blow made him stagger and sink to his knees. He pressed one hand to his side and looked numbly at his fingers as they came away slick with blood. 

“Not yet,” he breathed, for his family needed him.

He said no more.

Darkness took him.

When Bregolas woke, he was not alone. The hand holding his was familiar though last time their roles had been reversed. He had been the one sitting at the bedside while Curulas had recovered from an arrow to the shoulder. Beneath the bed covers Bregolas was wearing a simple shirt and loose leggings, and he could feel the not uncomfortable constriction of bandages around his torso and smell the pungency of a herbal healing salve. He kept his eyes shut. He was unwilling yet to confront the memories that had come rushing back in, but he supposed that his lashes must have fluttered or that he had breathed deeply, because he heard his brother exhale in relief.

“You took your time waking up.”

“How long?”

“A night and a day. Healer Telfindir is furious with you,” Curulas added. “Performing lifesaving surgery hadn’t been on his list of things to do.”

Bregolas sighed and opened his eyes. His throat felt like parchment, but he shook his head with a wordless grimace when Curulas offered him a cup of water. Instead he stared at the ceiling of the northern garrison’s healing room, his eyes drifting back and forth over minute cracks that he had never noticed before. “You were not here. Before.”

“Well remembered,” Curulas said dryly. “I was not. I was leading my patrol along the western border heading north when word reached us of the increased activity out of Gorthebar. We made for the northern garrison as swiftly as possible, though yesterday’s battle was all but done by the time we arrived. Still, we have dealt a harsh blow against Gorthebar. I doubt they will sneak across the border any time soon, busy as they are nursing their wounds with their tails tucked between their legs.”

“Or Carphadril will have them redouble their efforts,” Bregolas said.

“Or she will have them redouble their efforts,” Curulas agreed. “But that is not a problem for you here and now. What happened out there?”

One of the cracks on the ceiling looked like a bird in flight, Bregolas thought as he studied it. “I met a warrior who I could not match.”

Curulas swore impressively. “Don’t give me that! I can count on one hand the warriors who can best you. One of them is me. So tell me now and tell me truthfully, muindor-laes. What happened out there? Were you distracted?”

“No!” Bregolas snapped. But he recalled that moment when all he had been able to think of were the people he had loved and failed, when even in a moment of death or survival they were all that had mattered to him. He closed his eyes and passed a trembling hand over them. “Yes.”

“Why?” Curulas whispered.

“They…they hurt him,” Bregolas said distantly.

“What are you talking about?”

But there was no time for Bregolas to speak. He heard a stifled cry followed by rushing footsteps, and then he grunted in pain as someone flew against him. His left arm he kept by his side because he knew that lifting it would pull at his wound, but his right arm he automatically put around the source of the cry. He knew who it was, but glanced down anyway and saw tell-tale hair of midnight black. Only one of his children had hair so dark. “Lindamir,” he murmured.

“I thought you were going to die!” his youngest child whispered, clinging to him a moment longer before drawing back and looking at him with anxious eyes.

“You see that he did not, which is what I told you,” Curulas interjected. “I also told you not to come bursting in here. Now go, your father needs rest.”

“But-”

“Lindamir,” Curulas said sharply.

“Lindamir,” Bregolas said more gently, seeing a shine of tears in his son’s eyes. “Look at me. You see that I am well. I am sitting up and speaking. We will talk more later, ion-laes. I promise. But for now your uncle is right.”

“Or your Captain, whichever you would most like me to be in this moment,” Curulas said, idly examining his fingernails.

“But I thought that you were going to die,” Lindamir repeated in a desperate whisper. “There was so much blood. I saw the healers trying to stem the bleeding and the cloths were…they were soaked with blood. With your blood, Ada! And for the whole night after you were feverish and calling out in your sleep, and I saw in Healer Telfindir’s eyes that he was worried about you and…and I really thought that you were going to die.”

“I know,” Bregolas said. “I’m sorry that you were frightened. But I am not leaving you.”

“Promise me,” Lindamir whispered.

“I promise.”

Lindamir took a steadying breath and nodded. He leaned forward and hugged Bregolas, and when he left it was with a baleful look under his lashes for his uncle. Curulas sighed and waited until the door was shut. “Go on then.”

“What things did I say?” Bregolas asked. “Lindamir said that I was calling out.”

“People often do when they have a fever, you’re not that special,” Curulas said in brotherly jest. He sighed again when Bregolas just looked at him. “Mostly you called for your children and grandchildren. You said Pelassiel’s name. You kept saying that you were sorry. Over and over that you were sorry. And you said another name.”

“Whose?”

“Not your wife’s.”  

Bregolas sank back against the pillows with a soft breath and stared at the ceiling. “Don’t go there.”

“We all have first loves and I know what she meant to you. Perhaps what she still means to you. You will find no judgement from me. And if it consoles you,” Curulas added, giving Bregolas’ shoulder a gentle squeeze, “you called for Lissuin too. Now talk to me, muindor. What is going on that you would allow yourself to be distracted like that? You said that someone has been hurt.”

“Galadaelin,” Bregolas said quietly. “Thranor has…mistreated him. So has Breigon.”

Curulas swore impressively again though under his breath this time. “Since when?”

“Since not long after Pelassiel died.”

“But that was…” Curulas swore a third time and got up, his honey blond hair swinging around his shoulders as he paced up and down. “That was more than half a century past! Mistreating him how? What have they done?”

“I only know a little. But what I do know is enough,” Bregolas said, his voice and expression equally grim. “At the very least Thranor has struck Galad to the face and put hands around his throat. He has punished him excessively. None of that is in doubt. As for Breigon, all Galad would say was that his brother hurt him in secret.”

“You had no idea?”

Bregolas looked up so quickly that a stab of pain shot down his left side. “Of course I had no idea. Do you think that I would have let it happen?”

“Of course not,” Curulas sighed. 

“You think that you would know if it was one of your children. You think that you know your children and grandchildren so well that something like this could not possibly happen on your watch,” Bregolas said. “I don’t blame you for that. I thought the same. No doubt if our roles were reversed, I would wonder how you could have missed it.”

“I don’t wonder that. If Galad was afraid to ask for help, and Thranor and Breigon clever in hiding their deeds, and the other boys didn’t know or they knew but said nothing…well, that is nothing but a perfect storm. How could you possibly have known? I don’t judge you or blame you, muindor, you have my word,” Curulas said. “The only one blaming you is yourself.”

“How can I not? My family was falling apart before my very eyes and I did not see it,” Bregolas said numbly. “I thought that I was good at it. At being a father.”

“You are good at it! You might be my little brother but you were a father three times over by the time I started,” Curulas said. “So much of what I learned about being a father came from you.”

“Then I pity your children.”

Curulas turned sharply and swatted Bregolas’ foot through the bedding. “Enough. Nobody else will say this to you but I will. This is not your fault. You need to stop blaming yourself, stop wallowing in self-pity because it doesn’t suit you, and think now of what you are going to do.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” Bregolas said. “I am going to confront Thranor. Then I will do what I must.”

“You will report him?” Curulas asked softly.

“And Breigon. I am undecided about Celegnir. I do not believe that he ever lifted a hand against Galad, but by doing nothing he contributed to the abuse.” Bregolas glanced up when his brother stayed silent. “You don’t think that I should report them?”

“I’m not saying that,” Curulas replied immediately. “But whatever they have done they are still your son, your grandsons. It will be incredibly hard for you. If this had happened once or twice they might have escaped with a warning and been given the help that they needed to ensure that it never happened again. But you’re telling me that it went on for decades. I cannot see an outcome in which they avoid imprisonment.”

“So be it,” Bregolas said, and he turned his face away and spoke no more.

Bregolas healed slowly, and one day he took up pen and paper and wrote three letters. In fact he wrote four. In the first one he told Galad the truth about why he was delayed in the north. Then he decided that he didn’t want his grandson to worry, so he wrote a new letter and left it vague. Another of the letters was for Noendir. The final letter was for the healer Bregolas wanted to teach Galad. Amon Lanc had plenty of talented healers, and even a few who Bregolas would trust to train Galad and look after him. He had considered each of those at length. Master Surgeon Nathrondur was pleasant and warm but likely too ebullient for Galad. Healer Nielinyë was skilled but sharp tongued. Master Healer Nestorion, though…he was gentle and calm and patient. That was what Galad needed.

After finishing his letters, Bregolas wandered the borders of the garrison. He came across patches of snowberry plants, most of the berries a pure and shining white but some blushing a pale pink, and he knelt to pick some. Galad loved all manner of flora. He would enjoy the snowberries and they would double as an apology for Bregolas’ long absence. But by the time he had finished gathering them, Bregolas was ready to throw them aside. Was he really thinking of Galad or simply trying to ease his own nagging guilt? The only thing that stopped him from discarding the plants was Lindamir coming to join him. They sat together on a flat rock, and Bregolas exhaled deeply.

“Are you in pain?” Lindamir asked in concern.

“Not enough for you to go running off for help,” Bregolas said. “Stay with me a while.”   

Lindamir stayed and lowered his head to rest on his father’s shoulder. “Who are the flowers for?”

“Galadaelin.”

“Oh.”

“He may be staying with us for a time,” Bregolas added. “I trust that is acceptable to you.”

“Little Galad staying with us? Of course it is!” Lindamir said, lifting his head excitedly. “I haven’t seen him in ever such a long time. I don’t suppose he is so little now.”

Bregolas said nothing, looking at the plants that he had gathered. He set them down on his other side and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees as he stared at the ground between his feet. Thoughts bounced slowly around his head. He frowned slightly. “I suppose it has been some years since you have last seen him. A long time since you accepted an invitation to accompany me on a visit to Thranor and his sons. Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Lindamir said. “It just is.”

Insidious dread started to creep over Bregolas, and he turned his head to look at his son – his youngest and sweetest and most trusting child. “Lindamir. Why did you stop coming with me to visit Thranor? Did something happen?”

“Something? I don’t-”

“Did Thranor hurt you?” Bregolas demanded, turning fully to face Lindamir and gripping him by the shoulders. “Did he? Tell me!”

“Ada! No!” Lindamir squirmed, and Bregolas loosened his grip. “Thranor has never hurt me! Why would you think that he had?”

“But something made you stop visiting him,” Bregolas said.

“I…” Lindamir sighed and looked down so that his father couldn’t search his eyes. “I was never close to Thranor. That wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t his fault. I was close to Ethirel because she knew what it was like to be adopted. I was close to Ereglas because he spoilt me and stayed with us when he came home from his travels. I was close to Laeros because I’m the same age as his children and he’d look after me when you were on duty. But Thranor…he was in the north, and he had Pelassiel and Celegnir and Breigon. He was kind to me but he seemed far away. He felt more like a stranger than a brother, and I don’t think he ever really understood why you would adopt me when you already had grown children and even grown grandchildren. Almost like I was…surplus to requirements. And I think after Pelassiel died, he stopped caring about letting me know that he felt that way.”

“But he didn’t hurt you?” Bregolas pressed.

“No, never,” Lindamir said. “He made me feel unwelcome, I suppose. He was cold to me where before he had only ever been politely distant. I could see in his eyes that he was angry with me for taking your attention away from him and his sons, angry with me for just existing. He started to change the way that he said my name. He said it with a cruel sneer, and I…I didn’t like the way that my name sounded on his lips. I thought that I would make it easier for us both and just stop seeing him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bregolas asked quietly.

“It didn’t seem fair to tell tales on him,” Lindamir said in the same tone. “His wife had died. He had his hands full with Noendir and Galad.”

“I am sorry that you endured those feelings alone,” Bregolas said with a sigh. “And Breigon? Did he ever do anything to you?”

“He never did anything. He seemed to like being able to tell me what to do, and I got the impression that he thought himself better than me. But that’s just Breigon. He thinks himself better than everyone.” Lindamir frowned in thought. “Why are you asking me this, Ada?”

“Never mind.”

“Never mind,” Lindamir repeated under his breath. He got up and started to walk away only to swing back around, his dark hair briefly lifting off his shoulders. “I’m not a little boy, Ada! And I’m not stupid. I know that something is going on with you, something that you’re keeping secret from me. I’ve seen you whispering with Uncle Curulas and you both go silent as soon as I draw near. You treat me like Noendir, like I’m barely past my first yen!”

“You are not yet to your third yen, elfling, which is little different to me,” Bregolas retorted, though he regretted it when Lindamir huffed irritably and turned towards the garrison. “Lindamir. Wait. That was unfair. You are a courageous and capable young warrior, and it is not because of doubt in you or a lack of trust that I have not included you in my discussions with Curulas.”

“Then talk to me now,” Lindamir said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Thranor and Breigon have been mistreating Galad for a long time,” Bregolas said. “Since Pelassiel died.”

“Mistreating him,” Lindamir repeated, turning back. “Hurting him?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“All I know is enough to say with confidence that they have done wrong, and that Galad has needed my protection and I have not given it to him,” Bregolas said. “He has it now. He will always have it now. But that does not change what has happened.”

“You didn’t know, Ada,” Lindamir whispered. “You would have saved him if you had known. And this…this is why you asked me if I have ever been hurt by Thranor and Breigon?”

Bregolas nodded. “You did not lie to me?”

“No. I swear that neither of them have ever hurt me,” Lindamir said vehemently.

“Very well. Now that Captain Thandion has arrived to take over my command of the northern patrol, I am waiting for Healer Telfindir to clear me for travel. When he gives me clearance,” Bregolas said, “I will return home by way of Thranor and his sons. I cannot yet say what will happen, but I must speak to them before anything else. And I must go alone,” he added, recognising what his son was about to ask. “I will not keep from you what is said during those conversations if it is something that may be shared, but they are conversations that I must conduct in private.”

Lindamir didn’t look delighted by that, but he had never been terribly argumentative. True to nature, he nodded dutifully. “Though you should at least take me with you so that I can punch Breigon in the face. You’re his grandfather so you can’t punch him. I’m his younger uncle so I could probably get away with it.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Bregolas said, grateful to his son for briefly lifting his spirits. “But you will remain with your patrol and mind your uncle.”

“Yes, Ada,” Lindamir sighed.

The days that followed were quiet. The warriors of Gorthebar stayed away, seemingly disinclined to test the patience of the northern garrison any further. Bregolas was relieved. He had once thought that Lindamir would become a healer or even a minstrel, so it had been an unpleasant surprise when his baby son had announced that he wished to take up a sword. Aside from a few attempts to nudge Lindamir towards a different profession, Bregolas had not stood in his way, though that didn’t mean that he had to like it when Lindamir was in dangerous territory. His preferred postings for Lindamir – and indeed his much older third son, Protector Laeros – were home guard and the western patrol. It did not sit well with him to know that Lindamir was so close to Gorthebar, and he would be happier when Curulas left the north and led his company back down the western border of the forest.

Blessedly, Curulas left the day before Bregolas was cleared to travel which meant that he was rewarded by the sight of Lindamir putting Gorthebar behind him. Bregolas had always been glad beyond telling that Lindamir was assigned to Curulas. Curulas might be a touch stricter than his warriors liked, but he was as loyal to them as Bregolas was to his own warriors. Knowing that Lindamir was commanded by a loving but no-nonsense uncle who would warm his bottom the moment he even thought of doing something silly or rash, and a captain who would protect him with his life, was some comfort to Bregolas, and he trusted nobody more than his elder brother to watch over Lindamir.

Soon enough, one son was replaced in Bregolas’ mind by another as his thoughts drifted far into the past. Thranor had taken to fatherhood the way a duck takes to water. He had not just loved Celegnir and Breigon; he had loved being with them, talking with them, teaching them, learning from them. He had been a larger than life father, grabbing his boys in bear hugs and tickling them until they were breathless, and weaving elaborate stories for them with a different voice for every character, and building them a blanket fort and letting them sleep in it until it collapsed around them. Having himself been a quieter and more restrained father, Bregolas had admired that in his son, especially because Thranor had balanced it with measured and fair sternness when it was necessary. Somehow, he had perfectly walked the line between being his children’s friend and confidante as well as their mentor and disciplinarian. Bregolas had loved that for Thranor, and for the boys, and for Pelassiel whose deep blue eyes had shone with joy when she had watched her beloved with their sons.

By the time Noendir had been born, seven hundred years and more had passed since the first time Thranor had become a father. Bregolas knew what that was like. That familiarity with the challenges of raising a new child whilst having much older children had prompted Bregolas to watch curiously to see how Thranor would adapt to this unexpected third go at fatherhood, but Thranor had barely blinked. It might have been a long time since he had rocked a crying baby to sleep or played hide and seek with an excited elfling, yet those instincts and easy ways with children had come straight back as if they had been waiting just under the surface for their chance to shine once more. Then Galad had completed the family, and Bregolas had been proud of Thranor for the way that he had effortlessly managed the needs of two young adult sons alongside those of an adolescent elfling and a new baby.

But then Pelassiel had died.

Bregolas had known that it would take a long time for Thranor to heal from his loss. Looking back, he supposed that he had taken it for granted that eventually Thranor would bounce back to the ebullient and loving elf he had once been. Bregolas knew that that had been a mistake, that he should have known better. Just a handful of centuries before, he had witnessed his former protégé Elder Faelind – Captain Faelind, as he had been then – change almost overnight from a bright and warm and charmingly rebellious young ellon to a dark-eyed stranger as quiet and cold as a winter night. But the circumstances had been different. That was what Bregolas had thought then. Faelind and Thranor had both lost their wives, yes, each tragically. But Thranor had children. Faelind did not. The outcomes shouldn’t have been the same. Bregolas had never expressed aloud his expectation that Celegnir, Breigon, Noendir, and Galad would be their father’s saving grace, but he had thought it. It had been a great deal of pressure for him to have placed on them. It had been an even greater pressure on Thranor – pressure that Thranor had not even known he was under, to return to the light instead of letting darkness consume him as Faelind had. Bregolas took full responsibility for that, and he would tell Thranor so when they reunited for the confrontation that must inevitably come.

It came just two days later.

As Bregolas approached the house where Galad had experienced his decades of misery, he looked up at it and searched for some sign that he should have been able to recognise, some hint that not all was well – a suggestion of darkness or malice. But there was nothing. Certainly since the winter storm that had claimed his daughter-in-law’s life, the house had always been somewhat…off, as if an oil lamp had been allowed to burn out and nobody had thought to relight it. Bregolas had put that down to Pelassiel being gone. The addition of a person to a home, and the taking away of a person, changed everything. That the truth could be so much worse was a blow that Bregolas thought would never stop hurting.

“Daeradar. What are you doing here?”

Bregolas looked towards the front door as an infuriatingly familiar figure stepped out. “Good morning, Breigon,” he said quietly, dismounting and turning away. He took longer than necessary to tether his horse. The sight of Breigon standing there and daring to question him had sent a vicious surge of anger through him – anger that he did not wish to channel into anything but his own nails embedded in the palms of his hands.

“You didn’t say what you’re doing here,” Breigon accused him.

“Visiting my family,” Bregolas said. “Is that not permitted?”

Breigon huffed an irritable laugh and folded his arms. “You know my father doesn’t like having visits sprung on him – not by you or anyone else. You know he likes to have plenty of notice as to when you’re coming.”

Knowing what he knew now, Bregolas recognised that as a warning sign. Before, he had only ever seen it as a somewhat inconvenient but ultimately innocent character quirk. “I don’t suppose it matters now that Galad is no longer here and there are no pretences to maintain.” He spoke the words in an undertone, but Breigon caught his breath and he knew that his grandson had heard them. “Where is Celegnir?”

“In the village,” Breigon said coldly.

“Then go and join him.”

“You can’t just turn up and order me-”

“Go and join him!” Bregolas snapped, turning sharply. His left side twinged in protest. He took a deep breath and spoke more softly. “Join your brother. Your father and I must speak privately.”

Breigon stalked to the path. There he stopped and turned back with a glint of hard brown eyes. “Galad is a liar. You don’t know him like we know him, but it’s true. He lies. He has the whole world convinced that he’s this kind and gentle soul when the truth is that he’s nothing but manipulative and deceitful and he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Walk away, Breigon,” Bregolas said. “I am angry. I do not want you near me when I am angry.”

“I can see it now,” Breigon added. “He probably looked at you with tears in his eyes knowing that you would think of my mother and take him at his word.”

“Walk away,” Bregolas repeated, his fists clenched.

Breigon did, though not without a parting shot. “If my baby brother wants me to play the villain in his fantasy, I will play it. I’m just sorry that you were stupid enough to believe him.”

Only when Breigon had disappeared from sight did Bregolas let out the breath that he had been holding. His fists had curled so tightly that it hurt to release them. Taking another breath to try and soothe his frayed temper, he crossed to the workshop and let himself in. Thranor was standing at his workbench, smoothing down a length of wood. He glanced up when the door opened, his hands going still as he met Bregolas’ eyes from across the room. Looking upon his son sent a riot of emotions through Bregolas’ heart, but they both stood in silence, neither of them speaking or moving until finally Thranor looked down and resumed his work.

“So you have come.”

“I have come.” Bregolas had been unsure if his voice would shake. He was glad that it did not. “Breigon has accused Galad of lying. Will you do the same? Or will you admit what you have done?”

Thranor frowned at the piece of wood in his hands and turned away to a box of tools on the shelf behind him. He took his time replacing the sander with a short-bladed knife, and when he finally turned back he sat down and began whittling at the edge of the wood. “The events of the night that you have come to discuss were regrettable,” he said. “Galad had been acting out for days. Pushing me, testing me, challenging me. I lost my temper. I punished him in anger. And it is true that I did what I have never done before and I put my hands on him in extreme violence. I am not proud of it, Adar. But it happened and we moved on from it.”

“You think that I am only here to talk about that one night?” Bregolas asked in disbelief. “What about the sixty years that went before?”

“I said that I had never done that before,” Thranor snapped. “That was no lie.”

“Perhaps it is no lie that that was your son’s first time feeling your hands around his throat, but don’t you sit there and tell me that you never once punished him unfairly or excessively while you were out of your mind with rage,” Bregolas said. “Don’t you tell me that you didn’t treat him differently to the other boys, that you didn’t use him as an outlet for your anger and force him to live in terror of crossing you.”

The knife and wood landed with a clatter as Thranor tossed them down. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to take responsibility!” Bregolas replied, striding around the workbench. He pulled his son up from the stool and gripped him by the upper arms. “I want you to admit what you have done!”

“I have done nothing!” Thranor shouted, and he took a step closer to Bregolas so that they stood inches apart. Breathing hard, he stared into Bregolas’ eyes for three breaths before pulling himself free. He tugged his tunic straight and turned back to the bench. Curled wood shavings landed at his feet as he began whittling again. “I have done nothing,” he repeated quietly.

“You are lying to me. And to yourself,” Bregolas said softly. “Do you know how your mother and I were able to tell when you had misbehaved?”

“Somehow I suspect that you are going to tell me,” Thranor said under his breath.

“It was your eyes. You somehow managed to be both an excellent liar and a terrible one. You see, when nobody ever suspected you of misbehaviour you could spin the most intricate tale and lie as well as the best trickster,” Bregolas said. “But the moment someone confronted you…that was when it all fell down. You would turn away so that we couldn’t see your eyes. You would busy yourself with something – just as you are doing now – so that you didn’t have to face us. You might have grown up, Thranor. You might have changed beyond recognition. But in that respect you are still the same little boy scared of being caught in a lie; scared of being scolded and turned across Ada’s knee and sent to bed early. The problem we have, ion-nín, is that you might still be my little boy, but I cannot fix this the way I did when you were twelve. I cannot warm your bottom and wipe your tears and give you a hug and a promise that it is forgiven. I wish I could. I wish it was that easy. But it is not, Thranor, so I need you to be brave and tell me the truth.”

“The truth,” Thranor scoffed. “You might not like the truth.”

“It doesn’t matter if the truth hurts me,” Bregolas said. “I still need it.”

“All right. The truth is that you took my son from me,” Thranor said, putting the knife down again and turning to face Bregolas. “You whisked him off to the south thinking that you were doing me a favour so that I wouldn’t have to deal with him after Pelassiel died, and then you brought him back half a year later and left him with me. You left him. You walked away. You didn’t ask again and again if I was certain that I could cope, that I was not simply saying what you wanted to hear. You turned your back on us, on me and my boys, because our loss reminded you too much of your loss, of my mother’s death, so you couldn’t get back fast enough to your career and your precious baby Lindamir and the grandchildren who have no needs but that you pat them on the head and toss coins at them for sweets. But they didn’t need you, Adar. I needed you. Celegnir and Breigon needed you. Noendir needed you. Galad needed you!”

“Yes, you needed me! Do you think that I have not cursed myself every waking moment these last weeks for not being there, for being blind to your need?” Bregolas demanded. “I should have done things differently. I wish that I had. I will forever regret putting that pressure on you, and I accept the part that I played in this. But you must accept your part, Thranor. None of this had to happen. It could have ended if you had asked for help. Galad never had to suffer, yet suffering is what you forced upon him. I don’t understand that.”

“What?” Thranor asked bitterly. “What are you not understanding?”

“That you could find it within yourself to hurt your child. Because even knowing what you have done, even seeing your lack of accountability and remorse, I would still fall on my sword for you,” Bregolas said. “Because you are mine. Because I love you. Do you love Galad?”

Thranor turned his face away and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Galad is my son.”

“That is not an answer,” Bregolas said. “Do you love him? Care for him at all?”

“Yes,” Thranor whispered.

“Then how could you do this to him?” Bregolas whispered back. He closed the distance between them and gently put his hands around his son’s throat though every instinct screamed at him that it was wrong. “I can barely tighten my grip on you, Thranor. It hurts my heart to hold you even like this. But you…you held Galad by the throat and you squeezed until he thought that he was going to die. That his own father was going to kill him. He is your son! Your child, your last reminder of Pelassiel, your baby boy!”

“I know what he is!” Thranor spat. “And I tried!”

“You tried? You failed!” Bregolas said, releasing Thranor. “And the very first time that you failed was the moment you should have reached out to me, or if not to me then Curulas or Parveth or your brothers. Perhaps you were waiting for us to notice that we were not being the support that you needed, and in that we failed too. I know it and I am sorry for it. I am so sorry for failing you. But how could swallowing your pride and asking for help have been worse than subjecting your son to sixty years of abuse?”

“Abuse?” Thranor repeated distantly. “I didn’t…”

“Yes, you did,” Bregolas whispered. “You abused Galad.”

Thranor turned away and sat at his workbench once more. He picked up his knife and his piece of wood and began to methodically whittle again with a frown. “I had to be harder on him than the other boys. They’d had two parents but Galad only had one. I had to make up for Pelassiel not being here. And Galad…he was always daydreaming and distracted. He could talk to you even as his mind was miles away in some book. I had to shout at him because if I didn’t then he wouldn’t pay attention. I couldn’t get through to him any other way. He just needed more discipline. You should understand that, Adar. Laeros was always in more trouble than me and Ereglas together. It is the same thing. It doesn’t mean that you abused him.”

“What I understand is that you do not want to face the truth. I understand that you are in denial,” Bregolas said. “But this is not going away. I am not going away. We are having this conversation, and one way or another I will have the full truth from you.” 

“Not if I don’t want to have the conversation,” Thranor retorted, and for a startling moment Bregolas was reminded of his second son as a sullen adolescent. “This is my property. If I tell you to leave you’ll have to leave – father or not.”

Bregolas almost let out a short laugh. He would have laughed if the situation had not been what it was. “I would like to see you try and throw me out,” he said curtly. “Now talk to me. That night when you struck Galad and put your hands around his throat – you said that was the first time it had ever happened. Galad said the same. Is that the truth?”

“That was the first and only time I ever put my hands around his throat,” Thranor said quietly.

“Had you struck him before?”

“I don’t know.”

Bregolas caught his breath. “You don’t know?”

“If Galad said it was the first time then it was the first time,” Thranor replied. “I believe that it was.”

“You believe…how can you not know?” Bregolas demanded.

Thranor slapped his whittling knife down and turned on the stool to face his father. “Because I block those moments from my mind! They are locked away never to be touched! Do you know what it is like to have your child fear you, Adar? Not simply to be nervous of disapproval and discipline that they have earned, but to recoil when you touch them, to tremble when you turn their way, to look at you with terror in their eyes?”

“No,” Bregolas said simply. “No, I do not.”

“I do,” Thranor whispered, and he dropped his head into his hands. “I know what that is like because I…I made Galad that way.”

Bregolas stood still. He hardly dared to breathe. “Why?”

“I never wanted to. I knew that I would never be the same after Pelassiel died, that Galad would not grow up knowing me as his brothers had known me, but I didn’t think that…that I would turn into the ellon that I became,” Thranor said in the same whisper. “The first time it happened, it shocked me so much that I knew it would never happen again. The…the absolute rage that came upon me, that I aimed at the one person too small to resist it. Surely it would never happen again. The second time it happened I swore to myself never again, and then the third time and the fourth time and every time after. Why did I not ask for help, you wonder? Because in my mind, each time was the last time. Except it never was. It was only ever a…an interlude. Life would be quiet and I would be peaceful for a time, but then it would come upon me again. The anger. The violence. The years passed and I consoled myself with the thought that one day must truly be the last time. And when that last time was behind us I could tell Galad that I was sorry. I could be a proper father to him.”

“Is that why you let him leave for the south?” Bregolas asked softly. “So that night could be the last time?”

“I didn’t know how else to make it so,” Thranor said. “It wouldn’t have been the last time if he had stayed. He…he had to go.”

“Then that was the kindest thing you could have done for your son and I am proud of you for it,” Bregolas said. “Despite everything else. Now tell me about the first time.”

“No,” Thranor breathed.

“Yes. No matter how deeply you have buried it, you owe it to your child to face it,” Bregolas said. “If Galad must remember, so must you.”  

“Then I wish it to stay between us,” Thranor said. “Just me and you, Adar.”

Bregolas did not make that promise, but he sat next to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

“It was not long after you had brought him back to me,” Thranor said, passing a shaking hand over his face. “He tried to get into my bedroom, but I had locked the door for solitude. Galad kept trying to get in. I flung the door open and screamed at him. He was only six and I had never even shouted at him before that. Then I pulled him to the stairs but he couldn’t keep up. He fell and was dragged along the floor. That must have hurt him. I picked him up and carried him downstairs and just…just flung him to the floor as if he was a sack of rubbish. Celegnir and Breigon took over his care for a time. We never spoke of what I had done that day.”

“Did you do that a lot?” Bregolas asked. “Push him and pull him? Drag him?”

Thranor lifted his head in a slow nod. “He was always a deep thinker. If I told him to do something or go somewhere or come to me, sometimes he wouldn’t do as he was told immediately. Perhaps not through wanton disobedience but because he needs to think things through. I…I recognise that here, now, when I am calm. But in the heat of anger when I have no patience for it, then yes, I would grab him and pull him to make him move. It seemed the only way to have his obedience.”

“In one of your letters to me, you wrote that Galad had broken his arm falling from a horse,” Bregolas said. “Was that true?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“It was true. Celegnir and Noendir saw it happen. Had I caused that injury, I don’t think that I would have told you about it,” Thranor said.

The implication was not lost on Bregolas. “Were there other injuries that Galad sustained that you kept to yourself? Because you had caused them through your rough handling of him, and to tell me about them would invite questions that you did not wish to answer?”

Thranor nodded once. “Do not ask me to remember each time.”

For a moment Bregolas said nothing, but as he looked on his son he took pity on him. “Choose one.”

“Galad was in trouble. I don’t recall why. I had my hand around his upper arm and I was taking him to…to be punished,” Thranor said with a sigh. “I suppose he must have panicked because he dug his feet in. I remember feeling enraged because he had earned the punishment. He should have taken it without argument. That was what I expected of him. I jerked him forward to make him move, and I heard this…it was like a pop. It startled me and I let go. Galad went to his knees with his hand over his shoulder. I made him move his hand. His shoulder looked wrong. It had become dislocated.”

“You had dislocated it,” Bregolas quietly corrected.

“Yes, but that was never meant to happen!” Thranor whispered harshly. “Nor would it have if he had simply obeyed me!”

Bregolas took a calming breath. “Did you take him to Healer Albethon? Or any healer?”

“There was no need. Breigon helped me do what needed to be done and we put it back into place,” Thranor said.

“And why did Galad panic when you were taking him to be punished?” Bregolas asked. “Did he have good reason to panic? Because he knew that you would go too far and give him more than he could take?”

Thranor took a breath, only to stop and look away with a shake of his head. “I’ve had enough. I have work to do.”

“No,” Bregolas said quickly, as Thranor got up. “Don’t shut down now.”

“I said I’ve had enough.”

“We are not finished.”

“Yes, we are!”

Bregolas stood and reached for his son, but Thranor lashed out. He shoved Bregolas away from him with both hands flat on his chest. Normally, a shove would barely rock Bregolas. But he had largely been bluffing when he had challenged Thranor to try throwing him out. He was not fully recovered, and the shove knocked him against the edge of the workbench. He hissed a breath through his teeth and instinctively pressed a hand to his side. Though he held it there only briefly, Thranor noticed and went still.

“Are you hurt?”

“An injury taken in the far north,” Bregolas said shortly, looking hard at his son. “There it is. Your anger. Your inability to control yourself. That was what you subjected Galad to, wasn’t it. You can vent your rage at me all you like. I can take it. But how dare you make a child – your child – endure it. Who are you to decide that an elfling’s life must be lived in fear and pain? It was never your right to choose for Galad whether help came or not, but you took it nonetheless!” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Thranor said.

“As you wish. I have heard enough. But answer me this,” Bregolas said. “Even if you could not – or would not – protect Galad from yourself, why did you not protect him from Breigon?”

“I did protect him from Breigon,” Thranor snarled.

“Did you really?” Bregolas retorted. “What did you do?”

Thranor exhaled in frustration. “Celegnir and Breigon helped with Galad when he was small. I told you that. They had permission to discipline him when it was needed. Celegnir still has that permission. But Breigon once went too far. He did too much. I told him that he would not be handling his brother’s discipline anymore.”

“I suspect that it was rather more than once and that your withdrawal of permission meant nothing to him,” Bregolas said. “What about the rest of it? Galad told me that Breigon hurt him in secret. Was it really a secret or did you know about it and pretend not to see?”

“Nothing like that went on under my roof,” Thranor said. “I would have known. I will not believe it of my son.”

Bregolas levelled a look at him. “Sometimes, a father must believe the worst of his children. Even when it breaks his heart.” He turned and took a step towards the door but stopped when his son spoke his name.

“You asked me if I love Galad. If I have ever cared about him,” Thranor said abruptly. “He was nine when the fourth anniversary of Pelassiel’s death came around. Anniversaries were – are – always difficult. Celegnir had taken Breigon to the tavern. Noendir was camping with his friends. You had written to say that you would visit, but you were not due to arrive until the next day. It was just me and Galad at home.”

“What happened?” Bregolas asked, staring at the door.

“It was a freezing night. I couldn’t sleep for worrying about Noendir camping in the cold and the possibility of Celegnir and Breigon getting drunk and falling into a snowdrift. Galad was the only child I didn’t have to worry about because he was in bed. He was safe,” Thranor said with the far-off tone of remembrance. “Shortly before midnight I was in the kitchen when I heard a small voice speaking my name. Ada. I turned, and there was Galad standing in the doorway with his bear clutched to his chest. I asked him why he was out of bed. The words came out harshly and he looked at the floor. He whispered that he was sorry but he felt very cold. I just stood there and stared at him because I realised that on the coldest night of the year my little boy was afraid to tell me that he was cold because he feared how I would react.”

Bregolas turned slowly to face Thranor. “So what did you do?” 

“I got another blanket and took him to my room. I settled him in my bed. Pelassiel and I had always done that when he was smaller. I thought that it might be a comfort to him,” Thranor said. “But he was so frightened that his tiny fists holding the blanket to his chin went white and he was staring up at the ceiling with wide and confused eyes. I turned onto my side and faced away from him. It took a while but he fell asleep. I turned back. I feared that he might wake as I put my arms around him, but he didn’t. I drew my elfling close to me and held him for the first time in four years. I stroked his soft cheeks and kissed his hair and breathed his sweet smell, and tears fell from my eyes. And I thought never again. Never again will I be the source of his fear. I will only ever be his protector, his comforter. I meant that, Adar. I meant it and believed it. But…”

“But you couldn’t keep that promise,” Bregolas said.

“No. I couldn’t keep it. And yet however short-lived it was, I made the promise not for me but for him,” Thranor said. “So there is your answer.”

Bregolas acknowledged that with a small nod. “I believe you.”

“Is there any hope for me, Adar?” Thranor asked. “Do you think that I can be saved?”

The question caught Bregolas off guard. For a moment he held himself still, but then he returned to Thranor and put a hand on his shoulder. “My heart says yes. Because you are my son and I must have faith in you. Because I remember you as you once were – a good ellon, a wonderful father who raised his children well.”

“Then your head says no,” Thranor said softly.

“I don’t know,” Bregolas admitted in the same tone. “Being caught should not be your reason to change. Your reason was right here in front of you this whole time. If being caught and confronted by me is what pushes you to become better then well enough. But it should have been Galad.” Then, because Bregolas could no more turn off his feelings for his child than he could stop breathing, he drew Thranor into his arms and embraced him. He kissed his brow before turning once more to the door, but Thranor stopped him again.

“Where is Galad?”

“Somewhere safe,” Bregolas replied briefly. “It is not for you to know where.”

“I can hardly start to make amends if I don’t even know where to find my son,” Thranor began. “I will come to the south and-”

Bregolas turned on his heel and strode back to Thranor, restraining him with a hand on his chest. “No. You will not leave the north. You will not send Celegnir and Breigon on your behalf. You will not send letters to be passed to Galad. Let him be, Thranor. Let him live his life. You wait to hear from me, but you leave Galad out of it. If I see you in Amon Lanc, I will arrest you because you are a threat to him. If I see your boys in Amon Lanc, I will arrest them because they are a threat to him. Is that clear?”

“As you say,” Thranor bit out, his hazel eyes like wood chips.  

Bregolas nodded and left the workshop. As the door fell shut behind him he stopped and lifted his gaze to the sky. He let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly as he stared at lazy clouds plodding across the blue expanse above. He wanted to weep, to drop to his knees and scream. He had never doubted Galad, but hearing Thranor verify it all was a twist of the knife. Galad lies. You don’t know him like we know him. But he does. He is nothing but manipulative and deceitful. Bregolas thought back on Breigon’s scathing words with a bitter laugh. How he wished Galad was deceitful! How he wished this was nothing but a fantasy that Galad had concocted! He could handle an elfling with a dishonest tongue, but this was beyond anything he had ever imagined.

A familiar figure was sitting on a tree swing at the side of the house. Bregolas approached Celegnir, and his eldest grandson stopped slowly swinging back and forth. Celegnir took a breath, but no words came out and he closed his mouth. Bregolas filled the silence instead. “I suppose Breigon told you that I was here.”

“He said that you didn’t want to see him,” Celegnir said uncertainly. “I thought that I should come home even without any assurance that you would wish to see me.”

“I sent Breigon away so that your father and I could speak privately,” Bregolas replied. “We have spoken. Now I will speak with you, and if Breigon wishes to engage with me I will speak with him too. Somehow I suspect that he will not wish to have this conversation.”

“No. I don’t think he will either.” Celegnir took a deep breath. “But I will. May I ask how Galad is?”

There was a part of Bregolas that considered lying to protect Celegnir from the painful truth. Celegnir was still his grandson. But he did not do that. It was only right that Celegnir know the truth. “I have been on duty in the far north these last weeks and have only communicated with your brother by letter. But before I left Amon Lanc, Galad was not in a good way. He wept as he spoke of his life here. Of the harm that was done to him. He has much inner healing to do. It will take a long time for him to be well.”

Celegnir wordlessly lowered his eyes – eyes that were softer and gentler than Thranor’s but otherwise identical. “Adar wrote to Galad ordering him home,” Celegnir volunteered after a moment, his voice somewhat husky. “He already sent the letter. Breigon and I are to bring him back from Amon Lanc if he doesn’t obey.”

Bregolas met his grandson’s eyes. “You will not be doing that.”

“No,” Celegnir whispered. “Daeradar, I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Why did you never tell me the truth?” Bregolas asked. “Start there.”

“Because Adar said that you would take the elflings away and that if he lost them he would give up and go to be with our mother,” Celegnir said with a dark laugh. “As if Breigon and I were not enough to make him want to live. I was afraid of losing him, Daeradar. In my heart I thought that one day he must get better, that one day the father I had known and loved for so long would come back to us. I convinced Noendir of that too because I believed it. I did. It is a poor reason but the only one I have. And I tried my best to protect Galad.”

“Did you,” Bregolas said softly. “All the time?”

“I…” Celegnir leaned forward and put his head in his hands with a sigh. He was wearing a ring of lacquered wood on his right hand. The green stone trapped in the centre glinted as sunlight caught it. “I did my best for as long as I could. But it was so damned exhausting always putting myself between Adar and Galad, and Breigon and Galad. That is another terrible excuse and it sounds awful. I know. The truth is that sometimes I just couldn’t…I couldn’t bear to handle it. Sometimes if I thought Galad was capable of taking whatever he was about to get, I…I’d look the other way and take care of him after. That was easier. For me.”

“I can well understand that it was exhausting and stressful for you,” Bregolas said. “But you had the luxury of being able to put it from your mind when it got too much. That was a luxury never afforded to Galad.”

“No. I know that. He challenged me about it on our last night together when I escorted him to the south,” Celegnir said. He let out a humourless laugh and looked away. “Galad never stood up for himself. It wasn’t safe for him to do that. But that night he did and he was right to do it. He said that the things that happened to him might have been of little consequence to me but that it was his life and it meant something to him. And I know that, Daeradar. I always did. I just took it for granted that Galad was strong enough to endure it. Not strong physically like me or Breigon or Adar – he’s as slender as a sapling. But strong inside. Stronger inside than any of us. But…but he should never have had to endure it. I know that, too.”

“At least you do not deny or even try to deflect anything that has happened,” Bregolas said grimly. “Unlike Breigon. He told me that Galad lies. So for the sake of absolute certainty, Celegnir, I will ask you this: is there anything that Galad has told me or will tell me that I should consider an exaggeration of the truth?”

“You should take Galad at his word,” Celegnir said in a low voice. “Whatever else Adar or Breigon might say of him, he doesn’t lie. He might have had us all convinced that he was going to obey Adar and study at the Temple, but I think he had to make us believe that or he wouldn’t have ever got away from here.”

“I think so too,” Bregolas agreed quietly. “Very well then. It seems that you have reflected on all that has happened and you understand why it was important for Galad to leave. And yet you were still intending to go after him in Amon Lanc. You were still going to bring him back to the very place that he had only just escaped.”

“Because my father commanded me to!” Celegnir protested. “Because Breigon would go even if I didn’t!”

“And because your loyalty is to them,” Bregolas said. “Not Galad.”

“I have always cared for Galad. He is my brother. But for more than seven hundred years it was just me and Breigon,” Celegnir said. “Maybe seven hundred years doesn’t mean much to you but for us it was our whole lives. It was forever. We had our own friends but we were each other’s best friends. Breigon meant the world to me. He always had my loyalty just as I always had his. He came before anything and anyone else. Always. Think me weak if you must, but I couldn’t just turn that off. Not even for Galad.”

“It is not weakness to have a bond with your brother, daerion,” Bregolas replied. “But the cost of that bond was devastating.”

“I know,” Celegnir whispered. “And this…this isn’t the end, is it?”

Bregolas leaned back against the trunk of the tree that the swing was hanging from. He folded his arms tightly over his chest and looked away with a heavy sigh. “Sixty years ago it would have been. Maybe even fifty. If this had come out so much sooner perhaps it would have been enough to sit you all down in the same room and talk it out, have you undergo mind healing sessions – which I think you should all do anyway – and apologise to Galad, or have you all live with me until things were better. I cannot say precisely what we would have done or even what the outcome would have been. But whatever we would have done then is not enough now. I cannot walk away from this, Celegnir. I must do the right thing. Even if it hurts us all.”

“I’m not saying that you shouldn’t do what the law requires or even that we don’t deserve retribution,” Celegnir said. “But do you think that it will heal the hate in Breigon’s heart? It won’t. He will only blame Galad and hate him more fiercely. And what of our work, our livelihood? Nobody will ever commission anything from us again if you send us to prison and they learn of it. We will lose everything and our family will be broken!”

“Your family has been broken!” Bregolas snapped. “It is already broken!”

Celegnir closed his eyes and bowed his head. “You hate us.”

“What did you say?”

“You hate us.”

Bregolas looked at his eldest grandson in silence. His feelings were complicated, but there was one thing of which he was certain and so he took Celegnir by the hand and lifted him to his feet. “Look at me.” He waited until Celegnir’s soft hazel eyes were fixed on him. “Thranor is my son. You and Breigon are my grandsons. I cannot hate you. I have loved you – all three of you – from the very second that I knew you were coming into this world. I love you still. No matter what. I hate the choices that have been made and the deeds that have been done. But do I hate you? No, daerion. Never. And you may tell Breigon that too.”

“I will,” Celegnir promised. 

“Good. You understand that I cannot tarry here in the north. I have left Galad long enough and I must get home to him. But I want to be certain of one thing,” Bregolas said, looking intently into his grandson’s eyes. “Aspects of my conversation with Thranor have angered him. I know that. If I leave you and Breigon here with him…”

“We will be fine,” Celegnir said, quietly but immediately. “You could leave Noendir here and he would be safe. It was only ever Galad.”

That was a complicated remark to answer. Bregolas was all at once glad that his older grandsons had not suffered as their brother had, angry and sad that Galad had endured his pain alone, and unwilling to wish that any of the others had been forced to join Galad in his torment. Finally, because he didn’t know how to reply, he simply gave Celegnir an embrace in farewell. He knew that Celegnir had believed that there was a real possibility that Bregolas hated him, and Thranor and Breigon, because the embrace made him exhale in relief. Bregolas regretted that Celegnir had feared that, even as part of him wondered if it was not a well-deserved fear. He didn’t like that thought, and sighed inwardly that yet more complex feelings should plague him.

“I told Thranor that I do not wish to see him in Amon Lanc, nor you or Breigon,” Bregolas said, drawing back. “There is a caveat to that command. I do not wish to see any of you in Amon Lanc if your purpose there is to find Galad. But if you need me, then you may come. Indeed you must come if your need is dire.”

“I understand,” Celegnir said. “I will tell Adar and Breigon.”

Bregolas gave his grandson a nod. He collected his horse and mounted up, ignoring a sharp twinge in his side. When he turned the horse’s head it was not to the south. There was one more conversation to hold in the north before his road could take him home. That conversation was not with Breigon, and not because Bregolas considered their earlier exchange of words to have been satisfactory. He would have delayed his return to Amon Lanc if it meant being able to talk sensibly to Breigon, to understand Breigon in the same way he had gained some understanding of Thranor and Celegnir, but Bregolas was all too aware that his volatile second grandson would not willingly engage. Even as a child, Breigon had been rash and swift tempered, preferring when he was upset to scream and smash things and insult people than sit quietly and talk. Pelassiel had always argued that it was not preference or even choice, and that Breigon simply needed to learn control of his emotions. But Breigon had not learned, and the years had not been kind to his temper. No. Breigon was not who Bregolas intended to seek out.

When Bregolas reached the glade where a small cottage stood with smoke rising lazily from its chimney, he tethered his horse at a wooden post under the watchful gaze of a tabby cat with paws tucked neatly in front of her. The door of the cottage was open. Stepping inside, Bregolas lifted a hand to brush aside low hanging bunches of herbs before they could tangle in his hair. Healer Albethon was seated in a comfortable chair, eyes closed and hands clasped, a serene smile on his face as if he was deep in meditation. Bregolas stood still and silent with a hand on the hilt of his sword. Finally he took a breath to break the silence, but Albethon spoke first.

“Sword at the door.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sword at the door,” Albethon repeated. “I am a healer, Captain Bregolas. A sword has no place here.”

Not for many people would Bregolas disarm, but he could not ignore such a request from a healer. He removed his sword belt and propped the blade against the door. “I have done as you wish.”

“I thank you for your consideration of my…delicate nature,” Albethon said, opening his eyes with a smile. “Will you sit down? Your visit to me the year before last was barely worthy of the name. A quick hello, an even quicker check that all was well with your dear family, and then off you had to fly again. Perhaps this time we might take tea and talk of many fine things.”

“Thank you, but this visit will be swift too,” Bregolas replied. “I intend to leave when I have what I am here for.”

“And what might that be?” Albethon asked with an owlish blink. “What brings you to my little home?”

“It has come to my attention that indeed all was not well with my family,” Bregolas said. “That for a long time all was not well. What do you know of it?”

Albethon unclasped his hands and rested them on the arms of the chair. He idly tapped his fingers as he studied Bregolas. “All was not well, you say. How so?”

“You tell me,” Bregolas replied. “You are the village healer. My son was bringing his children to you for centuries. I would expect you to have an insight into their welfare and to know them well enough that you could recognise if something was amiss. So I am asking you to tell me what you know. If what you know is nothing then say so, but my heart tells me that cannot be true.”

“Coming to me with your mind already made up seems not quite fair. But,” Albethon added sympathetically, “I understand and do not hold it against you. You love your family and are desperate for answers. Perhaps you are even desperate for vindication. Because if I knew that something was wrong yet convinced you to leave, safe in the knowledge that there was naught to worry over…well, then that is a lapse of judgement on your part. Of course you would not want to confront that. I understand and forgive you your hastiness.”

“I have suffered many a lapse of judgement. I have confronted those lapses. I accept them and the part that I have played in all that has happened,” Bregolas said. “But what of your part, Healer Albethon? How many times did you see an injury on my youngest grandson that made no sense or could not be explained? How many times did you ask the wrong questions? Or wilfully look the other way? How many times did you lie to me when the truth could have saved Galad?”

“The truth,” Albethon repeated. “What is that?”

“You know the truth!” Bregolas said bitterly, taking an angry step closer. “You knew that they needed help. You knew Galad was a child at risk of harm. Thranor all but told me that there were times where he hurt Galad and brought him to you for healing. And all you did was heal him before sending him straight back home to be hurt again. You swore an oath to protect those in need, but you are not worthy of that oath. You are not worthy to be a healer!”

Albethon swallowed hard and sat straighter. He had stopped tapping his fingers. Now they were tightly gripping the arms of the chair, his green eyes lingering warily on Bregolas. “As you say – I am a healer. Just a simple village healer. I visit an elfling with a chill and I nurse him back to health. I am presented with a broken wrist and I trust the concerned father who loves his child enough to bring him to me. You are right to say that I have been Thranor’s healer for many years. But you have been his father for twice as long. If you failed to see the truth then the expectation that you place on another to see it is harsh, Captain. Harsh indeed. Yes, very harsh.”

Scoffing quietly under his breath, because he knew that it was a fair accusation and because he couldn’t bring himself to believe Albethon even so, Bregolas turned away. He did not leave. Instead he stood still and looked out through the open door at the pretty glade where Galad had spent many a day. His gaze ran over the tabby cat sitting like a sentry on the tethering post, while a big tomcat rolled on his back in grass that danced in the breeze. A piebald horse tethered next to Bregolas’ horse was happily ignoring all other living creatures save the butterfly that kept landing on his nose. The smell of herbs was strong but pleasantly so. From beyond the treeline Bregolas could hear the faint burbling of a brook over polished rocks. He closed his eyes. He had never realised what a lovely place it was.

“Galad loved it here,” he said softly.

“What was that?”

“Galad,” Bregolas repeated, turning back. “He loved it here.”

Albethon lifted his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “Hmm. He did.”

“He would write to me and tell me all about the time that he had spent with you – collecting herbs, making salves and medicines, listening to your stories and playing with your cats,” Bregolas said. “I think it was an escape for him to come here. He adored you. But you, Albethon…not once have you asked me how he is.”

“You have hardly given me a chance,” Albethon said, with a smile that did not match the frost that touched his eyes.

“Oh, when have you ever stood on ceremony? When have you cared about interrupting the flow of a perfectly good conversation to babble nonsense or pursue your own interests?” Bregolas said. “Galad thought that you were his friend. If that was a lie I will not break his heart by telling him the truth, but even if you think little of him on a personal level, on a professional one I would expect you to have a modicum of interest in his wellbeing and his new life in the south. But you have not asked because you do not care. And because you do not care, you had no reason to help him when he was crying out for it.”

“You will think what you like, Captain,” Albethon said. “As you have since the moment you stepped through my door. I may be a simple village healer with a mind and memory like a fishing net, but I know myself better than you can ever know me. I know that I would never have put any child in my care at risk. I did not put Galad at risk. I would not.”

“If that is the only truth you have to offer then it had better be the absolute truth.” Bregolas closed the distance between them. He leaned down and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping Albethon in place. “If I learn otherwise,” he said, his voice almost a caress, “if I learn that you contributed in even the smallest way to the harm that has befallen my family, I will come for you. You will not see me. You will not know that I am there. But you will hear the whisper of my blade in the night and you will know that your moment of reckoning has arrived.”

“Careful now,” Albethon murmured. “One elf has already died at your hands. You don’t want the blood of another on them.”

Bregolas drew back ever so slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Albethon said softly, smiling as he leaned forward and forced Bregolas to withdraw further. “You cannot have forgotten. Even I would remember such a thing though the centuries have passed us all by. I would say his name – a gentle reminder for you – but perhaps it would bring bad luck.”

There was only one thing the healer could mean. “However you have come by your knowledge, it is wrong,” Bregolas snarled. “Elrain’s fate was nothing to do with me!”

“No? Then that only leaves two other people,” Albethon said. He rose fluidly and clasped his hands behind his back. “Elrain’s son – the one you always wished was yours – or the boy’s mother.”

The exchange had taken such a turn that Bregolas felt as though he had forgotten how to speak. He stared incredulously at Albethon before finding his voice. “Leave them out of it.”

“Though who knows,” Albethon said with a secret smile as if Bregolas had not spoken a word. “The mingling of blood is such an odd thing. Neither of my parents had red hair but look how I turned out. I might as well have flames atop my head! Perhaps you and Lady Thureneth as she was then could have conceived a child who looked just like the ellon he was meant to resemble. My, what a scandal that would be. A forbidden affair, an illegitimate son, murder, not to mention unlawful disposal of a body. Thureneth and Faelind just might survive it. They might be loved enough by the people, their skills deemed important enough. Captains, though…captains are disposable. Easily replaced. And who would look after poor, sweet, tormented little Galad then? His father of course. He would have to go right back to the place you left him sixty years ago.”

Faster than a bolt of lightning, Albethon’s hand shot out of his wide sleeve and Bregolas caught his breath as the keen edge of a surgical blade pressed against his neck. “Threaten me again, boy,” Albethon hissed, “and I will see to it that your children are buried in every corner of the forest, and if you are lucky I will bury a piece of you with each of them. Do we have an understanding?”

“You stay away from my son,” Bregolas whispered, though he hardly dared breathe.

“Thranor? You think that because he is a mere mile down the road from me that I would take him first. No, I would surprise you,” Albethon said pleasantly. “Maybe your dear Ereglas when he passes through the north on his travels. Laeros would be an obvious choice – an accident on patrol, easily explained. Or perhaps your pretty daughter Ethirel or your baby boy Lindamir. Then there’s Faelind himself, of course.”

Bregolas swallowed, and against his will he glanced down at the blade. “Faelind is not my son.”

“Is he not,” Albethon said, sounding bored.

No point in lying, Bregolas thought numbly. Albethon already seemed to know everything even if he did have some of his facts jumbled. “I thought that Faelind was my son. For a time.”

“Yes, and you were going to claim him as yours and run away to Doriath with your lover Thureneth only she panicked and returned to Elrain who banished you to the northern borders for a century,” Albethon interjected. “Not kind of him, but a fortuitous turn of events nonetheless since that was where you met your beloved Lissuin. Even less kind of Elrain was when he allowed you home – not on frontline duty but as weapons master to new recruits so that every day you must face the child you would have loved and raised as your own.”

“And yet Faelind is not mine!” Bregolas spat. “So he has no place in your threat!”

“And yet,” Albethon repeated mockingly, “I have not heard you defend even one of your children as vehemently as you defend him.”

Bregolas closed his eyes. “Because I can warn them. I can protect them. I cannot protect him. Not without…”

“Not without telling him what you and his mother used to do together. Hmm. A tricky situation. But he is a bright boy. I expect he already knows.” Albethon laughed as Bregolas opened his eyes to glare silently at him. “Unfortunately for you and Faelind, because you care for him so deeply, my threat as you called it – though you should really view it as a promise if you ever threaten me again – will continue to encompass him. The lives of your children whether by blood or not are in your hands, Captain. So I shall ask you again. Do we have an understanding? Answer me quickly before I start listing your grandchildren.”

“We have an understanding.”

“Very good.” Albethon released Bregolas and turned away. Almost immediately he turned back sharply, the blade already concealed in the wide sleeve of his scarlet and green robes. “Oh, and if you do come for me in the night, if you think that you can silence me…well, you can. You can silence me here and now. But your secret is only a secret when all who know it are dead.”

“Who else knows it?” Bregolas asked quietly. “And how do you know it?”

“Nice try,” Albethon chuckled. “As to the second question…you will find out. Not today. But one day. And before you go, allow me to give you a final word of warning. A piece of advice if you will. Next time you pit yourself against the painted warriors of Gorthebar, do make the effort to keep your attention on the task at hand. It would be a shame if your inattention was to cost you your life before the time is right. Now be on your way.”

Warrior and healer stared at one another across the room. When Bregolas turned on his heel and snatched up his sword, he hesitated for the briefest of moments. It crossed his mind that he could kill Albethon. Secrets were no justification for dealing out death. But a direct threat against the lives of his children, a blade to his throat…he would only be defending himself and his family. His career would probably be over or at the very least he would be taken off frontline duties and bound to a desk for the next few millennia, but that would be a fair price to pay.

But Bregolas did not need Albethon’s soft laughter to remind him that he was powerless. It might well have been an idle threat that Albethon was not the only one to know of a secret love affair three thousand years in the past, or that day in Elder Elrain’s study just seven hundred years ago when Bregolas had walked into a disaster and told himself that it didn’t matter whether Thureneth or Faelind had dealt the killing blow to Elrain because he would defend them both with equal measure. And yet. It might not have been an idle threat. Albethon knew those things somehow though he and Bregolas had only met for the first time after Noendir’s birth. If Bregolas had to buy his own life by naming anyone else who could have shared that information with Albethon, he would not be able to do it. He didn’t know. Couldn’t even guess. And so it was out of his hands. Albethon had to live. For now, said a voice somewhere inside.

Bregolas strode from the cottage and buckled his sword belt back into place beneath his cloak. He mounted up and spoke a quiet word to Gwathren, and the grey gelding sprang into action with an excited snort. Hooves pounded the woodland path as Gwathren flew past silently watching trees as fast as the thoughts flying around his master’s head. Bregolas couldn’t sort those thoughts. They were too many, too swift, too jumbled. One thing at a time, he told himself, counselling himself to patience and calm. One thing at a time. This thing first. Everything else later. There would be time. I pray there will be time.

When Thranor’s house appeared, Bregolas dismounted though Gwathren had barely come to a halt. He ran to the workshop but found it empty, his son’s whittling knife and wood abandoned on the workbench. He went then to the front of the house, pounding on the locked door with his fist and looking over his shoulder as if Albethon might materialise through the trees at any moment. And as he pounded on the door, Bregolas realised with a fatalistic laugh that he couldn’t possibly protect all those he loved all at once. There were too many of them. It was a blessing to have so many children and grandchildren, but Bregolas could do nothing if he wasn’t there when Albethon chose to take one. 

“Breigon, there you are! I thought that you had gone-” Celegnir stopped and stared. “Daeradar. What are you doing back here?”

“Where is your father?” Bregolas asked, putting a hand on his grandson’s chest to move him aside as he stepped through the door.

“The kitchen. Why-”

But Bregolas swept past him and down the hallway to the kitchen where Thranor was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “I need you to listen to me. Both of you,” Bregolas added, as Thranor looked up and Celegnir came in behind him. “Healer Albethon is not to be trusted. Do not let him into this house. Do not go to his house. Do not accept any medicines or food or drink from him. If he approaches you in the village, walk away. Find someone else to be your healer. Move away if you must. But do not trust him. Are you hearing me?” Bregolas demanded, when Thranor and Celegnir just exchanged looks.

“You have barged into my home shouting and ranting like a madman, we have no choice but to hear you,” Thranor said.

“You are angry with me. Fine, be angry with me,” Bregolas said sharply. “But heed me, ion-nín. Albethon is dangerous.”

“Albethon is many things and an idiot not least of all,” Celegnir spoke up. “But he isn’t dangerous to anyone but himself.”

“No! No, he is not an idiot. He has fooled everyone into thinking that, but he is not what he seems,” Bregolas said. “Whatever you think you know of him, you must set it aside and pay attention. He has threatened serious harm against this family and I believe that he could follow through with that threat.”

Thranor rolled his eyes towards Bregolas. “I have known Albethon a thousand years. Why would he threaten us?”

“He knew what was happening here and he did nothing,” Bregolas replied. “I challenged him. He denied it. I threatened harm to him should I discover that he was lying.”

“Of course you did,” Thranor scoffed, the feet of his chair scraping harshly on the floor as he pushed it back from the table and stood up. “Of course you threatened him. Because that is what you do, Adar. You burst into a situation thinking that you know everything when you haven’t a single clue, and all you do is make things worse. Just like you did with Galad!”

“This is nothing to do with Galad!” Bregolas snapped. “I am trying to protect you, Thranor!”

“I don’t need it!” Thranor shouted, taking an angry step across the kitchen. “I don’t need your protection and I don’t need you.” 

Bregolas stared at his son in silence. They were both breathing as hard as each other, their shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Thranor returned the stare before turning away with his arms tight across his chest. Briefly closing his eyes, Bregolas exhaled to steady himself. “Celegnir,” he said finally, putting his hands on his grandson’s shoulders. “I need you to take this seriously. I would not be here unless I deemed it a credible threat. Breigon needs to know of it too. Where is he?”

“He…Daeradar, he’s not here,” Celegnir said awkwardly.

“I know. Where…” Bregolas stopped as the pieces slowly began to fall into place. “You came to the door thinking Breigon was there. You were relieved until you realised that it was me and not your brother. Where did you think he had gone?”

“As soon as you left I went to bring him home from the village so that we could talk,” Celegnir whispered. “The innkeeper said that Breigon took one of her horses. She asked him when he would return the horse, and he said soon but first he needed to retrieve something that he had misplaced. Then he set off on the south road at a gallop.”

“He is going to Amon Lanc,” Bregolas said distantly.

A harsh laugh pierced the stillness. “What are you going to do now, Adar?” Thranor asked. “Which of us will you choose to protect? Me and Celegnir, or Galad?”

Bregolas turned slowly to the kitchen table and gripped the back of the chair. He bowed his head and watched numbly as his knuckles turned white. Galad was safe. Galad was with Elder Nithaniel whose home was well guarded, and he was not leaving the grounds of her home unchaperoned. Breigon might know that Elder Nithaniel cared for the young of the forest but he didn’t know that Galad was with her. Nor was he even likely to guess at that right away since Galad could just as easily be with any of their family in the south. Even if things had moved quickly enough that Galad had already started an apprenticeship, Breigon still wouldn’t know where to find him. Not even Bregolas knew that. He had hoped that the apprenticeship would be with Nestorion but that didn’t mean that it was. But whether with Nestorion or someone else, Bregolas thought uneasily, what if Galad’s new teacher took him straight to the House of Healing for lessons? Breigon would only have to sit in the town square for a fine view of Galad going about his business with no idea that he was being watched.

There was no time to choose between a son who didn’t want protection and a grandson who didn’t know that he needed it. The crash of an explosion somewhere beyond the trees made Bregolas snap his head up. He whirled around and put himself in front of Celegnir as Thranor jolted in shock and muttered a curse. “What was that?” Celegnir asked. “Thunder?”

Thranor didn’t answer and instead strode through the back door to the garden. Bregolas followed with Celegnir a pace behind. High above them birds had scattered, squawking furiously at their disturbed peace. All three ellyn lifted their eyes to watch the birds, but then Thranor spoke a single word. “Smoke.” Bregolas breathed in through his nose and caught the acrid scent of it a second later.

They did not have to go far to find the source of the smoke nor the explosion that had rattled the roof of the forest. Villagers and warriors had come running to fling pails of water onto the burning cottage where Bregolas had stood not even an hour before. He stared at Albethon’s ruined home with his son and grandson either side of him. “The mad idiot’s experiments finally got the better of him,” Thranor muttered scornfully under his breath, folding his arms.

Bregolas looked around slowly. The tabby cat he had noticed earlier miaowed piteously and Celegnir picked her up. The ginger tomcat disappeared into the trees with a frightened flick of his bushy tail. The piebald horse was nowhere to be seen though he had not pulled the tethering post over in a panic to escape. The rope that had held him there had simply been unfastened. “No,” Bregolas said softly. “This was no accident.”

“What do you mean?” Thranor asked shortly.

“Albethon did this deliberately,” Bregolas replied.

“Not this again,” Thranor muttered, but Celegnir looked thoughtful. “Why would he do that?”

“To create another illusion. To buy himself a chance to disappear while everyone mourns him as having died before their very eyes!” Bregolas said, gesturing roughly at the flames consuming the thatched roof. The villagers were still throwing water at the cottage, but others had turned to protecting the trees since those at least could be saved. “Thranor, I need you to set aside all that has passed between us and trust me as you once did. You must be careful. Promise me, ion-nín.”

“This threat that he made,” Thranor said. “What was it?”

“That he would bury each of my children in a different part of the forest,” Bregolas said quietly.

“Delightful. Regardless of whether I believe that, you clearly believed it enough to come racing back to warn me,” Thranor remarked. “I may not be as well versed in the laws of the forest as certain of your other sons, but I think that I am right in saying that you have powers of arrest. Well, I know that you do. You threatened me and my children with arrest just this morning. You could have arrested Albethon instead of leaving this apparently maniacal village healer to go on the run.”

“Thranor,” Bregolas sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. “It was not as simple as that.”

“No?” Thranor replied. “Or have you just never made a good choice in your life?”

“Adar,” Celegnir protested in dismay.

“Come,” Thranor said sharply. “We’re going home. And leave the cat.”

Celegnir set the cat down and waved drifting smoke away from his eyes as he turned towards his father, but Bregolas caught him by the arm. “I know that you have not just listened to me but that you have heard me. Remember what I told you. Amon Lanc is only off-limits if your intention is to seek out Galad. You do not have to go home, daerion. I can protect you.”

“No!” Thranor spat, wheeling back around to face them. “You lured Noendir away with stories of battle and glory, and now you have claimed my youngest son for yourself. You will not take my eldest. If Celegnir needs protection it will come from me alone. Now leave us, Adar. You do not want to see me in the south? I do not want to see you in the north. Not ever. You and I are done.”

“Thranor-”

“I said we’re done.”

Bregolas looked at his son in wordless longing for a time that was long past, but the stare that Thranor gave him in return was merciless. Telling himself that the tears in his eyes were only because of the smoke, Bregolas allowed Celegnir to gently disengage from him. “I have to go, Daeradar,” Celegnir whispered. “Look after my little brothers. Even Breigon.”

“Yes,” Bregolas said quietly, and watched as his son and his grandson disappeared beyond the trees. He watched them long after they were no longer in sight and the tears had slipped silently down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he pressed his hand across his face to soak up the tears. The crackle of flames and the shouts of the villagers became nothing but background noise, rushing around him while he stood still – a statue in a storm. He dared not take a step. Dared not turn his back and walk away. Once he did it became real. He had lost his son as surely as if Albethon had taken him. Bregolas was not ready to confront that.

“Captain?”

Bregolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He turned and found himself face to face with a uniformed ellon from the village garrison. The young warrior saluted hastily and Bregolas acknowledged it with a nod. “Protector Angtheldir. Who is your commanding officer? Captain Calvaethor?”

“Yes, sir,” Angtheldir replied, promptly but warily.

“Tell him that you have seen me and that I have requested a favour. Firstly, a heightened warrior presence close to Master Thranor’s home for as long as Thranor will tolerate it. I have reason to believe that a threat against his safety could be acted upon. Secondly,” Bregolas continued, before Angtheldir could ask questions, “that word is sent to Captain Curulas at the western garrison that Protector Lindamir is to return to Amon Lanc without delay. I will see to it myself that Lindamir is replaced by another warrior. Will you remember all that?”

“I will remember it,” Angtheldir promised.

“Thank you. And one other thing,” Bregolas said. “The remains of Healer Albethon are unlikely to be in that cottage. The northern garrisons must be on the lookout for him. All warriors must be mindful that he is dangerous.”

Angtheldir blinked twice. “Healer Albethon? Respectfully, sir…”

“Just ensure that the message reaches Captain Calvaethor,” Bregolas interjected.  

“Yes, sir,” Angtheldir conceded. “Should I tell Captain Calvaethor that you are staying so that he may meet with you?”

Against his will Bregolas found his gaze turning to the path that Thranor and Celegnir had taken. The smoke was clearing though it had left a mark in the air, and Bregolas looked long and silently through the greyness until the uncomfortable shifting of Protector Angtheldir reminded him that a world existed beyond his lost son. He closed his eyes and reached a decision. “No,” he said, turning his back on the path. “My time in the north is over. I am going home.”

Chapter Text

The days preceding Galad’s apprenticeship might have dragged, but his first week as a real apprentice fairly flew by. He had never known such differences in the passage of time. Each day of his apprenticeship was an absolute joy and brought with it something new to learn. So wonderful were those days that he was always dismayed when late afternoon drew on because he was so eager to keep going. Nestorion laughed at his keenness, but it was sympathetic and kind laughter that made Galad smile shyly rather than cruel laughter that would have brought him shame. Indeed, Nestorion had been nothing but kind. When Galad answered a question or completed a task well, Nestorion was free with his praise and approving smiles. When Galad didn’t know the answer to a question, or tried to answer but fell short, Nestorion did not scold him or shout at him or even look displeased. He gently corrected him and explained where he had gone wrong.

A lot of their time was spent in each other’s company. They took breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. In the very beginning Nestorion had been careful not to initiate talk about work during mealtimes, but it hadn’t taken him long to realise that Galad would talk about healing every minute of the day if he could. So, healing dominated their conversations. At breakfast they talked about what they would do in lessons. At lunch they talked about the patients they’d had that morning. At dinner Nestorion told Galad tales of his many years as a healer, years spent at home in Amon Lanc or on military postings or travelling to distant lands to study the ways of Dwarves and Men. Galad always listened intently and with deep fascination. After dinner they would each read quietly in the living room or else play a strategy game or talk some more, and on fine evenings Nestorion took Galad out to look at the stars or admire night blooming flowers. Galad had been taken aback the first time Nestorion had expressed this desire to continue being with him though they had already spent the day together. He was still learning to accept that not only was his company wanted but that he was welcome – even encouraged – to share his thoughts and feelings without having to fear saying the wrong thing. Slowly, day by day, he was becoming more and more at ease with his master.     

One night at the end of his first full week, Galad had gone to bed to read before turning out the lamp. His current read was a book about combat surgery which Nestorion had lent to him. It was difficult to imagine himself dashing around a battlefield administering aid to fallen warriors, but Nestorion encouraged him to believe that he could achieve anything. So engrossed was he in the pages that a knock on the door made him jump though it was little more than a tap. Exhaling, he looked up and sat straighter against his pillows as Nestorion stepped into the room.

“You must be enjoying that book,” his master remarked lightly. “Since lights out was an hour ago.”

Galad caught his breath in dismay. “Oh! I’m sorry!” He hastily marked his place and closed the book.

“You’re not the first to get lost in the pages of a good book,” Nestorion said, taking the book with a sympathetic smile and setting it on the bedside table. “I have done it myself a time or two. Just try not to make a habit of it.” 

“Yes, sir,” Galad said, and he swallowed nervously. “I’m very sorry.”

“No harm done. It is well.” Nestorion sat on the edge of the bed and briefly rested his hand on Galad’s knee through the covers. He gave his worried student another smile, and when he withdrew his hand he put it atop his other hand in his lap. “I have been thinking. Captain Bregolas is due home any day now. How would it be if we invited him to dinner? I’m sure he would love to know how you are finding your apprenticeship.”

“I would like that, Master Nestorion. I think Daerada would too. And…” Galad hesitated uncomfortably. “I suppose you will want to ask him about his letter.”

Nestorion’s brow creased slightly. “His letter?”

“The one that he wrote to you,” Galad said. “Where he mentioned my father and brothers.”

“And expressed that no communication should be passed to them,” Nestorion recalled, his expression clearing. “Yes. That is a conversation that I intend to have with your grandfather. I have respected your privacy by not pressing the matter with you, Galad. I understand that some things may be difficult to speak of. On your first full day with me I did ask you if there was anything that I needed to know immediately or if you felt at immediate risk of harm. You answered no to both questions. Is your answer still the same?”

Galad thought of the angry letter from his father that had sent him into such wild panic. He thought of his brothers awaiting him in Glaerobel and setting out for Amon Lanc when they realised that he would only return home if they dragged him all the way there. It was a thought that made his blood cold. But, Galad reasoned, if Bregolas got back in the next few days he could give the letter straight to him without having to bother Nestorion about it. “Yes, Master,” he said aloud. “My answer is still the same.”

“Very well. In that case, it is time for you to sleep,” Nestorion said. “I shall wake you an hour later tomorrow.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Galad protested with a guilty wince. “I won’t need to sleep late.”

“And yet you shall,” Nestorion said, gently reproving. “Goodnight, my apprentice.”  

“Goodnight, Master,” Galad replied softly.

Two nights passed before Galad made the same mistake. And it really was a mistake. He did not stay up wilfully aware that he should be dreaming instead of reading. Time simply ran away from him. Nestorion was a touch firmer but still understanding when he caught Galad the second time. The second time was also the last time that Nestorion caught him, but not the last time that Galad stayed up late; on subsequent occasions he simply realised his error before Nestorion came to check on him. Sadly for the young apprentice, his run of good and wonderful days came grinding to an unpleasant halt – and he knew that he had nobody to blame but himself.

The first thing to go wrong was the tea. Nestorion had asked for rosehip. Galad made willow bark instead. He didn’t even know why because he’d had rosehip right there in his head. He could only think that when he had picked up the jar of willow bark in error it had confused him, and rather than checking with Nestorion he had ploughed on thinking that he knew best. Nestorion had been very kind about that mistake. He had praised Galad for brewing an excellent example of willow bark tea, but gently reprimanded him that he must pay attention. Thankfully, the tea had been made whilst in private study and was not required for a patient.

The second thing to go wrong was the report. Protector Magor had come to them after an accident on duty had left him with a nasty headache that wouldn’t go away. Galad had made notes while Nestorion tended to their patient, but his sleep-deprived mind had got things twisted and confused so that he’d had to meekly apologise and ask Magor to repeat himself. Magor hadn’t seemed to mind, and Nestorion passed no comment, but Galad still felt awful and had already resolved never to let that happen again.

The third thing to go wrong was herb gathering. Nestorion had planned to take Galad on a sunset excursion, but Galad fell asleep after an early dinner. By the time Nestorion found him it was too late to go. Galad whispered his third apology of the day. Nestorion accepted the apology but spoke words that made Galad’s blood freeze in his veins. “Take a few minutes to gather yourself. Then I will see you in the study.” He accompanied the command – for command it was, however softly spoken – with a touch of his hand on Galad’s shoulder, but that did little to ease the fear roiling through Galad. The last person to have punished him was his father on that dreadful night that he shied away from remembering. He wondered how much Nestorion would make him endure. He wondered if his master would still be kind or if he had ruined everything.

When Galad reached the wood panelled study with its low leather couch and ceiling high bookcases he found that the door had been left open in anticipation of his arrival. Nestorion stood to greet him and even thanked him for coming promptly. Despite everything, Nestorion still sounded kind and there was a sympathetic light in his leaf green eyes as he stepped around his desk to close the door. Galad flinched when his master’s hand alighted on his shoulder, but it was a gentle touch that guided him to the couch. “You made a fine handful of mistakes today, my apprentice,” Nestorion remarked, gravely but without judgement. “I trust you can identify them for me.”

“I made willow bark tea when you wished for an example of rosehip,” Galad replied quietly. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I missed herb gathering and made errors in the report about Protector Magor’s concussion.”

Nestorion nodded, his elbow resting on the back of the couch and his chin propped in his hand. “I like to think myself a fair person and a reasonable teacher. I might give you a word of caution for any one of those errors. But three in one day require me to ask how this happened.”

“I was tired. I stayed up late again to read.”

Some people would have snapped at Galad to speak up. His father would have. His father would have shouted at him and made him flinch. He braced himself for that as he heard his words come out barely above a whisper, but Nestorion just nodded to the hushed confession and spoke calmly. “Your bedtime is at ten o’clock, my apprentice. It is at that time for a few reasons. Firstly, you are very young. Secondly, I need you at your best. And thirdly, good health starts with good sleep. This is a talk that we had the second time I caught you reading late. I made it clear that you are to be in your room at ten o’clock with the light out no later than half past the hour. Despite that talk and the understanding that I thought we had, you have disobeyed me.”

“I’m sorry,” Galad said miserably. “I’m so sorry.”

The apology drew a deep sigh from Nestorion. “I believe you. That is why it brings me no joy to say that I intend to discipline you. I think we must both agree that we are past the point where verbal cautions are sufficient. You are aware that during your apprenticeship, physical chastisement may be used as a form of discipline as and when required. Do you still understand what that means?”

“Yes, Master,” Galad whispered.

“It is your first time receiving such from me,” Nestorion added. “You may ask any questions and take the time that you need. This will happen, Galad. But only when you are ready.”

Galad stared at his hands folded in his lap. “I don’t need to ask anything. Thank you.”

“Then come, my apprentice,” Nestorion said.

There was no need for further instruction. Galad stood and allowed himself a moment to take a deep breath. It was a nerve wracking moment in which he half expected Nestorion to lose patience and grab him. But Nestorion was true to his word and let Galad have the time that he needed. He even thanked him for obeying and getting into position. Galad only nodded uncertainly. He was not comfortable across Nestorion’s lap – this was his master, his teacher, a healer he respected! – but to disobey would have been unthinkable.

Galad felt the back of his heather grey tunic being held out of the way against his lower back. His leggings remained in place, and he painfully swallowed his fear as Nestorion’s hand rested on his clothed bottom. It lifted and came down firmly but not hard. Galad didn’t flinch. He lay still and silent, simply turning his face against his upper arm as Nestorion settled into a steady rhythm. The repeated smacks became firmer but remained carefully controlled. Galad didn’t believe that they would stay that way. Couldn’t believe it. He felt as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, holding his breath as he waited for the push that would send him plummeting into darkness. He wished that it would come. Better to get it over with than wait and wait and wait and torturously wait.

“Lift up for me, please.”

Nestorion had paused. The fact that he had qualified his words with a please was astounding. Nobody in such a position of power ever had to be polite. They didn’t have to ask. They commanded and shouted and yanked at clothing, but they never said please. Puzzling over that, Galad raised his hips slightly and felt a cold rush of air as his lower clothing was drawn down to his knees. He settled back into position, and the solid sound of Nestorion’s hand smacking his bottom became sharper without fabric in the way to cushion it. Galad breathed out slowly, sadly, and as his face went back into his arm he felt a tear slip from one eye and then the other. They fell in silence.  

So it went until his bottom was burning enough that it would serve as a reminder for the rest of the evening that he was to go to bed on time. The push over the cliff never came. He felt himself being released from under Nestorion’s hand, the one that had remained a gentle pressure on his back, and he stood uncertainly to pull his clothing back into place. Taking a step away as Nestorion gave him a thoughtful look, Galad could only briefly hold his master’s gaze before having to avert his eyes and cast them to the floor.

“You are not my first apprentice,” Nestorion said finally. “As unpleasant as this will be for you to hear, you are also not the first elfling I have had across my knee.”

“No, Master,” Galad agreed quietly, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“I would usually offer comfort or reassurance at this point, but I cannot help but feel that you don’t want it or perhaps that you don’t expect it. And while there is no right or wrong way to respond to discipline, and certainly tolerance for pain varies from one person to another…” Here Nestorion paused and looked intently at his well-chastised apprentice. “I expected more reaction from you. I was quite firm.”

Yes. He had been firm. It was nowhere near the worst punishment Galad had ever endured but it had certainly been enough to teach a lesson. “I…I suppose I don’t see any point in making a fuss and upsetting you even more than I have already.” 

A frown appeared on Nestorion’s handsome face. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“No, Master.”

“It’s all right if you are,” Nestorion added.

“But I’m not,” Galad protested helplessly.

“Then why should you be concerned about upsetting me? As far as I can see, any elfling who finds himself facedown with his clothing in disarray and the same part of his body being repeatedly struck is perfectly entitled to, as you put it, make a fuss,” Nestorion said.

Galad managed to suppress a tired sigh, but he couldn’t stop the longing flicker of his eyes towards the door. “I don’t know, Master,” he said softly. “You asked me a question and I did my best to answer honestly. The answer I gave is the only answer I have.”

“Find a position that is comfortable and sit with me,” Nestorion instructed his student, patting the spot next to him. He waited until Galad was sitting on the couch, hands folded in his lap, before speaking again. “You say that you’re not trying to impress me. I can take you at your word and believe it. But I am left wondering why else you would take your discipline in silence and concern yourself with not upsetting me.”

“That is what I’m used to,” Galad whispered. “Being quiet. Not upsetting people. It is safer that way.”

“Tell me,” Nestorion encouraged him, and he found himself drifting into the past.

He had been a happy elfling. In those days his favourite person in the world was his father. His other favourite person in the world was his mother. His other-other favourite people in the world were his biggest brothers Celegnir and Breigon and his not-so-big-but-still-bigger-than-him brother Noendir. Together the six of them lived in a lovely house in the north of a great forest with a garden, a handful of horses and dogs, and a tree swing and a natural pool that was refreshingly cool at one end and delightfully warm at the other where a hot spring fed into it.

Galadaelin – and the only people who called him that were Ada when he was doing something he shouldn’t, and Nana when she cuddled him and cooed that he was her sweet little Galadaelin; mostly he was just called Galad because his parents hadn’t thought about how well he would be able to say his own name – didn’t have a whole lot of things to worry about, being only five. His days were full of sunshine and kisses and the smiles that magically appeared on the faces of his parents and brothers when he made them laugh, because being the much doted on and adored baby, his family found joy in all that he did. If there was anything that Galad had to worry about it was whether he would be dropped on the floor when he sat up high on his father’s shoulders. But even that wasn’t a real worry, because Galad didn’t ever think for a second that his beloved father would let him fall.

One of Galad’s favourite things was to sneak into the biggest bedroom which rightly so belonged to his parents. If Nana was in there she would sit him on her lap and let him play with her beads while she braided her hair, or she would pat the bed and cuddle him to her breast while she read her book. But if Ada was in there, he would hide behind the door and snatch Galad up in the air and mock-roar at him, “Who goes there?” And when Galad would giggle, Ada would look affronted and do his mock-roar again. “Giggle at me, will you? I’ll show you giggling, you little sneak.” Then he would tickle Galad until the giggles turned into howls of laughter, and Ada would laugh as well in that rich, booming way he had, and Galad would be so delighted that he would laugh himself into breathlessness.

Yes, life was good.

Until it wasn’t.

The first sign that life had stopped being good was the crying. Galad was used to crying because even a five year old elfling living a very good life can still find things to cry about – a grazed knee, an unwanted vegetable, a lost toy. But this crying didn’t come from Galad. It came from his brothers. All of them. He had seen Noendir cry once after an incident which had started with their father sternly saying ‘Noendir Thranorion’ in the same way he said ‘Galadaelin Thranorion’ when Galad was about to do something naughty, and which had finished, unseen, in the study. Galad had never seen his biggest brothers crying. Never ever. And yet they were.

Ada didn’t cry. Instead he did things that made glass smash and wood splinter. Galad cried then because it frightened him to hear those sounds coming from the study and then the kitchen and later the workshop where his father and brothers did their carpentry. Galad looked for his mother to rock him and coo to him in that special way she had, but he couldn’t find her even though he searched every room and stared out of every window. When he asked his brothers where she was, Celegnir looked at him in red-eyed silence. Breigon said something bad under his breath and stormed from the house. Noendir curled into a ball on the settee and cried some more. Galad just went back to his room and put himself to bed, supposing Nana would come back soon.

But Nana never came. Instead an ellon called Daerada came. That was not his true name in much the same way that Ada wasn’t really called Ada and Nana had a name other than Nana. Daerada was actually Captain-Protector Bregolas Elhaelion, but Galad didn’t know that then and anyway it wouldn’t have been proper for him to call his own grandfather that. It felt a little odd for him to call Daerada anything at all because he had only met the stern and stoic warrior twice that he could remember. Still, his brothers said ‘Daerada’ and so Galad dutifully did the same.

Daerada took Galad away. For Galad, that was the start of many days high off the ground on Daerada’s stallion with a strong arm wrapped around him as they rode from north to south. Daerada didn’t let him fall off the great horse just like Ada wouldn’t have. That helped endear Daerada to Galad, who soon began to tell him in his elfling’s lisp all about Ada, Nana, his brothers, his dogs, his tree swing, his toys – especially his favourite bear – and anything else that he could think of. Daerada listened quietly, but whenever Galad mentioned Nana, his lips went thin and a strange light appeared in his eyes. That was because Nana was dead, though nobody had told Galad that. They thought he wouldn’t understand, but he could have. He understood that dead was what happened when Ada swatted a fly out of the sky. He knew that dead was what happened to the rabbits and deer that his brothers hunted for dinner and to the fish that Nana caught in the stream behind their house. Yes, Galad could have understood dead. But perhaps it wouldn’t have been right for him to think of his mother as swatted like a fly or hunted like a rabbit.

Time didn’t mean much to such a small elfling, but Galad stayed with Daerada for long enough that he stopped being five and became six instead. The cuddles that Daerada gave him were not quite as warm as Nana’s cuddles, and Daerada didn’t tickle him or swoop him into the air like Ada or even put on funny voices when he read stories. True, he was attentive and always stopped what he was doing to listen to Galad, but he was just…there. He bathed Galad and dressed him, he put him to bed, and made sure that he ate every last bit of his vegetables. He was a pleasant and dutiful grandfather. But when Galad did something naughty, Daerada didn’t just say his name in the same stern way as Ada. Sometimes he would take Galad by the wrist and give his hand a stinging tap. Other times he would deliver the same sort of tap to Galad’s bottom or the back of his leg. Galad didn’t like that at all. It always made him cry, and even though Daerada wiped his tears and stroked his hair, he still wished for his mother’s tender kisses and his father’s rough hugs. He missed the things that had made life so good before.

Then one day, Daerada announced that he was going to take Galad back to Thranor. Galad didn’t know who Thranor was until he remembered hearing Nana call Ada by that name. That must mean that Thranor was Ada, and if that was so then surely Galad must be going home! The very thought of it made him squirm with excitement. He might have squirmed all the way home if Daerada hadn’t sharply tapped his leg and told him to settle down. Galad did settle, but that didn’t stop his insides wriggling happily as if there were butterflies inside him.

When they got home, things were the same but different.

The tree swing and the dogs were still there, but the dogs were subdued and the swing looked like it hadn’t been used in ever such a long time. Noendir greeted Galad with such a lovely hug that it made him feel warm from his head to his toes. Celegnir gave him an absentminded pat on the head, and Breigon just nodded stiffly and said hello as if they were strangers. Nana did nothing because she wasn’t there. Galad still hadn’t been told in plain terms that Nana was dead, but he had come to understand that she wouldn’t be there – not when he returned and not ever again. He was still hopeful about the not ever again part. As for Ada, he held Galad in an embrace so cold and unfeeling that it made all the lovely butterflies inside wither and die, but Galad made himself stay in it because he had missed Ada so much that he didn’t want to be parted from him. Daerada left soon after that, but Galad watched from the window and saw how he stopped and looked back not once, not twice, but three times. Of course, finally, Daerada turned his back for the last time and rode away.

Life didn’t go back to normal as Galad remembered it because in his absence a new normal had been born. It was one that he had to try and fit into except nobody told him that. He still expected Noendir to tell him fantastical stories with a different voice for every character, and he didn’t understand why Noendir looked so tired and sad or why, when he did read a story, it was in such a lifeless voice. Galad still expected Breigon to push him higher on the tree swing than anyone else was willing to dare, so when Breigon snapped at him to go away and shoved him all the way from one end of the settee to the other, Galad laughed hesitantly. Surely his brother was playing a funny new game. But his laughter made Breigon go white with rage, and Galad was frightened until Celegnir appeared and swept him away.

The worst new normal was Ada.

One day, Galad tried to let himself into Ada and Nana’s bedroom only to find that the door wouldn’t open. He jiggled the handle up and down, up and down, standing on tiptoes to peer through the keyhole, calling for Ada in a singsong voice, and then jiggling the handle some more until finally the door swung open so suddenly that Galad toppled forward onto his hands and knees. What happened next happened so quickly that he didn’t understand it. Ada was suddenly there, grabbing him by the shoulders and shouting at him to stop it. It wasn’t the funny mock-roar that had always made Galad laugh. Still, even though his shoulders hurt as Ada gripped them with bruising force, Galad tried a tentative giggle to see if that would fix things. It didn’t. Ada shouted more. He shouted right in Galad’s face, so close that Galad could feel the warmth of his breath and so loudly that it hurt his ears. Then Ada grabbed Galad by the arm and started pulling him to the stairs, but Galad couldn’t keep up and he fell so that for a few strides he was dragged along the floor until Ada snatched him up and carried him.

Ada carried Galad all the way downstairs where he flung him to the floor and shouted at Celegnir, Breigon, and Noendir for letting their baby brother out of their sight to bother him. So unpleasant and frightening was this new normal that Galad started to cry. Ada turned on him again, shouting, screaming at him to stop it, shut up, be silent. It shocked Galad into a sniffling sort of quiet, and he looked up at Ada with fear and tears in his eyes. “Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me with her eyes, damn you!” Ada roared at him. Galad didn’t know whose eyes. He only had one pair of eyes and they were his own. But he looked down and away from Ada, pressing his quivering lips together so that he didn’t cry anymore, while Ada just said, over and over, “Damn your eyes. Damn you. Damn her for leaving me like this.”

Galad sat on the floor and stared at his hands until his eldest brother picked him up. “We will look after him, Adar,” Celegnir said quietly. “Go and rest. We’ll be fine.” But they weren’t fine because they were as damaged as their father. Breigon allowed cruelty to overtake his anger. Celegnir was kind to Galad but a weak ally and poor protector. And Noendir…he tried to be grown up, he tried to help, but he too was an elfling without a mother. Each of them were lost, alone and adrift in a sea of grief.

When Ada finally stopped locking himself away in his bedroom or spending days on end in the workshop, Galad remembered. He remembered that he wasn’t to look at Ada and that he must stay quiet. Those were good things to do. But the passing of time and the slow journey to some semblance of healing had pushed that day into the deepest recesses of Ada’s mind so that he didn’t understand why his son could hardly bear to look at him or why it took shouting at Galad to make him speak clearly. How could a child lacking such spirit be his! The distance that had started to grow between father and son gaped ever further, with Ada finding his last child wilful and fey, and Galad thinking only that he must keep pleasing his beloved ada – who was still one of Galad’s favourite people even if Galad was no longer one of his, a fact that the elfling bore stoically when Ada was around but which he often cried about when he was alone with nobody to condemn his tears.

There was nothing more that Galad cared to remember. He slammed walls around his memories before more could creep in, but they crept in anyway – the constant shouting, the way his father moved so quickly it made him flinch and towered over him to make him feel small, the dislocated shoulder and twice broken wrist that had been unintentional but which had happened because Thranor was so careless in his roughness, the excessive punishments and humiliations, watching from the shadows as his brothers knew their father’s love while Galad knew only contempt, the boxed ears and pulled hair and punched ribs and the tiny bruises all over his body from Breigon’s secret pinches and…

Galad caught his breath. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“I am proud of you for sharing what you could. It can’t have been easy.” Nestorion put his hand on Galad’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It was clear to me from your grandfather’s letter that conflict of some sort existed between you and your father. Elder Nithaniel told me the same, but I didn’t know the full extent of it. I suspect that I still don’t even now. But I am so sorry for everything that you have told me tonight.”

That made Galad glance up. “It is what it is.”

“Yes,” Nestorion agreed softly. “That doesn’t make it right.”

Right or wrong had never figured into it for Galad. It had just been his life; a life that he had been accustomed to since his mother’s death, and that was all there was to it. “Thank you for being concerned, Master Nestorion,” he said finally, because he didn’t know what else to say but felt that he ought to at least acknowledge that Nestorion had spoken.

“You are welcome, though no thanks are needed. I would like to speak with you at greater length about the things that you have told me – if you are willing. You have my word that I won’t force you into anything,” Nestorion added, as Galad’s eyes flickered with doubt. “But for now, get some sleep. You have had a long and difficult day.”

Galad stood and let himself be guided to the door. As they reached it, Nestorion made a movement that Galad thought might have been the initiation of a hug. But he realised that too late and couldn’t stop himself shrinking back in alarm. Horror swept over him at the idea that he might have offended his teacher, and the very thought of that made him sick with shame, but Nestorion just gave him an understanding smile. Galad was relieved that Nestorion didn’t try the hug again right then, for he feared that he might fall apart should he be shown more kindness, but he resolved to do better next time. And he did tentatively hope that there would be a next time.

Released to go on his way, Galad went straight to his room. Only when the door was firmly closed behind him, his clothing and shoes either put in the laundry or carefully stowed away, his neatly folded nightshirt and leggings retrieved from under his pillows and changed into, did he get into bed and curl beneath the covers. Wrapping his arms around himself in the hug that he had rejected from Nestorion, he finally gave his tears the permission they needed to fall. He didn’t cry for the warm ache across his hindquarters, though some of his tears were spared for his failings and the shame of having forced Nestorion to punish him. Mostly he cried for the little boy that he had remembered, for the torment and mistreatment that had turned him into the elfling he was now – an elfling he did not much like or care to take ownership of but who he was stuck with nonetheless – and for the love that he yet bore his father and brothers. Even Breigon. It was complicated love, but still love.

When Galad had no more tears left he sat up on his sore bottom and scraped his hair back from his face. He smoothed it down, feeling with his fingertips which of his braids he ought to tidy. Three of them had become wispy while he had been curled beneath the covers, so he redid them. Once that was done he got out of bed and went to the bathing chamber, washing his face with warm water that cleared the silver tear tracks on his cheeks. He stared at himself in the mirror, into eyes of twilit blue that everyone said were twin to his mother’s, and decided that he looked presentable. Then he returned to his room and took his travel pack down from the shelf at the top of the wardrobe. The pack was empty – or nearly so. Only one thing remained inside.

Galad took the wooden paddle out and gripped the handle so tightly that his fingers turned white. He turned it slowly, staring at the rounded edges and smooth surface which had coloured his flesh in purple and red and blue. Fear wrapped a fist around his throat but he forced himself to leave his room and go downstairs on feet that felt impossibly heavy. He thought Nestorion might not be upset with him for leaving his room. Often when Thranor sent him away, he followed it up by telling Galad that he didn’t want to see him for the rest of the day or even until morning. Nestorion hadn’t said that he didn’t want to see Galad again.  

When Galad returned to the study, Nestorion looked up in surprise and set aside the paper that he had been reading. “Galad,” he said, sounding concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Master,” Galad whispered. “I…I have something that I must give you.”

“Go ahead,” Nestorion said with an encouraging smile. The smile didn’t leave his face as Galad stepped forward and placed the paddle on the desk, but an ever so slight tightening of his jaw changed it into something unreadable. He looked at the paddle in silence. When he finally lifted his gaze, the smile was gone. “What is this?”

“It…it’s a…”

Nestorion lifted his hand as his apprentice faltered. “Forgive me. I phrased the question poorly. I know exactly what this is, Galad. I meant why do you have it in your possession and why are you giving it to me?” He waited patiently, but Galad felt so ashamed that he looked away, unable to find the words. “Did you bring it with you from home?” Nestorion asked gently.

“Yes,” Galad whispered.

“Is it something that was used on you at home?”

“Yes.”

“By your father?”

“Yes.”

“And did you have a choice in bringing it from home?”

That required a longer answer. Galad swallowed and shook his head. “Ada said that my new teacher would have more use of it than him and that he would make another one for my visits home. I…I was meant to give it to you straightaway, Master Nestorion. I should have done that. I thought that maybe it would be acceptable if I waited until you needed it. I didn’t think that you would need it so soon, but I’m very sorry that I didn’t give it to you right at the start. I should have done that.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” Nestorion said softly. He got up and took Galad’s hands in his. “Galad, you’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry,” Galad breathed. 

Nestorion led Galad to the couch where not so long ago he had received his first punishment from his new master. He sat Galad down but did not sit next to him, instead kneeling in front of him on the floor. “Listen to me,” Nestorion said, gentle and firm all at once. “You have done nothing wrong and you have nothing to be sorry for. When you are ready we will have a little talk. But just talking. You are safe. You’re not in trouble. Do you understand?” He waited until Galad had taken a deep breath and nodded. “Good. Now, that paddle that you put on my desk. Are you frightened of it?”

“No,” Galad said distantly.

Nestorion lifted his chin in a slow nod. “I think you might be lying to me. I’m not upset or angry about that. It is all right for you to lie. It is all right for you to be loyal to your father. But I believe that you are frightened of the paddle because I remember being in trouble at your age. My mother had a small cherry hairbrush that she would use on me when I had seriously misbehaved. I hated that brush, Galad. I really hated it and the sting that it left behind. But I didn’t tremble at the sight of it. I didn’t struggle to speak when I knew that I had earned a dose of it let alone when it simply lay within my sight. If just handing me the paddle is enough to put you in such a state, I can only conclude that you have experienced it in ways that you should never have been forced to endure.”

“I am frightened of it,” Galad confessed in a breathless whisper.

“It is courageous of you to admit that,” Nestorion said. “But let me make one thing abundantly clear. I am never going to use that paddle on you.”

“My father sent it so that you should,” Galad replied quietly.

“As your master and teacher it is my right to choose how I discipline you,” Nestorion said in the same tone. “I am not beholden to your father and will not inflict on you anything that has been a source of fear in your life. I have no interest in cultivating fear in any apprentice. Any elfling. Nor am I all that interested in your father and whatever methods he deemed acceptable. I believe that I can speak for Captain Bregolas on that point given his reluctance to have Thranor involved in your apprenticeship. I’m not going to tell you to forget the things that have happened to you, Galad. I don’t expect you to move on as if they never happened. But I hope in time you will believe that you are safe here. Safe with me.”

“Thank you, Master Nestorion,” Galad whispered.

Nestorion gave his hand a gentle squeeze before sitting back on his heels with a sigh. “Right. What are we going to do about that paddle?”

Against his will Galad found himself looking over at the desk where the paddle lay. “I don’t know.”

“Burn it?” Nestorion suggested, raising his eyebrows.

“I…I couldn’t,” Galad protested.

“Hmm. I didn’t think so. Perhaps it is too soon for you to feel able to do that,” Nestorion conceded. “How about this? I’ll keep it shut away down here, or you can put it out of sight in your room where only you know how to find it. Then, when you are ready to destroy it, you tell me and we’ll do it together.”

Galad couldn’t imagine himself destroying something that his father had crafted, something that commanded such respect and fear, and the thought of admitting to Thranor that he had done so made his heart plummet. But he found himself nodding. “Yes, Master Nestorion.”

“Good,” Nestorion said. “Now, if you’re not quite ready to go to bed why don’t you settle in the living room and I’ll make us some hot cocoa?”

“I’d like that,” Galad said with a shy smile.

It was with some trepidation that Galad ventured downstairs the next morning. He was accustomed to one of two things happening the day after he had been in disgrace at home; either his father would scorn him and treat him with such contempt that Galad knew he had not been forgiven at all, or his father would behave as if nothing had happened and that Galad was not suffering the effects of whatever harsh punishment he had endured. Galad braced himself for either of those things to happen, but Nestorion greeted him with a warm smile and an arm around his shoulders before ushering him to the table where breakfast was laid out. The only reference to the trouble that Galad had been in the night before was Nestorion asking him sympathetically if he had slept well and how he was feeling. It was a pleasant change – and a relief.

After breakfast, Nestorion sent Galad to the storeroom to complete inventory while he caught up on paperwork. He had grimaced apologetically and promised to be along soon to help, but Galad didn’t mind. It might be nice to have some company, but Galad was equally happy by himself and he didn’t find inventory to be as onerous a task as Nestorion seemed to. On the contrary, there was something about the repetitive and methodical way of counting the stock and marking it all down that Galad found almost relaxing.

He had not been at it for long when the door opened. “Just a moment, please,” he said distractedly.

“I can wait.”

The smooth baritone was familiar. Galad’s hands shook so that the bottles of medicine rattled. He turned quickly and his eyes widened. “Daerada!”

“Come here, Galad,” Captain Bregolas said with a small smile.

Galad drew back and looked warily at his grandfather. “Why?”

For a moment Bregolas looked confused, but then his expression softened. “So that I may greet you properly. My arms are not long enough to hug you from across the room.”

“Oh.” Feeling rather stupid, Galad cautiously closed the distance between them. Bregolas put both hands on his shoulders and drew him into an embrace. He slowly returned it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. His grandfather smelled of the forest, of clear water and fresh air and green leaves on a young tree. “I am happy that you have returned safely,” Galad whispered.

“I hope that you will forgive my long absence,” Bregolas replied. “It was unavoidable.”

“You would have been back sooner if you could,” Galad said. “I liked getting your letters and I was grateful for the snowberry roots. I made soap out of them.”

“Good. I knew that you would know what to do with them.” Bregolas drew back and looked past Galad at the medicine cupboard and the drawers full of bottles that he had pulled out of it. “What are you doing with all this?”

“Inventory,” Galad said, and he gasped softly. “Daerada, it isn’t yet time for me to take a break. Master Nestorion expects me to-”

“Spend time with your grandfather,” said a voice from the doorway, and Galad looked up to see Nestorion standing there. His master gave him an encouraging smile. “The inventory is not important. It can wait.”

“If you are quite certain, Master Nestorion,” Galad said.

“I am entirely certain. Why don’t you show Captain Bregolas to the sitting room and I’ll make tea,” Nestorion suggested.

Galad smiled gratefully and made short work of tidying the medicine supplies away before leading his grandfather back inside. While he took the seat that he had become accustomed to using, Bregolas removed his cloak and sword belt. “Inventory aside,” he remarked, sitting opposite Galad, “how are you enjoying your apprenticeship?”

“Inventory aside?” Galad repeated, mildly horrified. “I like inventory!”

“Is that so?” Bregolas said. “You do not find it tedious?”

“Oh, not at all. I like that it is repetitive,” Galad said. “I find it soothing.”

“I fear that I must disagree with you on that point,” Bregolas said. “I so despised inventory that whenever I misbehaved my weapons master would have me count arrows.”

Galad smiled slightly at that, but the smile faded as he looked down at his hands. “I misbehaved yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“Master Nestorion punished me for it.”

“As is his right,” Bregolas said.

Galad nodded slowly. “Are…are you angry?”

“There is nothing for me to be angry about,” Bregolas replied. “Besides, it sounds as though the matter was dealt with by your master.”

“It…it was,” Galad conceded with a sigh. “But I felt very bad that I barely made it to the end of my first week before getting into trouble.”

Bregolas was silent, his blue eyes a few shades lighter than Galad’s fixed intently on his youngest grandson. He was silent for long enough that Galad started to panic and wonder if he should have kept his mouth shut. But then Bregolas leaned forward and said in a quiet, conspiratorial voice, “I don’t make a habit of telling this to just anyone, mind you, but I didn’t make it to the end of my first day as a new recruit before getting into trouble.”

“Is that true?” Galad asked doubtfully.

“It is true. You are not defined by one moment,” Bregolas said. “Put what happened behind you. I am sure Nestorion has already done so.”

“Yes, I think he has. I am enjoying my apprenticeship with him so much, and I’m so grateful to you for being willing to bear the cost of it. Master Nestorion has already taught me a great deal. He has been nothing but calm and patient. And…” Galad hesitated and glanced down with a shy smile. “And he is kind to me.”

“That is as it should be, daerion,” Bregolas said softly. He smiled at Galad, but the smile didn’t last. A grave expression came to replace it. “On my way home from the northern border I stopped to visit your father and brothers. I had conversations of varying lengths with all three of them. You are entitled to know what was said, Galad. Equally, if you feel that you do not wish to know, we need not discuss the matter at all. But it is only right that you know that those conversations took place and that you have the opportunity to decide how much or how little you know of them.”

“I wondered if you would see them. I thought that you might,” Galad said, staring at his hands folded tightly in his lap. “But I don’t think that I need to know all that they said. Could you summarise it?”

“Of course. The first and shortest conversation was with Breigon,” Bregolas recounted. “It might hurt your feelings to know this but I do not think that you should be surprised by it. Breigon accused you of lying.”

A thrill of horror shot unpleasantly through Galad. “I haven’t.”

“I know that. I believe you,” Bregolas said gently. “Celegnir supported your claims and told me that I was right to trust your word. I think he regrets all that happened and his part in it. He is sorry. But I also think that he is torn between responsibility to you and loyalty to Thranor and Breigon. I trust his regret, but I would not yet trust him to make better choices.”

Galad was not surprised to hear that. It was not so different to the conversation that had taken place between himself and Celegnir in Glaerobel. “What about my father?”

“Thranor must have known that I would confront him, but he was angry to finally face such a challenge and veered between denial and acceptance,” Bregolas said.

“But he did accept the things that happened?”

“To an extent. He accepted them but tried to justify them – often by blaming you for having disobeyed him in the first place,” Bregolas said. “Perhaps that is the only way he can accept them.”

“Was…was he sorry?” Galad asked softly, afraid of the answer even as he was desperate to know it.

Bregolas got up with a sigh and moved to the arm of the other chair. He put his arm around Galad’s shoulders and drew him to his side. “I won’t lie to you though a lie might make you feel better. Your father didn’t say that he was sorry. What he did say was that he had imagined a time where he could tell you that he was sorry and start being a proper father to you. I know that might not mean much. There is a difference between an apology being offered and simply thought. But I think in his heart Thranor does regret what he did and feel sorry for it even if he is not yet in a place where he can tell you so himself and be the good father that he once was.”

“If he imagined himself being a proper father to me why didn’t he just do it!” Galad whispered. “He never had to stop being the father he used to be!”

“There is no acceptable answer to that and it is all right for you to be angry about it,” Bregolas said quietly.

“I don’t want to hear anymore,” Galad said abruptly, looking away.

Bregolas gave him a comforting squeeze. “I respect that. But there are two things that I think it is important for you to know. The first is that Breigon may come to Amon Lanc. Or that he may be here already. I didn’t pass him on the road so it is possible that he turned around and went home or even that we took different routes. But you should be prepared for his arrival here.”

“I already am,” Galad replied. “Because of the letter.”

“Celegnir mentioned that Thranor had written to you,” Bregolas said. “May I see this letter?”

Galad went straight to his room and retrieved his father’s letter from the drawer that he had hidden it in. He did not go back downstairs straightaway. Instead he stood silent and still with the letter clutched so tightly that the paper creased between his fingers. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. That Breigon had accused him of lying, and for Celegnir to have acknowledged his own part in it all whilst still not being prepared to make different choices out of loyalty to everyone other than Galad, was not all that surprising. Because it was not surprising, it numbed the pain a little. But knowing that Thranor had imagined himself stopping, had dreamed of saying that he was sorry and being the father that Galad had needed all along, made Galad want to tangle his hands in his hair and scream until his throat was raw and his lungs empty. Thranor could have done those things! At any time, he could have spoken that one little word that would have meant the world to Galad! And he could have said that he wanted to be a good father again, if only his son would be patient with him and understand that he might make mistakes on the road to recovery, and Galad would have been patient. He would have been patient and sympathetic and forgiving and whatever else Thranor had needed him to be if it had meant that at the end of their dark tunnel was the merest glimpse of light.

But not now.

Now he would be none of those things.

That was what Galad told himself as he stood alone and anguished. He would never forgive his father. He would never give him another chance or seek to understand him. But in his heart he knew that for a lie. Because whatever else Galad might be, he was patient. He was sympathetic and forgiving. He had not let himself be stripped of those qualities. They had endured where confidence and courage had not. And not only that, but Galad knew himself well enough to know that if Thranor ever extended a hand, he would snap at it as quickly as a starved dog searching for crumbs. He had lived on crumbs of attention and approval for sixty-five years. They were everything to him because he loved his father and had only ever wished to make him happy and proud. Then how, Galad thought with a bitter laugh, could he judge Celegnir’s loyalty to Thranor when his own was no less? Slowly relaxing his grip on the letter, he opened his eyes and stared bleakly at nothing. He wondered if it was even possible for him to understand Thranor when he barely knew how to start understanding his own difficult feelings. But his feelings would have to wait. He was expected downstairs.

When Galad stepped into the living room he saw that Bregolas had risen and was standing at the window with his arms folded over his chest. “Ada sent the letter to Noendir,” Galad said, as his grandfather turned to face him. “Noendir gave it to Elder Nithaniel who gave it to me. Neither of them read it, so they didn’t know that Ada was planning to send Celegnir and Breigon to bring me home if I didn’t return of my own accord.”

Bregolas accepted the letter and scanned it in silence. When he had finished reading he shook his head with a sigh. “Then who have you told about this?”

“Nobody,” Galad said.

“Nobody?” Bregolas repeated incredulously.

“Well…Alphros.”

“Who is Alphros?” Bregolas demanded.

“My friend,” Galad ventured.

“And does Alphros happen to be a grown up friend who might have been able to protect you should your brothers have come to drag you home?” Bregolas asked, with a stern note in his voice.

Galad swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other. “N-no, sir. But he did write to his family. His father at least has met Celegnir, so if they saw Celegnir riding through their village they were going to stall him and send word to Alphros. But Master Natholir doesn’t know what Breigon looks like, so…so I suppose that’s not much help if Breigon came south alone.”

“I don’t suppose it is,” Bregolas said sardonically. “What about Nestorion? Did you at least warn your master about this?”

“No, because I didn’t want to burden him with all this when I had only just started my apprenticeship,” Galad whispered unhappily. “It wasn’t as though I only had a day or two. Ada gave me twelve days from the date of the letter plus the three days that my brothers were going to wait to see if I turned up in Glaerobel. And yes, you must take off a couple of days for the courier to deliver the letter in the first place, but that gets balanced out by Celegnir and Breigon’s travel time which takes it back to fifteen or maybe even sixteen days, not to mention all the time it would take them to find me when they got here. I thought that I had time to wait for you to come home and see the letter.”

Bregolas rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger before relenting with a sigh. “It hardly matters anyway since Breigon took things into his own hands.” He returned the letter to Galad and looked sternly at him. “But in matters of safety, Galadaelin, I do not want to hear of you keeping such things to yourself. I have warned Thranor against contacting you. But if any more of these letters turn up or you have contact from Celegnir or Breigon, you tell Nestorion immediately. If you are to live with him, he is your first point of protection. So you keep him involved in this. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Galad said with a hasty nod.

“It may well be that Breigon returned home when his temper cooled, but until we know that for certain I expect you to behave as if he is in Amon Lanc,” Bregolas said. “That means keeping your wits about you at all times and not going anywhere without an escort. You understand?”

“I understand,” Galad promised. “What was the other thing that you wanted to tell me?”

“The other thing,” Bregolas echoed, sighing softly. “The other thing is something that I think you ought to know even as I am in two minds about telling you for fear that it may complicate matters in your mind. Before I tell you, I want to be very clear about something. There is no justification for the way your father treated you. There might be reasons – but reasons are not the same as justification. What I am about to tell you neither justifies nor excuses or even forgives Thranor’s behaviour.” 

“I want to hear it,” Galad said in a whisper.

“I asked your father if he loves you,” Bregolas said quietly. “He made it clear that he does.”

Galad looked away and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. He had often wondered if Thranor hated him, yet that had seemed too simple an explanation for the way his father felt. He could accept that Breigon hated him. It was painful acceptance, but acceptance nonetheless. Galad had never wanted to believe that Thranor hated him though, or at least that Thranor could unconditionally hate him without that hatred being tempered by the memory of the love that had once existed between them. Did it make Thranor’s actions harder to understand and more painful to bear knowing that he had committed them even as he had loved Galad? Yes. It was a difficult thing to accept that fear and love could live together not as distant allies but close kin. And yet…now Galad knew that his father had never rejected him, and that was one more crumb for him to cling to. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he whispered.

“Of course. I brought you a present,” Bregolas added gently.

“You…you did?”

Bregolas nodded and turned Galad to the window. At first Galad could only see a grey horse tethered outside, but then he noticed that the horse was watching a familiar tabby cat pouncing on insects in the grass. “That’s Cabril!” he exclaimed. “Healer Albethon’s cat!”

“There was a fire at Albethon’s cottage,” Bregolas said.

“A fire?” Galad repeated, catching his breath. “Is he all right? Was he injured?”

Bregolas was silent for so long that Galad turned to look up at him. He was startled to see that his grandfather’s jaw was tightly clenched, though Bregolas exhaled and seemed to force himself to relax when he realised that Galad was awaiting an answer. “I think Albethon fled the cottage after it went up in flames,” he said finally. “I don’t know where he went, daerion, but if he comes this way you must stay away from him. He-”

“He knew what was happening,” Galad interjected.

“He…yes, he did,” Bregolas said slowly. “You already know?”

“I think part of me always did know. I just never wanted to believe it while we were still friends, because he was the only friend I had though he was entirely mad not to mention old enough to be my great-grandfather. But that didn’t matter because he brought me happiness, so I ignored my suspicions until I knew that I was leaving everything behind – Albethon included. I challenged him. He admitted that he had known the truth but had simply thought it none of his business.” Galad looked away with a bitter laugh. “It made me feel so many terrible things, Daerada. Stupid for having ever believed that he was my friend. And worthless because he never thought that I was worth saving.”

“You are neither of those things, Galadaelin,” Bregolas said fiercely, and he gave Galad a gentle shake. “Albethon’s selfish decisions are no reflection on you. And you know something? You don’t need him. You were always so much better than him. You have a new life here in Amon Lanc. A good life. And you have already made a new friend.”

“I have made two friends,” Galad said shyly. “Alphros and Lutha.”

“Then you just stick with Alphros and Lutha, and with me and Nestorion and Noendir, and if Albethon comes anywhere near you, you turn your back and walk away from him,” Bregolas said.

Galad smiled slightly and nodded. “I will. What about the cat? Did she follow you all the way here?”

“She followed me for an hour or two,” Bregolas replied. “Then I picked her up and wrapped her in my cloak.”

“I think you might be softer than I had ever realised,” Galad said.

Bregolas stood taller and his handsome face became stern, but then he relented with a sigh and gave Galad a gentle and affectionate pat on the cheek. “Well, don’t shout that from the rooftops. I have a reputation to uphold. You will have to ask Nestorion if the cat may stay here. If he says no, I will keep her at my house and you may visit her.”

“Who is staying here?” Nestorion asked, stepping into the room with a tray in his hands.

“I have brought Galad a companion,” Bregolas said.

Nestorion set the tray down and joined them at the window. He considered the cat. She had stopped pouncing on insects and settled down to delicately wash her face. “She looks polite. I see no difficulty with her staying.”

“Thank you,” Galad whispered, and both Bregolas and Nestorion smiled at him.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

When they had finished the tea and cakes that Nestorion had brought for them, Galad went outside to sit in the grass and play with his new pet. Bregolas stood at the window and watched with his arms across his chest. It brought him joy to see his grandson smiling even as it pained him to know that Galad had missed out on so much happiness. He wished that he could protect Galad from all the hurt that the world might inflict on him. He wished he could promise that there would never be any more hurt. But Bregolas knew better. Life was not that kind. Not even to the ones who most deserved its kindness. All he could do was be there for Galad and enjoy the pleasant moments – even when they were as fleeting as a smile conceived by the love of a cat.

“How is your injury?”

Bregolas lifted his head sharply as the voice cut into his thoughts. “What did you say?”

“You are injured,” Nestorion replied. “How is it?” 

Unable to shake the memory of Albethon’s knowledge of his battle wound, Bregolas turned and gave Nestorion a long look. “How do you know I am injured?”

“You hid a grimace when Galad brushed past you on his way out of the room. You have been favouring your right side over your left ever since you arrived. I do happen to be a healer trained to notice these things,” Nestorion said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll take a look if you’re in discomfort – which I suspect you are, despite your best efforts to hide it.”

Bregolas was about to decline the offer, but before he got that far he realised two things. Firstly, that he would never allow any warrior under his command to deny attention from a healer. Secondly, that Nestorion was also very aware of that fact and was not above using it against him. “Very well,” he conceded, though he glanced back out of the window.

“Your horse will alert you if anyone approaches the house,” Nestorion said. “And I’ll open the outer door of the healing room.”

“Thank you,” Bregolas said, as he followed the younger ellon to the private healing room at the side of the house. He removed his tunic and sat on the edge of the examination table while Nestorion washed his hands. “Galad does not know about this.”

“Have no fear that he will hear about it from me.” Nestorion sat on a stool in front of the table and watched Bregolas lift his ivory hued shirt out of the way to reveal the battle wound that had almost claimed his life. He studied the injury and probed it with gentle fingers, offering a murmured apology when his patient sucked in a sharp breath. “Who did the surgery?”

“Telfindir.”

“The suturing is excellent and the wound cleanly closed – not that I would expect anything less from Telfindir,” Nestorion said. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Ten or so days before I wrote to you,” Bregolas said.

A small frown appeared on Nestorion’s face. “That is long enough for it to have healed better than this. There is a little too much inflammation around the wound for my liking. I will give you something to bring it down.” He sat back and looked intently at Bregolas. “You know stress is no good for the body when it is meant to be healing.”

“So I have heard,” Bregolas said flatly.

Nestorion hmm’d a smile at that. “Fair enough. I won’t lecture you. But I’ll see you in a week.”

“As you wish,” Bregolas replied. “Just-”

“I’ll be discreet,” Nestorion finished. He busied himself gathering the medicine while Bregolas straightened his shirt and pulled his tunic back on. For a moment the only sounds in the room were the clinks of glass bottles and jars as Nestorion took out a fragrant salve and a pale liquid. He handed both small vessels to Bregolas and watched as they disappeared into a pocket. “There is something else that we ought to discuss while we have a moment alone.”

“Yes, there is,” Bregolas said with a sigh. Gripping the edge of the table, he told Nestorion everything – or as much as he knew. He told him about Pelassiel losing her life in a winter storm and leaving her boys motherless. He spoke of Thranor’s descent into grief and rage. He told what he could of Breigon’s cruelty and Celegnir’s willingness to ignore what he’d had the power to prevent. He did not shy away from his own contributions to all that had happened, freely confessing that he had returned Galad home before the time was right and failed to recognise the warning signs that had surely stared him in the face. He warned Nestorion of Breigon’s possible arrival in Amon Lanc, and even of the threat posed by Albethon. Nestorion listened without interruption or judgement, his hands clasped together and fingers entwined, all save his forefingers which he held to his lips in thought.

“What is to happen next?” Nestorion asked, when Bregolas fell silent.

“I meet with Faelind this afternoon,” Bregolas said. “I will report the matter to him and take his advice.”

Nestorion nodded and lowered his hands. “It is not for me to have any opinion on the legal side of it. But from a medical perspective, I strongly suggest that Galad – when the time is right for him – should undergo mind healing. I would also suggest the same for Thranor and his older sons since it might help them manage their grief. If you think that they would be receptive, I will write to one of my colleagues in Glaerobel who specialises in mind healing.”  

“Breigon would not be willing,” Bregolas said without hesitation. “Not unless Celegnir led by example though even then I am uncertain. Celegnir would be most receptive of them all. Thranor…yes, I think one day he might find himself in a place where he would accept mind healing. But not yet. Not unless reunion with Galad awaited him at the end of it, and that is not a trade that I am willing to make.”

“Absolutely not,” Nestorion agreed immediately. “I will broach the matter with Galad, and you might want to do the same with Noendir; what he has witnessed through the years will have left a mark on him. May I also give you some advice?”

“If you must,” Bregolas said guardedly.  

“I’m not about to force mind healing on you,” Nestorion said with a rueful laugh. “Just be sure that you don’t keep all this inside. Talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me. But someone you trust, someone removed from the situation. It will do you no good to keep your feelings bottled up. And find time to rest! I want to see improvement in that injury next week.”

“Understood,” Bregolas said. “Both points.”

“This last one might be easier said than done,” Nestorion admitted. “But try not to worry about Galad. I will look after him. You have my word.”

Bregolas acknowledged that with a small but grateful smile, and just then there was a knock on the open door of the healing room. They glanced up to see Galad looking in at them uncertainly. “Come,” Nestorion invited him. “We were just having a talk. Captain Bregolas has told me everything. Which means,” he added reassuringly, when Galad bit his lip, “that you don’t have to worry about filling in the blanks yourself. Anything you want to talk about, we shall talk about at your pace. All right?”

“Yes, Master Nestorion,” Galad said softly.

“I have business to attend, so I must take my leave,” Bregolas said. “But I will see you soon, daerion.” He hugged his grandson and kissed his brow. As he held him, he reflected that Galad was not painfully thin, so clearly Thranor had not starved him. But he was slender as a reed. There was no way he could have withstood being pushed and pulled around by his father or beaten by his brother. He would have been helpless at their hands. Bregolas had to force that image from his mind before it consumed him.

When he had farewelled Nestorion and Galad, Bregolas collected Gwathren and turned him towards the palace on the hill. Bregolas was one of the few people outside the Circle of Elders to know why the palace existed when Greenwood had no ruler. He wouldn’t have known if not for Thureneth, but she had confided in him long ago in defiance of her husband Elrain. Bregolas had no strong feelings about the prospect of one day being ruled by a king if that king loved Greenwood as deeply as its people did and always strove to do his best by the people. That was someone Bregolas could swear fealty to when the time came.

The palace was a stunning confection of marble architecture gleaming in the sun and surrounded by fountains and gardens and cherry blossoms, and Bregolas had spent many an hour admiring the craftsmanship that had gone into it. But not today. Today he made straight for Elder Faelind’s office. His former protégé greeted him with a nod which he returned. It was a calm greeting which disguised his relief at seeing Faelind safe and well. Albethon’s threat was still painfully fresh in his mind. Bregolas had already spoken with Laeros and Ethirel and written to his eldest son Ereglas. Lindamir was on his way home from the western patrol – unhappily, no doubt – and Bregolas would be as honest with Lindamir as he had been with his older children. Faelind, though…he had not decided what to tell him.

Blessedly, Bregolas had become closer to Faelind in the centuries since Elrain’s death. He had needed to be so careful when Elrain had been alive. Careful not to let his relationship with Thureneth venture beyond cordial and distant, his relationship with Faelind be anything but professional though his heart had craved more. After all, Elrain had banished him once before and would have done it again on a whim – indeed had threatened to when he had noticed Bregolas forgetting his place and becoming too attached to the son that Elrain had only ever viewed as a possession. Bregolas was grateful for the circumstances that had brought him closer to Faelind, grateful that Elrain no longer cast his long shadow over them, but he wondered if it was possible to protect this son of his heart without betraying Thureneth. Though, if he had to choose between protecting Faelind and protecting a long ago love affair, Bregolas would always choose Faelind – whatever the consequences.

“Thank you for making space in your schedule to see me at such short notice,” he said aloud, taking a seat in front of the desk. “I wish to report a crime.”

Faelind paused, and Bregolas watched a faint flicker of interest brighten his vivid green eyes. “I don’t have to tell you the correct way to report a crime, Bregolas. It does not come through me.”

“I am aware. But I would prefer the matter to be dealt with discreetly, which is why I have bypassed reporting it through the usual channels – the Protectors – and come directly to you.” Bregolas met Faelind’s gaze across the desk. “I would appreciate you indulging me in this.”

“Very well,” Faelind said after a moment, and he took out paper and pen. “What is the nature of the offence?”

“Neglect,” Bregolas said quietly. “Cruelty.”

“Towards?”

“A child.” 

Faelind went still for long enough that a droplet of ink fell from his pen and stained the corner of the paper. He gave himself the smallest of shakes and made a note in his elegant hand. “The name of the perpetrator?” He waited with pen poised, the peacock feather swaying in lazy iridescence, and glanced up when Bregolas didn’t speak. “Bregolas. The name.”

“A moment,” Bregolas said under his breath. He closed his eyes. He knew what he must do, and yet…and yet. It felt like the most proper thing he had ever done and the worst betrayal he could possibly commit. “Thranor Bregolasion,” he said finally. “His second son Breigon. And…and his eldest son Celegnir.” Opening his eyes, he realised that Faelind hadn’t written anything else. His former student was looking at him in silent sympathy – sympathy that he didn’t want. “Write the names, Faelind,” Bregolas said. Faelind hesitated, so Bregolas leaned across the desk and plucked the pen from his hand and pulled the paper close. He wrote all three names himself, scribbling them roughly, and when he was done he tossed the pen onto the desk and turned away. Faelind had sat back with a barely audible sigh.

“I am sorry,” Bregolas said softly. “That was ill done.”

“You need not explain yourself,” Faelind replied.

Bregolas took a deep breath and nodded in gratitude. “The victim is-”

“Your grandson,” Faelind interjected. “The youngest one.”

That made Bregolas turn back in surprise. “Has someone already…”

“No,” Faelind said. “I have met him. I saw it in his eyes.”

“And you recognised it for what it was.” Bregolas sank back into the chair with a heavy sigh and put his head in his hands. Galad was not the only one he loved to have experienced a father’s cruelty. Faelind had too, for an agonisingly long time, though Bregolas had not learned of it until it was too late. “I swore that this would never happen again,” he whispered in anguished anger. “That no other child would suffer if I had a chance to protect them.”

Faelind didn’t look away but his expression had become closed and his eyes icy as they always did at any mention of his childhood. “You did not meet me until I was past my first century, Bregolas. My father was exceedingly careful in his treatment of me and I was exceedingly careful never to let it be known. Your culpability in the matter is negligible.”

It was true that Elrain had been careful. It was also true that Faelind had presented such a bold and sunny outlook to the world that none had suspected the extent to which his powerful father had hurt him. But it was not true that Bregolas and Faelind had only met after Faelind had reached his first century, when Elrain had recalled Bregolas from his long exile in the north to give him the position of weapons master. No generous gift had that been. Elrain had known that forcing Bregolas to spend every day with a child who would never be his was simply another punishment, another act of vengeance for the love that he bore Thureneth and Faelind. And when Bregolas had looked across the training field into eyes of shining emerald, they were eyes that he had known well for he had looked into them before.

In an attempt to lull the secret young lovers into a false sense of security – a successful attempt – and spring a trap around them, Elrain had permitted Bregolas to serve as Thureneth’s personal bodyguard for a few years after Faelind’s birth. Bregolas had entertained Faelind and played with him, plaited pretend warrior braids into his raven dark hair and made him laugh so that his nose scrunched. That was a habit that Elrain had beaten out of his son. By the time Bregolas had returned from exile, Faelind had still laughed but he no longer scrunched his nose.

Pulling himself out of a past that Faelind did not remember, Bregolas looked back at him. “What else do you need from me right now?”

“Firstly I need to make you aware that matters such as this can be difficult to prove,” Faelind replied. “They happen within the family home and away from prying eyes. That means that the perpetrators are often the only witnesses. So what I need secondly is to ask if you can offer me any other witnesses who would be willing to support the allegations.”

“Noendir,” Bregolas said slowly. “Thranor’s second youngest. I doubt that he can help in any case against Breigon. He didn’t know that Breigon was hurting Galad, and he has been in Amon Lanc these last few years so he can’t comment on anything that has happened recently. But he can describe the years before that, the excessive punishments that Thranor inflicted on Galad and the way that Galad was treated differently.”

Faelind nodded and made a note of that. “You hesitated before naming Celegnir as one of the perpetrators. Why?”

“Because I do not believe that he took an active part in abusing Galad,” Bregolas said. “But he did know what was happening. Unlike Noendir, Celegnir knew very well that Galad was not safe with Breigon. And unlike Noendir, Celegnir has not been a child at any point during this. I do accept that he lost his mother. But he had a legal responsibility to protect Galad, to take steps to put a stop to it. He did not.”

“Would Celegnir speak against Thranor and Breigon?” Faelind asked.

“Perhaps, if it was presented as a way to redeem himself,” Bregolas said. “But I would not count on it. He is loyal to them.”

“Then he is not credible,” Faelind said dismissively. “What about Galad? Does he know that you are speaking to me, and will he support the allegation?”

“When he came to Amon Lanc some weeks ago I told him that I would have no choice but to report his father and brothers,” Bregolas replied. “He knew that it was coming but he does not know that it is happening now. As to whether he will support it…I don’t know. He loves Thranor. He loves Celegnir and even Breigon. He doesn’t want anything to happen to them.”

Faelind sat back with as frustrated a sigh as anyone was likely to hear from an ellon who did not generally emote. “You are giving me very little, Bregolas.”

“I have given you what I can,” Bregolas retorted. “Can you do nothing with it? Nothing at all?”

“I’m not saying that. I am saying that you are making my job difficult. But…” Faelind looked down at his writings with another sigh. It was a more restrained sigh this time. “Leave it with me and trust me to do what I can.”

“I do trust you,” Bregolas said quietly. “Thank you.”

Faelind nodded wordlessly and Bregolas knew that the meeting was at an end, that Faelind’s mind had already drifted to the task that lay ahead. As far as Bregolas was concerned the meeting was not finished since he had not yet raised the Albethon issue and he wasn’t about to leave without tackling it. But then he noticed something else – the faintest of frowns on Faelind’s otherwise impassive face, the slightest of movements as he clasped his hands and slowly rolled his thumbs over one another. Bregolas had never been sure if Faelind knew he did that when deep in thought. But Bregolas knew. He also knew that an outright question was not the right way to make Faelind say what was on his mind, so he stood up and crossed to the door. He got as far as wrapping his fingers around the handle.

“Before you go…” 

“Yes, Faelind,” Bregolas said patiently.

“I wondered if…I might ask your advice.”

It had been a long time since Bregolas had been called upon to give Faelind advice, and he found himself smiling. “Of course. Always. What is it?”

“I have recently acquired an elfling,” Faelind began.

Bregolas felt his eyebrows shoot upwards before he could stop them. “A what?”

“An elfling.” Faelind sounded annoyed. “A child. A boy.”

“How did you come to acquire this elfling?” Bregolas asked.

“He was Feredir’s ward until Feredir left on the hunt and sent him to Nithaniel. Her home was not suitable for the elfling and so it was necessary for an alternative to be found. Nithaniel, in her infinite wisdom,” Faelind said with an irritable sigh, “felt that this elfling – a thief, no less – and I would be well suited to one another. I could hardly refuse. Now here we are.”

“Now here you are,” Bregolas agreed, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

Faelind cast him a dark look. “It’s not funny.”

“No. No, it is certainly not funny,” Bregolas said dutifully. “What do you intend to do with this elfling?”

“I rather thought that my first priority ought to be ensuring that he survives his time with me,” Faelind replied. “Beyond that I will simply see to his needs until Feredir returns to take him back or Nithaniel finds a family willing to adopt him. Whichever happens first, I suppose.” He paused and gave Bregolas a long look from under his lashes. “You like collecting waifs and strays. Do you want this one?”

Bregolas snorted. Sometimes, he still saw glimpses of the insolent and daring boy he had trained to the sword. “I have enough to be dealing with. But you know, if you and the elfling-”

“Lutha.”

“Lutha,” Bregolas amended, recognising the name as belonging to one of Galad’s new friends. “If you and Lutha enjoy each other’s company-”

“We don’t.”

Bregolas resolutely ignored that. “And he settles in well with you, would you not consider making it a permanent arrangement?”

“You and I had this conversation before,” Faelind said. “When you came to sign the papers making Lindamir yours, you suggested that I might consider adopting or at least fostering a child. I will tell you again what I told you then. Midhaearien and I wanted to have children together. We were meant to have children together. Midhaearien is gone. So is all that we were going to do.”

“And I will tell you what I told you then,” Bregolas said. “Midhaearien would never want you to place your life on hold or deny yourself anything that brings you comfort or joy. Nor would she want to be the reason for it. That was a lesson that I had to learn after death parted me from my beloved Lissuin. It is a difficult lesson to learn – but an important one.”

“I appreciate your advice,” Faelind said quietly. “But it is not the advice that I sought from you.”

“Very well,” Bregolas said, acknowledging that with a nod. “What is the advice that you need?”

Faelind shifted uncomfortably and leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk with his hands clasped together. “I need to know how to…how to be around Lutha.”

“How to be around him,” Bregolas repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Lutha can be challenging. He has a painful past, it is no fault of his own,” Faelind was quick to add. “While I may have no interest in keeping him for longer than I must – and he has no interest in staying with me for longer than he must – I do want to ensure that his time with me is comfortable. That he feels comfortable around me. I am aware that elflings typically are not. I think that I scared your grandson half to death the first time we met. Maybe the second time too. I apologise for that. But I would like to know that Lutha feels happy and secure in my home, however long his time there might be.”

Bregolas hadn’t known what to expect, but he didn’t think it had been that. “I would not advise you to take Galad’s reaction personally. He is a quiet and shy elfling with little experience of the world beyond his home. He is generally uncomfortable around others. As for your concerns about Lutha, I do have advice for you. But you will not like it.”

“Go on,” Faelind said flatly.

“Be yourself.” 

“Be my…” Faelind sat straighter and stared at his former captain. “Be myself? Bregolas, myself is the problem! Not the solution! That is terrible advice.”

“It is not terrible advice,” Bregolas said sternly. “You think it is terrible advice because it is not what you wanted to hear. I can certainly amend my advice and tell you something more to your liking but at that point it ceases to be advice and becomes indulgence – and that helps nobody. Not you, and not Lutha.” Bregolas gentled his voice as Faelind looked at him in stubborn silence. “Think about it, Faelind. As weapons master you trained dozens of boys to the sword. As a captain you had many young recruits under your command. You know how to be around elflings. You know how to speak to them, what to do with them.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not so very long ago. Besides, children are perceptive. If you try to force yourself to be anyone other than who you are, Lutha will know it and he won’t appreciate such disingenuity.” Stepping around the desk, Bregolas tilted Faelind’s chin so their eyes met. “I don’t have to tell you how to be. Nobody does. All you must be is yourself. Let Lutha see you as you are. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Faelind allowed the touch for a few moments before lifting his chin out of Bregolas’ hand and glancing away. “Thank you for the advice.” He picked up the paper where he had made his notes and considered it. “What is your preferred outcome here?”

Another question that caught Bregolas off guard. Deciding not to comment on the obvious change of subject, he leaned against the desk and crossed his arms with a sigh. “Above all else that Galad should have the protection of the law. His safety is more important to me than retribution. Having said that, whilst it is not my desire to see suffering come to Thranor or his older sons, I will respect whatever the law decrees. I would not blame Galad for hating his father, but I cannot hate my son.”  

“I think that it would be an oversimplification to suggest that Galad could hate his father,” Faelind said. “I never hated mine.”

Bregolas glanced down at him in surprise. “No?”

“Sometimes I hated him,” Faelind amended. “But sometimes I loved him. There were times when I didn’t care about his approval and other times where I craved it so desperately that it felt shameful. Your grandson has had much less time to develop such complicated feelings. But I would imagine that they are still just as complicated.”

“And now?” Bregolas asked. “What do you feel about your father now?”

“I will tell you when I know the answer,” Faelind said.

Bregolas nodded in wordless understanding and clapped his hand onto Faelind’s shoulder. He let it linger there but did not push the conversation further. Speaking of Elrain was no pleasant thing no matter how long he had been dead and buried. “There was one last thing before I take my leave. Are you familiar with an ellon by the name of Albethon? He is a healer in the north.”

“I can’t say that I am,” Faelind replied. “Should I be?”

“No, I expect not. But I want you to be alert and keep an eye out for him,” Bregolas said. “His hair is a vivid red and his eyes as green as yours. He dresses customarily in bright colours – yellow, green, orange, red. On the day that I returned home from the north his home was lost in a fire. The villagers and the Protectors based there believe that the fire was an accident caused by his carelessness and that he perished as a result. I do not believe this. I believe that he started the fire himself and used it as a shield to hide his disappearance.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Faelind asked.

“Because I met Albethon that day and it was not a happy meeting,” Bregolas replied. “I challenged him over his failure to protect my grandson when he had known all along that Galad was not safe. He responded with a threat. In doing so he revealed himself to be not a mild mannered and odd healer but a dangerous individual capable of extreme violence.” The words prompted little reaction from Faelind, but his eyes had narrowed in thought. Bregolas took advantage of that to consider his next words carefully. “I am telling you this because Albethon threatened harm to all those I care about. You are included in that number, Faelind.”

It was usual for Faelind to respond to such things with a pithy comment to hide his true feelings. Bregolas prepared for that, but he was both relieved and gratified when Faelind simply lifted his chin in a slow and thoughtful nod. “I will heed your warning and be on the lookout for villainous healers. I assume you have notified the Protectors so that they may keep a watchful eye for him.”

“I have done so,” Bregolas replied.

“Then there is nothing else that you can do.” Faelind looked at his notes and slowly ran his finger across the dried ink. “He is going to be all right, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Galad. He will be all right. Not tomorrow or next week or even next month. But in time,” Faelind said. “He won’t ever forget what was done to him. It is a pain that never quite goes away. A betrayal that cuts deep. In his heart he will always wonder why. Why him? Why was he not good enough for his father? Why did the one person who should have protected him choose hate over love? But he will find his place in the world. He will learn what it is to be loved without condition and fear of rejection. He will discover what brings him joy, and he will be happy.”

“As you are?” Bregolas dared to ask.

“As I was,” Faelind said quietly.

“And, I hope, as you will be again,” Bregolas said.

Faelind looked away and picked up his paper. “I will be in touch.”

The meeting was over. Bregolas pressed his hand to Faelind’s shoulder before leaving him to his thoughts and work. On his way out of the palace he stopped in the office occupied by Faelind’s staff. The two assistants had been throwing balls of paper at each other from across their shared desk, but they hastily sat straight and resumed their work when Bregolas appeared. The serious looking scribe didn’t glance up from his writings. Seated at a desk in front of a wide window, the secretary calmly rested her hand on the leather folder lying open before her, marking her place as she regarded Bregolas with a green-eyed gaze.

“Don’t let him stay too late, Laeglir,” Bregolas said. “You know how he is. He will work the night away otherwise.”

“It seems that Elder Faelind no longer needs reminding that he has a home to go to,” Laeglir replied archly. “I suspect that his recent acquisition has something to do with it.”

“His recent…the elfling,” Bregolas realised.

“The elfling,” Laeglir agreed. “Elder Faelind has left his office by sunset each day since coming into possession of him.”

Bregolas glanced over his shoulder towards the closed office where he had left the ellon who would have been his son had he and Thureneth made different choices all those years ago. He couldn’t stop himself caring about Faelind. “Good,” he said softly. “Good.” He turned and walked away, lifting the hood of his cloak as he stepped into a cool breeze that sent a fistful of cherry blossom petals skittering prettily across the palace courtyard. Bregolas watched the petals trapped in their dance and thought back on Faelind’s words. There is nothing else you can do. Mentally running down the list of those he loved, a list that had grown long with the addition of each child and grandchild, Bregolas found himself reluctantly conceding. It never felt like enough, but for now, there was nothing more that he could do for any of them.

It was time to rest.

Chapter Text

Galad had a free day two days after Bregolas returned from the south. He was going to spend it working on a new picture for his book. He had chosen chamomile. The flower lay before him on the table, her yellow face smiling up at him from a halo of pristine petals as white as snow. A faint scent of apples lingered on his fingers from where he had picked the chamomile and it occurred to him that he ought to make a note in the book about how to distinguish between chamomile and daisies. Daisies were not without their own healing qualities – and perhaps he ought to add them to his list of flowers to include in the book – but their benefits did not overlap so much with chamomile that mistaking one for the other would yield good results.

“Am I disturbing you?”

The question pulled Galad from his thoughts. “No, Master.”

“Good. Oh, chamomile,” Nestorion remarked, approaching the table. “You know, it might be an idea to include a section detailing how to tell chamomile from daisy. They really are quite similar in appearance if not their abilities.”

“I had the exact same thought,” Galad said, both startled and pleased.

Nestorion smiled and held up a sheet of paper folded and sealed with crimson wax. “I have something for you.”

“A letter,” Galad whispered.

“Which I think you will want to read,” Nestorion said immediately. “It is not from the north.”

Exhaling as his heart rose from the depths to which it had plummeted, Galad murmured an apology which Nestorion dismissed with a wave of his hand. The paper was fine and the ink a deep blue, the writing some of the most swirlingly elegant Galad had ever seen. He was surprised when he reached the bottom of the page and saw a name that he had not expected to see. “It’s from Lutha.”

“Lutha? I didn’t think he could…” Nestorion glanced over Galad’s shoulder at the letter. “The handwriting is Faelind’s. I expect Lutha dictated the letter. And what does Lutha have to say?”

“He has invited me to visit him,” Galad said. “Why do you think he did that, Master? Perhaps he is unwell or he has run out of salve.”

“Or,” Nestorion replied patiently, “Lutha might like to enjoy the pleasure of your company and so he thought to extend an invitation to his friend.”

Galad nodded dubiously. He was still getting used to the concept of having real friends. “I think that I would like to accept the invitation. If I may.”

“It is your free day. You may do as you please,” Nestorion said. “I will escort you if you wish to accept the invitation. Send word when you are ready to return and I will collect you, or if you are offered an escort home by Faelind or Lutha then that is acceptable too – but don’t come alone.”

“Yes, Master Nestorion,” Galad said dutifully.

When they reached Elder Faelind’s impressive home it was the middle of the morning and his housekeeper came to admit them with a warm smile. They only had to wait in the entrance hall for a minute before Lutha came bounding down the stairs with a hairbrush in one hand and his dark hair knotted casually at the nape of his neck. Glancing up from the large vase of pink lilies and white roses on display, Galad noticed that Lutha had smiled to see him but that the smile had faded at the sight of Nestorion.

“You weren’t invited,” Lutha said without preamble. “Not that it isn’t nice to see you.”

Galad was appalled, but Nestorion laughed. “Charming as ever, Lutha. Not to worry. I am only here to deliver Galad to you and then I’ll leave you to it. Have fun and behave.”

“Yes, Master,” Galad said promptly.

“He was looking right at me when he told us to behave,” Lutha mused. He shook his head and took Galad by the arm, pulling him to the stairs. “Come with me. I’ve not finished getting ready. You can help me decide on the pattern for my beads. See, my tunic is sort of ocean coloured and my leggings are very dark green and my shirt is slate grey so I was thinking blue and green beads and something else but I can’t decide on the something else.”

Galad followed Lutha to his room. A selection of small beads were spread over his dressing table next to his comb and some small leather ties. “Silver? You could put silver between the blue and green.”

“Oh, good idea,” Lutha said. He looked thoughtfully at Galad’s hair. “Could I have braids like yours? Would it be allowed?”

Startled, Galad lifted his hand and touched one of his braids. “Of course. The only braids you can’t copy are warrior braids because you’re not a warrior. But these are just northern braids. We wear our braids slightly thicker in the north and decorate them with cuffs and rings and spirals. Southern braids tend to be thinner and plaited more tightly. They are more often decorated with beads and thread. But you don’t have to be from the south to wear southern braids or from the north to wear northern braids. Wear them as you like.”

Lutha nodded thoughtfully to that and sat at his dressing table. “I think my beads are too small for northern braids. Sit down,” he added, glancing in the mirror.

Dutifully perching on the edge of the bed, Galad tucked his hands under his thighs and belatedly remembered his manners. “Thank you for inviting me over. It was very kind of you.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Lutha said. “It’s what friends do.”

Galad wasn’t about to argue and changed the subject. “How are you finding it with Elder Faelind?”

“His cat doesn’t hate me anymore,” Lutha replied.

“That’s progress.”

“I think so. And the food here is so good. The best I’ve ever had! The cook is so clever,” Lutha said, unknotting his hair and starting to pull the brush through it. “But I do think it’s annoying that Elder Faelind has a housekeeper but I have to keep my room clean and tidy? Is that not what a housekeeper is for? Well, what do I know anyway. And the house is incredible! So beautiful. I can hardly believe that I’m staying in a house like this – for free! People like me don’t get to stay in places like this. Not without paying the highest price for it, of course.”

“Paying for it?” Galad repeated. “With coins?” Then he felt like an idiot because that was typically how one paid for things.

Lutha laughed with a hair tie clamped between his teeth as he deftly braided a lock of hair. “Sure.”

“Not with coins?” Galad asked blankly.

Fingers slowing, Lutha let his gaze drift to Galad in the mirror. He held his braid in one hand and removed the tie from between his teeth. “No. Not with coins.”

“Then I don’t understand what you mean. I’m not being difficult,” Galad added hastily, as Lutha tied off his braid and turned to look at him. He swallowed, drawing back a little. “Sorry. I just…don’t understand.”

“You really don’t know what I mean?”

“No.”

Lutha smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re very sweet. We should keep it that way.”

But Galad didn’t feel sweet. He felt stupid. On top of that he felt frustrated and annoyed because he didn’t like being patronised or not knowing things. He wanted to push Lutha to explain what he meant – partly to satisfy his own need for knowledge, partly because he couldn’t shake the sense that Lutha might want to talk about it and that he was letting him down by his own lack of understanding which also made him feel like he was being neither a good friend nor apprentice healer in that moment. It was a big bundle of unpleasant feelings that Galad had not woken up that morning expecting to experience.

“You said a lot about Elder Faelind’s house,” he said finally, deciding to set the other matter aside for now. “But you didn’t say anything about Elder Faelind.”

Lutha had turned back around to continue braiding his hair. “Not much to say about him.”

“There must be something,” Galad replied.

“He hates me and I hate him,” Lutha said with a shrug.

“That can’t be true,” Galad said in dismay.

“It is true,” Lutha insisted stubbornly. “I hate him. In fact, I hate him so much that every day I wake up and hope that he stands on the bristly side of a hairbrush with his bare foot. I don’t think it’s happened yet but I keep hoping.”

Galad opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. Finally he said, “That’s not terrible.”

“Then you’ve never stepped on the bristly side of a hairbrush with your bare foot,” Lutha said sagely.

“No, but if you really hated Elder Faelind then you would want him to step on the hairbrush and then trip and fall and smash his head,” Galad said. “If you only want him to hurt his foot then I don’t think your heart is in it.”

Sighing, Lutha began threading polished beads onto his braids in a blue-silver-green pattern. “Fine. I don’t hate him. And maybe he doesn’t even hate me, but he certainly doesn’t like me. Not that I care if he likes me or not. He can think what he wants because it doesn’t matter. I don’t care at all about his opinion.”

Galad wasn’t brave enough to say that he didn’t believe that for a second. “You barely know him. And he barely knows you. Maybe you just need time to get to know each other properly and feel comfortable in one another’s company. Master Nestorion told me that Elder Faelind rarely takes apprentices. You’re not his apprentice but you are his ward, and having an elfling around is probably a big change for him. Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“Why?” Lutha demanded.

“Because everyone has a reason for being the way that they are,” Galad said. “I know Elder Faelind is somewhat…cold. But he can’t have become like that without good reason.”

“His wife died,” Lutha said after a moment. “I know that much. He told me so.”

“That would change someone,” Galad said, his thoughts drifting to his father.

“Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on him,” Lutha conceded.

“Maybe,” Galad agreed. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Lutha said. “But no.”

Galad had started to stand up, but he stopped at that and looked across the room. “Yes but no?”

“Before we go,” Lutha said, sitting next to Galad with one leg curled under himself, “I want to ask you something about healing.”

“Then you should ask Master Nestorion,” Galad replied.

“If I wanted to ask Nestorion I would have,” Lutha said with an irritable huff. “Why can’t I ask you?”

“Because I’m not a healer,” Galad protested. “I’m just an apprentice – and a very new one! I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing.”

“You haven’t heard the question yet,” Lutha said.

That was reasonable enough, Galad supposed. He relented with a nod. “What is it?”

“The scars on my back,” Lutha replied. “Will they ever go away?”

“Master Nestorion told you that they will,” Galad said.

“Yes, I know what he said,” Lutha sighed in frustration. “He says that they will go away if I use that salve he gave me. But I have been using the salve all this time and the scars are still there. It feels as though he only told me what I wanted to hear and my scars will be there forever.”

“He wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t lie to you,” Galad immediately defended his master. “And he’s right, Lutha. He really is. You must be patient. The salve will help, but even using it every day won’t make the scars disappear as quickly as you want them to. It is a gradual process. Your body has a lot of work to do, but I promise that it is working even if you can’t see it right now.”

“Are you sure?” Lutha asked doubtfully.

“Entirely sure,” Galad said without hesitation. “My older brother Breigon had a terrible scar on his hand. He’d picked up a poker not realising it was hot. Once the burn healed and became a scar, he was diligent about using the salve that I made for him. He still has the scar but you’d only see it if you knew to look for it. It is so small and faint now. If he was mortal he’d have had the scar the rest of his life, but it will be gone completely in another year. Our kind heal fast. But not miraculously so.”

“Why did your brother pick up a hot poker?” Lutha wondered aloud.

“Because he’s an idiot,” Galad said blandly.

“Fair enough,” Lutha laughed, but then his smile faded and he bit his lip. “So…I won’t have my scars forever?”

“Not forever,” Galad replied. “I promise.”

Lutha glanced away with a soft breath. Galad stayed silent, letting him have the time that he needed to collect himself. Finally, Lutha looked back. “I’m not vain,” he said abruptly. He paused and frowned. “Well, I am. But I didn’t ask you that question because of vanity.”  

“I didn’t think that you did,” Galad said.

“I can’t even see the stupid things!” Lutha said under his breath. “Not unless I look over my shoulder or catch a glimpse of them in the mirror when I’m getting dressed. And they don’t itch like scars sometimes do. But I still know that they exist and I hate that they exist. I really hate that they exist because they’re not…they’re not something I was born with or that I chose for myself. They were put on me by someone else. It’s not fair for me to have them.”

“No, that’s not fair,” Galad said quietly. “May I ask how you got the scars?”

“I was raised by humans. They raised me to be a thief,” Lutha said after a moment. “I was the best thief they had, and when I was old enough they had me teach the younger children. The problem was that the mortal children couldn’t be as quick or clever as me so my tricks didn’t work as well for them. I’m not perfect. Even I got caught now and again. But the mortal children got caught so much more often. One day the leader of the clan whipped me for it.”

“I’m sorry,” Galad said.

“I don’t want your pity,” Lutha snapped, his pale cheeks flushing as he got up and stepped away.

“Fine, you don’t have it.”

“But you just said-”

“I said I’m sorry,” Galad interjected. “And I am. You can be sorry that something happened without feeling sorry for someone.”

Lutha cast a suspicious glance at him. “They’re not the same thing?”

“No,” Galad said. “They might sound like the same thing but they’re not quite.”

“Language is so stupid,” Lutha complained under his breath, turning away.

“I’m sorry you think that,” Galad said automatically.

Lutha turned around so quickly that it startled Galad into drawing back, and though Lutha looked briefly annoyed it was replaced by laughter. “How can you be sorry because I think something? How can the same word have so many different meanings? See, it is stupid!”

“But if there was a different word for every single thing then we would be overrun with words,” Galad said, with a reluctant smile for his friend’s consternation.

“I guess,” Lutha said grudgingly. “Come on, let’s go. I’m so hungry.”

As they walked through the woods on the road to town, Galad kept his wits about him and a careful watch for signs of his brother. It was unnerving to not know for certain if Breigon had even travelled all the way to the south or if he had come to his senses and returned home. The only consolation was that if Breigon had indeed ended up in Amon Lanc he wouldn’t dare try anything while Galad was in company with someone else. Sure enough they made it safely to town and went straight to The Mysterious Deer where Mistress Tegildis greeted them warmly and ushered them to a table at the side of the common room. They were halfway through lunch when Lutha glanced past Galad and narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t be obvious about looking,” he said under his breath. “But that ellon over there is staring at you.”

Galad slowly lowered his fork. “At me? Are you sure?” 

“I’m absolutely sure. His eyes are fixed on you.” The fork clattered against the plate as Galad’s hand shook. He hastily let go of it and put his hands under the table, clasping them together in his lap. Lutha looked closely at him. “Who is he?”

“My brother,” Galad whispered.

“Your brother,” Lutha repeated. “He doesn’t look like you.”

“No. No, we…” A ragged breath left Galad’s lips as he exhaled slowly, doing his best to force calm upon himself. “We don’t look much alike. Apart from the colour of our hair though his is a few shades darker than mine.”

Lutha glanced towards the bar again. “If by a few shades you mean black.”

“What? He doesn’t have black hair.” Before he could stop himself, Galad twisted around to look. The ellon seated sideways to the bar was indeed staring at him. But the ellon – who was not Breigon – jumped slightly when Galad’s eyes met his and slowly put his drink down. Galad turned back around and bit his lip. “I don’t know who that is. Why would he stare at me?”

“Because you’re pretty? I don’t know, but he’s coming over here,” Lutha replied.

The ellon stopped at their table and gave Lutha a wary look. Lutha was glaring at him and had pointedly tightened his grip on his knife. The other ellon was dressed in the greens and greys of a Protector of Greenwood and he carried a sword at his hip. He appeared not too much older than Galad and Lutha, with hair so black it appeared streaked with darkest blue when the light touched it, and eyes of clearest sapphire. There was something oddly and frustratingly familiar about him though Galad couldn’t think why.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at your meal,” the ellon said. “Are you Galadaelin Thranorion?”

Galad nodded guardedly. “Yes.”  

“Oh, I’m so glad! Put that knife away,” the ellon added as an aside to Lutha as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “It would have been so awkward if you weren’t who I thought you were after all.”

“It’s awkward anyway because he doesn’t know who you are,” Lutha retorted.

“No, I suppose not. It has been some years since you last saw me.” There was a note of regret in the ellon’s youthful tenor. “I’m Lindamir. Lindamir Bregolasion.”

“Lindamir,” Galad repeated in relief as he looked across the table. “He is my uncle.”

Lutha put his knife down though he didn’t look happy about it.

“I’ve not long returned from the western patrol. Well, I only got back this morning. I was meant to go straight home but Ada can wait,” Lindamir said, sounding mildly annoyed. Galad thought it was brave of his young uncle to make Captain Bregolas wait. He wouldn’t have done that. “I saw you come in and I was so sure it was you,” Lindamir went on. “I couldn’t leave without checking. And I’m glad that it is you, Galad. I heard what happened and…and I’m really sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything and it probably doesn’t mean all that much. But I am sorry.”

Galad nodded awkwardly. He was aware of Lutha studiously ignoring them in favour of buttering a bread roll, but he was also very aware that Lutha couldn’t help but hear everything. “It’s all right,” he said quietly.

“It’s not all right!” Lindamir whispered fiercely. “What they did to you isn’t all right and what we did – which is to say nothing at all – isn’t all right. But I am sorry for it, Galad. And for what it’s worth I’m so glad that you have come to Amon Lanc. I’m looking forward to getting to know you. Properly getting to know you. Ada said that you’re going to live with us?”

“I’m living with my master,” Galad said. “But Daerada promised that I can stay over whenever I want.” 

“That would be really nice,” Lindamir said with a smile.  

Galad nodded and cast around for a change of subject. “Why are you avoiding Daerada?”

“I’m not. Not really. But he recalled me from duty for no reason at all so I’m annoyed with him,” Lindamir replied.

“Will you not be in trouble if he knows that you’re back and you’ve not gone straight home?” Galad asked warily. 

“I’m quite sure that he already knows I was due back today and that he’ll be angry when he gets his hands on me,” Lindamir said with a careless shrug. “But he will be matched well enough in his anger. Anyway, I’ll leave you and your friend to your lunch. I just wanted a moment with you.” Rising, Lindamir cast an appraising look at Lutha. “You should keep that one around, Galad. Any friend willing to defend you with a butter knife as their only weapon is a good friend indeed.”

Lutha looked up from under his lashes. “A butter knife is all you need to put out someone’s eye.”

“And how many eyes have you put out?” Lindamir asked.

But Lutha was silent and only raised his eyebrows. Lindamir gave him another considering glance before retreating to the bar. “Um…” Galad slowly turned his head to look at his friend. “How many eyes have you put out?”

“Absolutely none, but he doesn’t need to know that,” Lutha whispered gleefully. He laughed as Galad smiled reluctantly, but then a frown came to replace his smile and he poked at the greens on his plate with lukewarm enthusiasm. “What was your uncle talking about? What was he sorry for?”

“I fell out with my family,” Galad said after a moment. “My father and eldest brothers.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Their eyes met across the table. Galad held the stare for as long as he could before glancing away. He knew that Lutha didn’t believe him. He waited for the inevitable questions, but it seemed that Lutha was in no mood to press him for information that he didn’t want to give. The conversation turned elsewhere and they were just debating whether to have dessert when the door opened and a familiar figure stepped inside. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to Galad that he might see his grandfather at an inn although he wasn’t sure why. Generally, there was nothing wrong with inns, and although The Mysterious Deer was favoured of an evening by young soldiers it was perfectly respectable and decent.

Snaking alongside his surprise at seeing Captain Bregolas was a frisson of fear that prompted Galad to start mentally rehearsing his explanation for why he was there and what he was doing. He did that even knowing that he was perfectly entitled to sit in the company of a friend under the watchful eye of Mistress Tegildis and eat a meal that he was paying for out of his own allowance, because at home his every move, his very existence, had warranted justification. But this was not home, at least not the home that he had known, and he tried to push those thoughts from his mind.

It seemed that Bregolas had not even noticed Galad sitting at the side of the common room because he went straight to Lindamir at the bar. Galad glanced over his shoulder. Nerves warred with curiosity. It felt unfair to test Bregolas when he didn’t know that he was being tested, but Galad couldn’t help it. Lindamir had said that his father would be angry. Well, Galad wanted to see what happened when Bregolas was angry. He could tell by the flash of blue eyes and the tight pressing of lips that his grandfather was indeed angry. But when Bregolas reached Lindamir, he said something that Galad couldn’t hear and then embraced his youngest son. It reminded Galad of Noendir finding him in the very same common room and being torn between relief and anger. Bregolas drew back and pointed sternly to the door, earning Lindamir a sympathetic look from Mistress Tegildis. Galad turned back around, exhaling softly. Bregolas had passed the test.

“Why do you think your uncle got recalled from patrol?” Lutha asked idly.

“Hmm?”

“He said that he got recalled without reason. There has to be a reason or he wouldn’t have been recalled,” Lutha said, propping his chin in his hands. “That he wasn’t given a reason makes me think that your grandfather either didn’t want to commit it to paper or didn’t have time, but it must be something serious because he’s both relieved to see Lindamir and cross that he didn’t go straight home. It must be a safety thing because why else would he be both relieved and cross? But it can’t be a risk to the entire patrol because if that was so then they’d have all come back without Lindamir being singled out. It must be that his safety was compromised. Don’t you think?”

“I…” Galad stopped. He blinked slowly. “I hadn’t considered any of that. But it makes sense.”

Lutha preened, looking pleased with himself. “I think so. I also think it has something to do with your brother.”

“My brother,” Galad repeated blankly.

The expression on Lutha’s face became grave. “I saw the way you reacted when you thought that it was your brother watching you. Your hands shook. You panicked. Whatever quarrel you had with your family it seems that your brother is the last person in the world you want to see right now, but the fact that seeing him is even a possibility when you’re from the north tells me that he probably isn’t there anymore. Unless I’m mistaken, your uncle isn’t much older than us. So I think your grandfather wants him here where he can keep an eye on him rather than out there where your brother is doing whatever he’s doing.”

“How did you figure all that out?” Galad asked, amazed.

“Because I am more than just a devastatingly gorgeous face. And because, my sweet and innocent friend, thieving isn’t just about cutting purse strings and sneaking about and being quick fingered,” Lutha said, a smile lighting his grey eyes as he made a deft movement with his fingers. A flash of gold appeared from nowhere, and he ran a coin across the back of his knuckles before making it disappear again. “It’s about watching people. Reading the language of their bodies, listening to the words that they say and the words that they don’t say, divining their thoughts and knowing what trade they will accept for your freedom when they catch you. Had I not been bound to the humans who raised me, a slave to their commands, I’d have made myself a true prince of thieves and whores.”

Galad paled as the word fell so easily from Lutha’s tongue. In truth, Galad had never heard it before. He didn’t know what it meant. But he thought that he could decipher it from the harshness of its sound slicing the air, from the smile on Lutha’s lips that did not match the bitterness in his voice nor the flicker of old pain in his eyes, and from his earlier words that suddenly came rushing back. The highest price. Galad took a breath, but a shadow fell over them and he looked up with a barely stifled gasp.

“Easy, daerion,” Bregolas said, touching his shoulder.

Swallowing, Galad tried to focus. “I…I’m sorry, sir.”

“The fault was mine, I startled you.” Bregolas smiled, and it was a small but reassuring smile as his gaze swept the table. It had been cleared of their empty dishes. Only their glasses of cordial remained and a small pile of silvers. “Put those away,” he added, nodding to the coins. “I have settled your bill and paid an additional sum to cover dessert. Buy yourself some books or sweets instead. Whatever you like.”

“Oh…thank you, Daerada, that’s very kind,” Galad said, startled.

“You too, elfling,” Bregolas said, glancing at Lutha. He pulled back slightly as their gazes met. “You must be Lutha.”

“How do you know my name?” Lutha asked suspiciously.

“My grandson told me about his friends, and Faelind mentioned that he had taken you as his ward,” Bregolas said. “Though he did not mention how much you and he resemble one another.”

Lutha’s mouth fell open as his wariness was replaced by outrage. “I do not! I look nothing like that…that…”

“Elder Faelind is very handsome,” Galad said under his breath, prompting an eyeroll from Bregolas.

“Irrelevant!” Lutha retorted. “That still doesn’t mean...well, it’s not the worst compliment. But we still look nothing alike!”

“Only insofar as your eyes are like a stormy night and his like emeralds,” Bregolas said dryly. “But the shape of them, and the cheekbones and jawline…I knew Faelind when he was not much older than you. You could tell me that you were his son or his brother or cousin and I would believe you. It is really quite remarkable. I am surprised nobody else has commented on it.”

“Well, they haven’t,” Lutha mumbled.

Bregolas inclined his head thoughtfully. He glanced towards the door where Lindamir was waiting and sighed quietly. “I cannot stay, daerion-laes,” he said, returning his gaze to Galad. “But I will see you soon. Be safe.”

The elflings made the most of the extra coins behind the bar and asked Mistress Tegildis for strawberries served with whipped cream, crumbled meringue, and a sweet strawberry coulis. Tegildis had grown fond of Galad during his short stay under her roof and she gave them extra helpings. After that they spent some time wandering around town. Galad decided not to buy a new book because he had others to read first – and very proud of his restraint he was, too – but he and Lutha did buy a big bag of sweets to share with Alphros who they had arranged to meet at the Great Falls.   

Alphros was delighted to see them and equally delighted by the prospect of helping them work their way through the sweets. He also seemed pleased by the stunned look on Galad’s face when he gazed upon the Great Falls for the first time. They were so named not because they thundered violently but rather for their height; a trio of falls that tumbled down from on high like ribbons of white silk to land in Caldron Pool. Galad shaded his eyes as he looked up at the cliff where the waterfalls began their descent.

“There is another pool at the top,” Alphros said, following his gaze. “You can swim to the edge and look down over the falls or across the trees. I think it is safe. But when I came this way once with Elder Feredir, he told me that the Protectors have to patrol this area when new recruits go through their initiations because sometimes older warriors will dare them to dive into Caldron Pool from all the way up there.”

“Boys are so silly,” Lutha said laconically.

Alphros eyed him. “You’re a boy.”

“Not that kind of boy,” Lutha replied.

“I don’t think I’m that kind of boy either,” Galad said. He looked doubtfully at the eldest of their group. “You wouldn’t dive from all the way up there. Would you?”

“Why not?” Alphros asked.

“I just think,” Lutha said, “that if an activity involves the possibility of your bones shattering on impact with something then you probably don’t want to do it.”

“But they might not shatter,” Alphros said reasonably.

Galad left his friends to their debate. He had been half afraid that Alphros might climb all the way to the top of the Great Falls and dive into the pool just to find out for sure what would happen, so it was a relief when the sweets proved too much of a distraction and talk turned to safer things. They left the falls behind when the afternoon started drawing to a close. Galad was very conscious that he was not to go anywhere alone, and he was wrestling with the potential embarrassment of asking the other boys if they wouldn’t mind walking him home when Lutha suggested it anyway since Nestorion’s house was nearest. Galad exhaled softly and Lutha was kind enough to pretend not to notice.

It had been a pleasant day.

Mostly.

That evening, Galad stared at the same page of his book until he felt eyes on him. He looked up slowly to be met by Nestorion’s usual kind smile. “I cannot help but notice that your mind appears to be elsewhere tonight,” his master remarked.

Galad’s mind had not strayed when he had been distracted by his friends nor at dinner when he and Nestorion had shared stories about their day. But now, in the quiet calm of evening with violet and indigo twilight gently driving out the pink and gold of sunset, there was nothing to stop his thoughts creeping in. He closed his book and hugged it against his chest with a sigh. “Yes. Something has been playing on my mind. I want to ask a question, but…”

“You know I always encourage you to do so,” Nestorion said as Galad faltered.

“I know, Master,” Galad whispered. “But I worry that it might be an inappropriate question and to ask it I would have to use a word that perhaps I shouldn’t.”

Pushing himself away from the doorframe, Nestorion came further into the sitting room and perched on the edge of the square table positioned between the couch and comfortable armchairs. He leant forward to rest his arms on his knees as he looked intently at his apprentice. “If you are asking a question in the pursuit of knowledge, or to gain understanding or clarity in a matter that confuses you, I do not think that it can be inappropriate. I will never judge any question that you ask. I will always do my best to answer your questions and I will tell you if I cannot do so. As for this word that you need to use…” A wry smile tugged at the corners of Nestorion’s mouth. “I’m not giving you permission to go around swearing like a soldier. But I know that you are respectful of language and any word that you use is not without reason. So come, ask me your question.”

Galad closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What’s a whore?”

If Nestorion was surprised, he gave nothing away. “What do you think it is?”

“I…I think it might have something to do with…with, um…adult activities,” Galad said awkwardly. “But I don’t…I’ve never heard it before.”

“You would have had no reason to,” Nestorion replied. “It is a derogatory term most often used in the context of a person who provides sexual services in exchange for something else – usually money.”  

Galad hugged his book tighter to his chest. “Oh.” He said it quietly.

“Did Lutha use that word today?” Nestorion asked perceptively. As Galad glanced away warily, he added, “You won’t get him into trouble.”

“He did say it,” Galad whispered. “He…he took it to himself.”

Nestorion’s expression didn’t change but he closed his eyes for a moment. “I feared as much. Tell me everything.”

So Galad did, the words pouring out of him as he detailed how Lutha had claimed that he could have been a prince among thieves and whores had he not been so used by the humans who had raised him, and he recalled Lutha’s astonishment that he could be welcome in a home as grand as Elder Faelind’s without having to pay the highest price. “I think he expected me to know what he was talking about, but when I asked if he meant paying with coins he just smiled and called me sweet,” Galad said helplessly. “I felt that I was missing something because it didn’t make sense. Then when he made the comment about being a prince among thieves and…and the other thing, I started to put the pieces together though I still didn’t really understand. Is…is that what he did then, Master Nestorion? He performed those…services?”

“Yes,” Nestorion said softly.

“But…but he’s no older than me,” Galad breathed. “He’s an elfling. How would he even know how to…why would he want…I didn’t even know such a thing existed!”

Nestorion rose fluidly and sat on the arm of the chair instead. “I don’t believe that he ever did want to,” he said, slipping his arm around Galad. “He was forced to it by those who raised him. When you were learning your letters and numbers, Lutha was learning to sell himself and steal. I would not tell you this without reason, Galad, and I do not tell you for the sake of idle gossip. I tell you because you have asked me the question and because it seems that perhaps Lutha has wanted to tell you his story without knowing how to do so beyond giving hints that, through no fault of your own, you have not been able to decipher without help. If I have misjudged then I will apologise to Lutha – though I do not think that I have. And you know yourself how difficult it can be to share your story.”

“Lutha’s is worse,” Galad said numbly.

“Lutha’s is different,” Nestorion corrected him. “Pain is not a competition. Don’t ever feel that you must minimise yours because someone else has had a different experience.”

“But what should I do?” Galad asked, turning to look up at his master. “How can I help Lutha? I’m not asking as an apprentice healer. I’m asking as his friend.”

“Be there for him. Be patient. Listen to him when he wants to talk and don’t push him when he doesn’t,” Nestorion said. “Let yourself be guided by him.”

“Is he going to have mind healing?” Galad ventured.

“He would certainly benefit from it,” Nestorion replied. “But mind healing is a delicate thing. The timing must be right. I am not so certain that it is yet for Lutha, nor that he would accept it until he feels more settled here and at ease with the ways of our people.”

“Do you think that the timing is right for me?”

Nestorion gave Galad a long look. “If you are willing.”

“I am,” Galad said, summoning his courage. “And perhaps if I go first then Lutha might see that it isn’t so terrible.”

“Then shall we start tomorrow?” Nestorion suggested gently.

Galad took a deep breath and nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Lessons finished at noon the next day.

After lunch, Nestorion guided his apprentice outside to the summer house. He had given Galad the option of having his first mind healing session there or in the dedicated healing room at the side of the house. Galad had chosen the summer house because it was full of flowers and fresh air, with pretty views of the stream and garden, and because he wanted to see bees and birds and butterflies as his mind went to places so dark that bees and birds and butterflies could not thrive.

They seated themselves on cushioned wicker chairs with a glass topped table between them. There was a small plate of biscuits on the table along with two glasses and a jug of cool lemonade. “There are no definitive rules around these sessions,” Nestorion began, pouring lemonade for them both. “Though I would suggest that they last little more than an hour – certainly no more than two. We will meet like this once a week and it is your time to say as much or as little as you like. All that you say to me is confidential. Unless you tell me something that gives me cause to believe that you or anyone else is at risk of harm, it stays with me. Don’t worry that I will repeat anything to Captain Bregolas or Noendir. And try not to think of us as master and apprentice. Don’t let that hold you back. In these sessions we are healer and patient. All right?”

Galad detected lavender and jasmine in the air as he breathed in slowly and nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Do you know where you would like to start?” Nestorion asked.

“I thought about that. I thought about what I would say, but I couldn’t settle on anything,” Galad admitted. “I had hoped to be guided by you.”

“Then we shall start at the beginning. I will tell you what I know so far. You may correct me when I get something wrong,” Nestorion said. “How about that?”

“Yes,” Galad said with a relieved nod.

Nestorion nodded in return. With his elbows resting on either side of the chair, he clasped his hands together and pressed both forefingers to his lips as he regarded Galad over them. “You were born seventy years ago to Thranor and Pelassiel. You are their last child. The youngest of four. Your eldest brothers Celegnir and Breigon, both of whom work alongside your father in the family carpentry business, are a small handful of years into their eighth century. Your third brother Noendir is some seventy or eighty years older than you. He is currently in training with the Protectors here in Amon Lanc. Do I have it correct so far?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Galad replied.

“Your paternal grandfather is Captain Bregolas. Your other grandparents are no longer on these shores. Nor is your mother after her passing during a winter storm when you were five years old,” Nestorion continued, his eyes fixed on Galad. “You have aunts and uncles on both sides of the family along with various older cousins, though none are well known to you. What I would like you to do for me now, Galad, if you are happy with the accuracy of all that I have described so far, is tell me about your father. You see, I have never met Thranor. The picture that I have in my mind is of an ellon who looks somewhat like Captain Bregolas. Is that right?”

The first answer that came to mind was no. But Galad stopped and made himself think about it, looking beyond his grandfather’s wheat blond hair and summer blue eyes to focus instead on his subtler features: the pale golden cast of his skin, his sharply defined cheekbones, and the gentle curve of his leaf shaped ears. “I hadn’t thought about it before. But yes, aside from colouring, I suppose my father does look quite a bit like his father though not at first glance. His hair is between golden and auburn – tawny, you might call it – and his eyes are hazel.”

“What else?”

Galad didn’t think there was anything else. But as he self-consciously raked his hand through his hair, his fingers catching in his braids gave him inspiration. “Ada doesn’t wear braids. He wears his hair in a single plait or a tail. It isn’t good for his hair to fall in his eyes when he’s working so he rarely has it loose. And his eyes are a hard shade of hazel. Celegnir’s eyes are the same colour, but they are softer, kinder, while my father’s eyes make me think of the wood that he works. They go harder still when he is angry. Darker so that you can’t see the green in them.”

“Hmm,” Nestorion murmured.

“I used to think that he was very tall and strong. And he is,” Galad added, glancing up. “But I think that he always seemed even bigger in my eyes because he made me feel so…so small. The truth is that he is no taller than my grandfather or some of the Elders and Protectors I have met, and no stronger than the craftsmen I have seen working at their forges or workshops in Amon Lanc.”

“Does that make you feel differently about him?” Nestorion asked neutrally.

“No. I suppose not. It doesn’t change what he did.” Galad lifted one shoulder and offered a rueful smile. “I just thought it was interesting.”

Nestorion acknowledged that with a nod and a small smile of his own. As Galad waited for his master to speak, he helped himself to a biscuit. He nibbled slowly at it. It occurred to him that the biscuit tasted of honey at the same time as it occurred to him that Nestorion seemed disinclined to break the silence. Galad hastily swallowed and cast about for something to say. “I can’t describe my mother the same way. I have been told that my eyes are identical to hers. But when I remember her, she doesn’t have a face. No, she has a face,” Galad quickly corrected himself. “But it is blurry. I could describe my brothers if you want me to.”

“Stay with your father,” Nestorion said softly.

A flicker of frustration sparked somewhere inside Galad. Surely he had given the most detailed description he could possibly give! But as he closed his eyes and let his mind drift to the north, he found himself recalling that which he had not thought to offer. “Ada has rough hands from his work. Hard hands, often marked with tiny cuts or wood splinters where he’s been careless. He smells of sawdust and wood chippings and…and autumn. He…” Galad shook his head, desperately searching for more. “He is very tactile.”

Nestorion shifted slightly at that. “Tactile.”

“He would always touch my brothers in greeting or sometimes just as he stepped past them,” Galad said. “There was a special touch for each of them. An arm clasp for Celegnir, a slap on the back for Breigon, and a brief stroke of Noendir’s hair.”

“What was your special touch?” Nestorion asked.

“Oh, I didn’t…I didn’t have one.” Galad looked away through the open door of the summer house. His new cat Cabril had come outside to chase dragonflies through the flowerbeds. He watched without really seeing as she tripped over her paws and tumbled amongst the zinnia and sweetpeas. “One time,” Galad continued in the soft voice of remembrance, “Ada went to Glaerobel to take a commission. He was gone nearly a month. It felt like he would never return. On the day that he did come back, it was late afternoon and the four of us were in the living room. Celegnir and Breigon were going to take me and Noendir for dinner at the village tavern rather than eat at home. I felt so excited at the thought of going to the tavern with my brothers. It must have shown on my face because Noendir looked across at me and winked.” Galad stopped. Strange, he thought, the minutiae that one remembers.

“But Thranor returned,” Nestorion gently prompted him.

The blues and pinks and yellows and greens of the garden came back into focus as Galad blinked. “Yes. We heard hoofbeats. A minute later, Ada came striding in through the door. I felt all at once relieved that he had come home safely, perversely happy to see him, afraid that the month of relative peace had come to an end, and disappointed that we might not get to visit the tavern. I watched him greet my brothers. Arm clasp for Celegnir, that roughly affectionate slap on the back for Breigon, and the hair stroke for Noendir. Then he turned to me. I sat straighter in my chair, suddenly desperate to know what my touch was going to be, how he would greet me after so long away. But he only looked at me and told me to stable his horse and bring his travel pack inside. I…”

There was a sudden ache in Galad’s throat. He swallowed around it and looked up at the ceiling. “I stood up and went to do as I had been told. I reached the door and he said my name. I stopped. I felt a burst of hope within me, so strong that it hurt. This was it. He was going to call me back so that he could greet me properly. But he just asked if I had behaved.”

“And had you?”

“Mostly. One day I stayed so late with Healer Albethon that it grew dark and Celegnir had to come and get me. He wasn’t unreasonable, but he spanked me for it when he got me home.” Galad lifted his shoulder again in a small shrug. “It was fair. I had no quarrel with him over it. But standing before my father, facing the possibility of his anger, I found myself unable to speak. Nor did Celegnir say anything and I knew that he would keep my secret if I could hold my nerve. But Breigon was there. I saw him look expectantly at me and then Celegnir, and when neither of us said anything he asked me if I had so quickly forgotten breaking my curfew. He didn’t have to do that. But it was a source of amusement, entertainment, for him to see me in disgrace. My father closed the distance between us and stared down into my eyes. Again he ordered me to stable his horse. I will deal with you after. That was what he said. And he did. Pain was the only touch I got from him.”

“How did it make you feel?” Nestorion asked. “That your father had a special touch for each of your brothers but none for you?”

“Sad,” Galad whispered. “Humiliated. Worthless. Excluded. Like an outsider looking in at my own family.”  

“But do you understand,” Nestorion said softly, “that his failure to touch you was no reflection on you but rather on him? It was his failing, Galad. Not yours. It was a choice that he made.”

Galad stared at his hands. “A choice that he made because of me.”

“A choice that he made because of him.” Propping his chin in one hand, Nestorion gave his apprentice and patient a long look. “Who is responsible for you? Not for looking after you, not for teaching you, but you as an individual? For your thoughts, your actions, your words, your emotional responses. Is it me? Bregolas? Alphros or Lutha? What about your brothers or your father? Is it them?”

“I think that my thoughts and feelings and deeds can be influenced by the people around me,” Galad said. “But the ultimate responsibility is mine.”

“Then who is responsible for your father?” Nestorion asked.

“He…he is,” Galad said slowly.

“Not you?”

“No,” Galad whispered, biting his lip. “Not me.”

Nestorion lifted his head in a small nod and allowed Galad a moment to think on that. “Before we finish for the afternoon, I want to touch upon something that you mentioned. Two things, actually. You said that you had been excited by the prospect of visiting the tavern with your brothers and that your father’s return meant the end of a month of peace. Tell me how those things align with Breigon being there.”

“I was never truly at ease around Breigon. There was always a chance that he might snap,” Galad replied. “But in the absence of our father he was…less dangerous.”

“Why do you think that was?”

Leaning forwards with a thoughtful frown, Galad put his head in his hands and stared at the floor. He idly played with his braids as he reflected upon something that he had never considered before and only ever gratefully accepted as fact. A possibility that made him ill at ease ventured cautiously into his mind. “Are you asking me this because you think that our father made Breigon do the things he did? And so when Ada was away, Breigon didn’t feel as though he had to be so cruel?”

“No. I am not suggesting that,” Nestorion said. “Is that what you think?”

“I…no, I don’t think so. I always believed that Breigon acted alone. If my father had wanted to hurt me beyond handling me roughly and excessively punishing me, he would have done so. He didn’t need Breigon to do it for him. But…” Galad faltered and bit his lip again in uncertain thought. “But that still doesn’t explain why Breigon was less cruel when Ada was away.”

“Then think about this,” Nestorion said. “They are both traumatised and damaged individuals with identical responses to grief.”

“Rage,” Galad whispered.

“Rage,” Nestorion agreed quietly. “When you put the two of them together, the sparks of one light the banked fires of the other. Take one away and the sparks fizzle to nothing. The banked fires stay banked. Put them back together and they ignite once more, coming together like hammer and anvil with you trapped between them. Thranor and Breigon have spent the last sixty-five years living together, working together, with hardly a moment apart, constantly bouncing off each other, their dark moods inflaming one another. They might not realise it, but it must surely be a relief to them when separation gives them both a rare chance to breathe.”  

“Do you think it would have been different if my grandfather had not returned me to them so soon or if Breigon had been the one to leave?” Galad asked.

“Perhaps,” Nestorion said, his voice gentle. “Perhaps not. Are you angry with Captain Bregolas for the decision that he made to return you?”

“I’m not angry with anyone. Or…I don’t know,” Galad admitted. “Daerada told me that he thinks my father does love me. I felt angry that my father could love me and hurt me all at the same time. But I don’t like to be angry. I so hate and fear being the target of anger that I don’t want to be responsible for forcing it upon anyone else.”

“And yet it is still a valid feeling,” Nestorion said. “At its most basic level anger is no more evil than sadness or fear or regret. It is what one does with anger that can be a danger.”

Galad sighed and nodded, resting his chin in his hand as he stared across the garden without really seeing the flowers swaying in the breeze and the herbs that released their green fragrance into the air. A distant patch of brown and gold told him that Cabril was napping where she had fallen in the flowerbed. Galad felt suddenly tired. He didn’t know if the hour was up but he felt as though it must be. It felt as though they had been there all day. He shifted slightly and tugged at his collar, restless and hot though the afternoon was only pleasantly warm.

“I think that is enough for your first session.” Nestorion knelt before Galad, leaf green eyes meeting twilit blue, and he reached up and held his hand against Galad’s cheek. “You did so well. I am very proud of you.”

The gentle touch made Galad close his eyes. Before he could stop himself, he leaned into it, drawing into himself affection that he had been so long denied. “I didn’t cry. I was afraid that I might.”

“You can,” Nestorion said softly. “If you need to.”

Galad opened his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t. Not today.”

“All right. What will you do with your afternoon?” Nestorion asked, sitting back on his heels. “Something quiet, I think. I would suggest that you rest or read a book or work on your pictures. Or you might want to visit your friends.”

“But would they like to see me again so soon?” Galad replied uncertainly. “They only saw me yesterday.”

Nestorion laughed. It was not an unkind laugh, but a fond one. “I think they would love that. Let us get the rest of that lemonade inside before it summons all the bees in Amon Lanc and then I will take you to see your friends.”

True to his word, Nestorion served as chaperone and escorted Galad through the woods. They talked little as they walked; Galad was deep in thought, and Nestorion mindful of his introspection. It was the mind healing session that played on Galad’s thoughts though he considered it not as a patient but a healer. He had gone into the session with no expectations and no idea how to start, but just giving a description of his father had opened the door to the discussion that had followed. It was brilliantly clever and astoundingly simple. He ventured to tell Nestorion that, unable to keep a note of admiration from his voice. Nestorion just smiled and replied that the best things were often the simplest.

When they reached Elder Faelind’s house, the door was answered by a housekeeper with honey blonde hair swept into a knot at the nape of her neck. She smiled at Galad and stepped back to let him in, and he turned to wave goodbye to Nestorion. His master smiled and waved in return. “Thank you, Mistress Lothwen,” Galad said to the housekeeper as she ushered him into the entrance hall. “I was hoping to see Lutha.”

“Lutha is currently in lessons with Elder Angoliel. Much to his displeasure.” Lothwen’s cornflower eyes crinkled with amusement. “I expect it will be another hour before he is done. You are welcome to wait for him, elfling. I can set out some afternoon tea for you. Or perhaps you would like to explore the sunroom. I enjoy it on stormy days when the rain falls hard on the windows, but it was made for days like these.”

“I would like that very much, thank you,” Galad said.

Lothwen led the way. The sunroom spanned the length of the grand house with tall windows and a ceiling made of glass that let sunshine pour into every corner. Here and there were water features – a sunken pool home to ornamental fish, small fountains burbling pleasingly, and elegant statuary balanced amongst polished black rocks slick with running water – and comfortable wicker chairs nestled amongst the flowers. Oh, and the flowers…crimson hibiscus and blooming begonia, trailing ferns and vibrant passionflower and half a dozen varieties of orchid that all together perfumed the air with a fragrance that was sweet and tart and utterly sublime.

“I hadn’t imagined that Elder Faelind was such a keen gardener,” Galad said, taking it all in.

“Oh, he’s not,” Lothwen replied with a chuckle. “He likes to look at the flowers well enough, but looking is all he is permitted to do. It is his father-in-law Echuiaeron who cultivates them and keeps them alive. Now, that door at the end of the sunroom leads to the gardens – and they are just as beautiful. Wander at your leisure. Nowhere is out of bounds.”

Left alone, Galad walked slowly through the sunroom, trailing the fronds of the ferns through his fingers, and pausing every now and again to breathe in the scent of a particular flower. The orchids caught his eye, their slender stems bending ever so slightly and their faces turned towards the sun – creamy pink, sunshine yellow, cornflower blue, and even a pair of hybrids that reminded Galad of sunset with burnt orange and magenta bleeding into violet, and a starry night of white speckles on a deep purple petal. Windows thrown open to the warm spring air allowed insects and birds to come and go as they pleased.

Galad could have wasted an entire day in the sunroom, but the call of the gardens was too strong to ignore. He wanted to see what beauty and splendour Faelind’s clever father-in-law had created out there. With a final wistful look around the sunroom, Galad went outside to a smooth patio of pale stone where elegant iron wrought chairs stood about a round table. Immaculately manicured lawns bisected by wildflower beds ran away from the patio, rows of lavender bowing gently under the weight of the fat bees that clambered across them. An arched rose trellis beckoned invitingly. Galad stopped beneath it to let his fingers explore velvet petals.

A path caught his eye and he followed it beyond the treeline until he reached the slender statue of a woman. Carved lovingly of pure white marble, the hem of her gown was lifted as if caught on a stray breeze, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders in such exquisite detail that each strand was like silk. She was smiling, her eyes gentle and kind and mischievous though they were of cold stone. A single pink camellia had been laid at her bare feet. Galad bowed his head reverently to Elder Faelind’s wife, for so he assumed her to be, and stepped past her to continue along the path. He would have stayed in her serene presence had he not felt as though he was intruding upon something that perhaps he had not been meant to see.  

It didn’t take Galad long to realise that he had ventured beyond the border of Faelind’s property. The path had become less well tended, the foliage wilder. He turned to retrace his steps and caught the lingering scent of…almonds? Closing his eyes, he breathed in. Suddenly he found himself transported to a village fair some thirty years ago when a travelling merchant had displayed sweets made of almond paste that were cleverly crafted and coloured to resemble animals, flowers, stars, and even people. Celegnir didn’t like almonds and had politely declined when the merchant tried to tempt him, but he had bought sweets for his brothers. Noendir had chosen a dog and Galad a rose. Breigon had pretended not to be interested but had opted for a pig because he’d thought that it looked funny. Even Thranor had been impressed by the exquisite sweets when his sons had shown him, though he had grimaced at the taste. Noendir and Galad had loved the rich and sweet almond flavour and had looked forward to the merchant returning to their village, but they had never seen her again.

Unable to help himself, Galad gave in to his curiosity and stepped off the path. He followed the smell of almonds through the trees. It was growing stronger and he knew that he hadn’t imagined it. He didn’t quite know what he expected to find – probably not a sweet stall in the middle of the forest, though that would be nice – but he had to know where it came from. To his surprise, the intense fragrance turned out to be from a flower that he had never seen before.

Growing close to the ground and surrounded by tall green leaves, the petals were purest white except for their tips which were frosted a delicate pink. Galad knelt by the flower and breathed in the smell of a northern village fair and the sweets that he and Noendir had enjoyed so much. He wondered what the flower was called and if it had medicinal properties and even if it was used in the making of the sweets, but he reluctantly restrained himself from taking a cutting back to Nestorion since he was unfamiliar with it and couldn’t be sure that it was safe to handle. Nestorion would know all the answers to his questions, he thought.

Galad stood up and brushed specks of dirt and a leaf from his leggings. He made his way back towards the path, only to stop when he realised that he should have already reached it. He looked around slowly. The smell of almonds was faint. For a moment he wondered if he should return to the pink-tipped flower and try to reorientate himself from there, but he decided against it. Surely if he kept walking he would end up back on Elder Faelind’s land. And if he had gone so wrong that he didn’t, well, at some point he would reach one of the main roads through Amon Lanc, and if not one of them then at least a well-travelled path or even a signpost or a house where he could stop for directions.

Nibbling his lip as he ducked under branches and climbed over logs, Galad wondered fleetingly how upset Nestorion and Bregolas would be if they found out about this. And they probably would find out because lying made him so distinctly uncomfortable that he would struggle to keep it from them. He thought back over the steps that he had taken to reach that point. Leaving the sunroom for the gardens was surely acceptable. Leaving the gardens to follow the path to the statue was likely to be equally so. Continuing along the path past the point where Elder Faelind’s land ended…well, Galad hadn’t noticed anything to indicate that he had gone too far. He didn’t think, realistically, that he could be blamed for that. Stepping off the path to follow the almonds was where he had gone wrong. He should have simply turned around and walked back along the path, past the statue, under the rose trellis, and into the sunroom to wait for Lutha.

Well.

It was too late now.

Galad’s annoyance with himself didn’t last long. He stumbled into a sun dappled glade and stood blinking in the brightness. He started to despair, but as he looked around he saw through the sparse trees opposite him that a path was just visible. And there, at the end of the path, a stand of linden trees that stretched away out of sight. Galad’s spirit lightened. The carriageway to Elder Faelind’s house was lined with lindens! Laughing in breathless delight, he started to cross the glade, glad that he had trusted in himself to find his way back.

A twig snapped.

Galad stopped.

“Are you lost?”

He turned slowly.

Leaning against a tree with arms folded, Breigon smiled. “Hello, baby brother.”

Chapter Text

“Hello, baby brother.”

The world stopped.

Galad stared at his brother. Unblinking. Unmoving. He was suddenly aware of the slow rise and fall of his own chest, of his collar lightly brushing the back of his neck, of the breaths that trembled on his lips before disappearing into the spring air. It would be summer soon, fledglings taking to the sky and rainbows of flowers in full bloom. It seemed a faraway thing because time had ceased to exist. Or so it seemed. Breigon smiled. It was a dangerous smile. A predator’s smile, his eyes as dark as night. It put Galad in mind of a picture he had once seen of a great grey sea beast.

But the smile had broken the spell. Galad stirred, coming back to himself. Then he simply turned and walked away. Nestled somewhere amongst his disbelief and fear and shock he felt a tiny prickle of pride in himself; pride, that he had found the courage to turn his back on his brother. It didn’t last, because Breigon spoke. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Galad stopped. “Why?”

“Because you will walk straight from my arms into Celegnir’s. He is waiting for you,” Breigon said. “Just beyond the treeline.”

The trees stood tall and silent, keeping their secrets with barely a stir of leaves as Galad turned slowly to face his brother. “No. He isn’t.”

“You know he is,” Breigon said. “Adar warned you that this would happen. That we would come for you and take you home.”

“Daerada warned me too,” Galad replied. “He warned me that he had told Ada and Celegnir to leave me alone but that you had left the north in search of me. Even if Celegnir wanted to obey Ada, he wouldn’t disobey a direct command from Daerada. Not in this. So Celegnir is not here. It is only you.”

Something had changed in Breigon. He remained at ease, lounging against the tree with his arms folded and one booted foot propped against the trunk, but his eyes had hardened and his smile faded into a mere twist of his lips. “No matter,” he said coldly. “When did I ever need Celegnir to help me beat you into submission? Now that I think on it, I am glad to be here alone. Just me and you, Little Galad. I intend to have some fun with you before I drag you home.”

“You might be alone,” Galad said bravely. “But I’m not.”

“Are you not,” Breigon drawled, sounding bored.

“I have people on my side. People who care about me. I have Daerada and Noendir and my master and my friends and all our family,” Galad said.

Breigon let out a contemptuous snort of laughter. “Oh, our family! The family that never cared about you!”

“You can’t use that to hurt me anymore,” Galad replied. Even if, on some deep and profound level, it did still hurt to imagine the possibility of it. “I know the truth. They never knew a thing about the way that I was treated. They would have helped me if they had known, but they didn’t because Ada lied to them and made them stay away.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think you know.” Breigon pushed himself away from the tree so suddenly that it startled Galad into stumbling backwards. “It doesn’t matter because look around you,” Breigon hissed, grabbing Galad by the back of the neck and giving him a rough shake. “Nobody is here! It is just you and me, baby brother. I can do whatever I want to you. And when I am done teaching you the kind of lesson that I think you will benefit from, I will take you back where you belong so that our father can teach you the kind of lesson that he thinks you need. Now get on your knees.”

Breigon flung Galad from him so that he sprawled amongst the grass and leaves. Breathing in the earthy scent of the forest floor, Galad scrambled to his knees and spun around to face his brother. Tears stung his eyes. Submit, a voice whispered in his mind. Submit to him. It will be worse if you fight. You know this. It isn’t weakness to be a good boy, to do what you must to protect yourself. And you escaped once. You can do it again. Just submit. Go home and submit. Galad imagined himself bowing his head and meekly going with Breigon, back home, where perhaps Thranor would be so relieved by his return that he would embrace his youngest son and be happy to see him and everything would be different and…and it wouldn’t be different. Galad knew that. But Bregolas would come for him. Bregolas, Nestorion, Noendir, Lindamir, maybe even Alphros and Lutha. They would all come for him.

“Look at you,” Breigon laughed. “You’re thinking about it. I wondered if you might have a bit of fight in you, but you really are as disgustingly pathetic as I always thought you were.”

“I’m not.”

“What was that?”

“I said I’m not!”

Galad leapt up and threw himself at Breigon. His brother was so solidly built that it was like running into a brick wall, but Galad held his ground and shoved at Breigon again and again and again, a tremor running up his arms each time his hands slammed into that strong chest. Breigon laughed. At first. Then his patience waned and he pushed Galad away. Galad kept coming, fighting for the first time in his life, fighting for himself, for the new life that he had worked so hard for. But it wasn’t enough – he wasn’t enough – to withstand the force that was his brother. Breigon grabbed his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he pulled him up onto his toes and shook him like a terrier shaking a rabbit. Breigon’s left hand darted through the air and dealt Galad a backhanded slap across the face, and he released his fistful of braids at the same time so that the force of the blow sent Galad to the ground.

There was no chance to rise and fight again. Breigon was on top of Galad, straddling him and pinning his wrists above his head with one hand so that he could only writhe ineffectually and buck his hips. It was all in vain. Breigon laughed, darkly this time, and hit Galad again. It split his lower lip. Rocked his head back and bared his throat. Wrapping his hand around Galad’s throat, Breigon held tightly and squeezed. “You remember this, don’t you,” he said, leaning down to whisper the words against Galad’s ear as intimately as a lover. “You remember Adar holding you like this.”

“I remember you saving me,” Galad choked out.

Breigon drew back, his grip loosening and his brow creasing. Taking advantage of his confused consternation, Galad pulled his knees up to his chest and kicked Breigon square in the midriff. It sent him tumbling backwards with a vicious snarl. “Then that was my mistake! I should have let our father kill you.”

“No,” Galad whispered. “You said after that we are brothers. That I’m part of your family and that means something.”

“It means nothing!” Breigon screamed, driving his fist into the ground. “You mean nothing! You stopped meaning anything the day you killed my mother!”

His voice rang in the glade. They stared breathlessly at one another until Galad swallowed and looked away. “I didn’t. The storm-”

“Oh, the storm,” Breigon spat. “She was out in the storm because of you.”

“She wasn’t,” Galad said quietly. “If that was true you would have thrown it in my face long ago.”

“Do you think I have never wanted to? I would have told you the truth years ago if Adar and Celegnir had not ordered me to never speak of it,” Breigon snapped. “They sought to protect you from the truth. Eru only knows why. I have respected their wishes, but they know it as well as I. Adar lost his wife because of you. We lost our mother because of you. And this – all of this, the abuse and neglect that you think you have endured all these years – is nothing but payback that you rightly earned!”

“Then tell me!” Galad cried, pushing himself to his feet. “If what you say is true then tell me how the fault is mine!”

But Breigon only turned his face away in grim silence. Galad willed his brother to look back at him before finally shaking his head and looking away too. He brushed his hand over his mouth and it came away stained red. The struggle had positioned them so that Galad was facing the stand of trees that hid the road from view. It was tantalisingly close, though it might as well be miles away with Breigon blocking his path. He supposed that he could turn and try to go back the way he had come, but getting lost was what had caused this in the first place, and Breigon would only chase him. So, turning around was not an option. Neither was staying still. Galad had to try and get past his brother. If he could make the road, he could make the carriageway to Elder Faelind’s house where Lutha was studying with Elder Angoliel and the household staff were going about their business and everything was peaceful and calm and safe.

Galad took a deep breath. His feet felt as though they were shod in iron as he lifted one and put it in front of the other. He walked slowly across the glade, daring to lift his chin in silent defiance as he stepped past Breigon. It was a show of courage that he did not truly feel. But Breigon let him pass. Galad exhaled cautiously. Surely it couldn’t be so easy.

It couldn’t.

Breigon came without warning and again Galad found himself on the floor, only this time his brother didn’t stop at a slap to his face. With feet and fists, Breigon stood over Galad and beat him, uncaring where his blows landed if only they landed. “Let me go, Breigon!” Galad cried out through broken lips, his vision blurred with tears and blood. “Let me go!”

“That is exactly what you said to Adar, looking at him with those eyes of yours that you knew would break him,” Breigon sneered. “Let us see how well you do with your eyes turned away.”

He flipped Galad over and pushed his face into the ground, kneeling hard on Galad’s lower back so that he was pinned. With his free hand he reached under Galad’s tunic and yanked his leggings down. Leather whistled through the air and Breigon’s belt lashed Galad’s bottom and legs. Breathing in the loamy smell of grass and leaves, Galad stopped fighting. He pulled his mind away from what was happening, curling his fingers around the grass and closing his eyes as he let himself drift. He didn’t know how many times the belt landed. He couldn’t let himself think about it, because if he thought about it then the pain would rush in like a river breaking a dam, and if he lost himself to the pain he would have nothing left. So he took it in detached silence.

But not everything was silent.

With his face pressed hard against the ground, Galad heard it before Breigon did. The distant thunder of hoofbeats. A horse shrieked, and Galad managed to lift his head as the pressure eased ever so slightly. Hooves flashed silver in the sunlight as the black horse reared. His rider dismounted, landing effortlessly while the horse still pawed the air. Galad felt rather than heard a body colliding with Breigon’s, and the two of them went tumbling and rolling away from Galad. Coughing out grass and blood, he reached around with one trembling hand and dragged his leggings up over his welted bottom. He managed to push himself onto his knees, and knelt there, swaying dizzily, as he looked through tendrils of hair towards his rescuer.

Elder Faelind dragged Breigon to his feet and flung him against a tree. Holding him there, he looked back around at Galad and their eyes met briefly until shame washed over Galad and he cast his gaze to the ground. He knew what he must look like. He could feel it in the warm blood on his chin and the ache and throb of the myriad cuts and bruises across his face, and he had seen it in Faelind’s disbelieving stare. It was true that Galad had only met Faelind twice, but already in his mind he thought of him as an elf who gave nothing away, who felt nothing and showed nothing on his cold as marble face. But it was not so now. Daring to glance back up, Galad watched the sparks in Faelind’s eyes as he bared his teeth in fury, his hands twisted in the fabric of Breigon’s tunic. His rage might be visceral, but he had a careful handle on it and did not hurt Breigon. Nestorion’s words came back to Galad. At its most basic level anger is no more evil than sadness or fear or regret. It is what one does with anger that can be a danger. Breigon was safe, he realised, and cursed himself for still – still – feeling glad of it even after everything.

“You are Breigon,” Faelind said.

It was not a question. Breigon laughed harshly. “So my baby brother has been telling tales to more than just our grandfather. And who are you?”

“I am Elder Faelind.” Faelind bit the words off as he reached down and snatched up the belt that had fallen from Breigon’s hands. He spun Breigon around to face the tree and used the belt to bind his hands behind his back. “And you, Breigon Thranorion, are arrested for the assault that you have committed against your brother.”

“Arrested?” Breigon repeated, scoffing. “You can’t arrest me. You’re an Elder!”

“Is that your gravest concern?” Faelind replied contemptuously.  

“You don’t have the right,” Breigon spat. “The Elders of Greenwood serve the people. You serve me.”

Galad watched with wide eyes as Faelind pulled Breigon back around to face him. “But you are correct, of course. I do serve the people. And as Elder Faelind, it is not within my power to do more than detain you. After all, powers of arrest belong only to those sworn into the service of the Protectors. How fortuitous that I am. So, then, Captain Faelind can arrest you – and has – if that suits you better.”

“You can’t be both!” Breigon said furiously, his muscles bunching as he tried to work his wrists free of their binding. “And you…you quit! It was the talk of the forest even in the north. My little brother might not know, but I was around when you went on trial for killing your wife. I remember it well. And I remember that you resigned from the Protectors. So you can’t arrest me and I will report you to the Chief of the Elders.” 

Breigon was right. Galad did not know that history, and he was unable to stop himself from gasping softly. Faelind must have heard because he turned his head ever so slightly before letting out a deep breath and returning his cold stare to Breigon. “Please, report me to Elder Rethedir. It will amuse him. But you ought to know that while it is simpler to say that I resigned, that is not truly what happened. Commander Dirnaith – as he was then – was advised not to accept my resignation but rather to grant me an unlimited leave of absence should I ever have a change of heart. Can you guess who advised him?”

“I don’t care!” Breigon snapped.

“Well, it is an ironic twist to the tale so I shall tell you anyway,” Faelind said. “It was Captain Bregolas. I have never had a change of heart, but I do thank Bregolas for the pleasure of being able to place his grandson under arrest. Enough talking now. You bore me, Breigon. So you sit and you wait.” Faelind cleverly dug his fingers into Breigon’s shoulder, and Galad watched his brother slide down the tree trunk until he was sitting on the floor. He glanced away before Breigon could look over at him and listened as Faelind put his fingers in his mouth and whistled – two short blasts and one longer. Galad didn’t understand why until a young warrior with pale gold hair materialised through the trees, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes of cobalt blue. The moment Faelind saw him, he left off his supervision of Breigon and strode towards Galad instead. “Take that ellon into custody and see him confined to the cells, Protector Elthoron,” he said over his shoulder. “No need for an arrest. It has been done.”

“At once, my lord-captain,” Elthoron replied, bowing his head slightly. “What would you have me tell the warden of the cells?”

“He is Breigon Thranorion,” Faelind said curtly. “I found him attacking his elfling brother. I will expect a written report from you detailing your involvement with the prisoner, to include any remarks that he makes and an accounting of his attitude and demeanour. Have it sent to my office by tomorrow afternoon.”

Elthoron nodded respectfully. His expression was impassive, but Galad caught a flicker of dislike in his eyes as he turned them upon Breigon. With a sneer for Elthoron, Breigon pitched his voice to carry across the glade. “You say attack, Elder-Captain-Whatever Faelind. I say a long overdue lesson for my baby brother. Is that not so, Little Galad?”

Galad caught his breath, and Faelind knelt before him to block his view of Breigon. Staring instead at Faelind’s midnight black tunic, focusing on the dull glitter of the charcoal grey threads shot through it, Galad listened as Protector Elthoron hauled Breigon to his feet and gave him a shove to get him moving. He didn’t dare look up lest he should meet his brother’s eyes and come undone. Only when Galad heard Faelind exhale quietly did he risk lifting his gaze. He was startled by what he saw. The fury in Faelind’s jewel green eyes was gone. It had been replaced by compassion. Galad hadn’t thought Faelind capable of compassion, but there it was. Still. He recalled what Breigon had said of events from long ago and couldn’t help recoiling slightly. A flicker of resignation joined the compassion in Faelind’s eyes.

“You need not be afraid of me, elfling,” he said quietly. Rising, he crossed to a pool so small that it was hardly worthy of the name, but the water was clear and clean, and Faelind soaked a cream handkerchief in it. He returned to Galad and knelt once more in front of him. “I know it hurts,” he said, wiping blood and dirt from Galad’s face with gentle care. “But you are safe now.”

“I want to go home,” Galad whispered.

“I know,” Faelind said again. “Can you stand?”

Galad nodded and started to rise, but a fantastic burst of pain blossomed around his ribs where Breigon’s boots had driven into him. His legs shook and he would have gone to the ground but for Faelind catching him and holding him up. He closed his eyes against the pain and pressed his lips together as Faelind carefully lifted him onto his horse and mounted up behind him. They set off towards the road, the road that had been so blissfully near but so frustratingly far away, and Galad forced his eyes open as he felt the horse turn to the left.

“Where…” He stopped, fighting a wave of nausea as he swallowed the blood that leaked from a cut on the inside of his cheek. “Where are you taking me?”

“To my home,” Faelind replied. “I will send for Nestorion.”

“No.”

“No?” Faelind repeated as if he had misheard. “It is less than a mile from here. Look, the carriageway begins just up there.”

“No,” Galad said. “I don’t want Lutha to see me like this.”

“Elfling,” Faelind began, but he stopped when Galad put a trembling hand on his arm. For a moment he sat still, but then he sighed and turned his horse’s head.

The journey passed in a blur. Galad thought at one point that perhaps he had passed out because one moment he had been sitting up, staring dully ahead through tendrils of hair that had come loose from his braids, and the next his head was against Faelind’s shoulder. Somewhere amongst the pain and sadness, he felt embarrassed and tried to struggle upright until Faelind quietly commanded him to stop. He sank back again and closed his eyes, and he knew for certain that he had slipped into unconsciousness because suddenly they were in a familiar garden and Faelind was calling for Nestorion as he dismounted and drew Galad down into his arms, cradling him like a baby. A door banged open somewhere, and then Galad felt hands on his face and hair.

“No,” Nestorion whispered. “Oh, no…no, no…what happened?”

“Breigon,” Faelind said flatly.

Nestorion stared for a moment, but then he swallowed hard and led the way inside, holding the door open for Faelind. In the sitting room he grabbed the trio of decorative cushions from the settee and tossed them out of the way, gesturing for Faelind to lay Galad down. Despite the care that Faelind took, Galad couldn’t help whimpering softly as his welted backside made contact with the settee. Nestorion started to kneel by Galad, but Faelind caught him by the shoulder and pulled him aside. He spoke swiftly and quietly, and the occasional word reached Galad. “…belt…ribs…maybe broken…in and out of consciousness…” Nestorion listened in silence, and finally took a deep breath and nodded.

“Tell me what you need,” Faelind said, as they returned to the settee.

“Willow bark tea, a bowl of water, clean cloths. And my healing bag. It is under the table in the surgery.” Nestorion knelt on the floor, holding Galad’s hand in one of his and gently stroking his hair with the other. He said nothing beyond murmuring that Galad was safe, that he was home, that he was going to be looked after. He didn’t try to make Galad speak, which Galad was glad of because he didn’t know what he would say. When Faelind returned, Nestorion accepted the cup of willow bark tea first and held it to Galad’s lips. “Drink this,” he said. “Small sips.”

“Do you wish me to fetch Bregolas?” Faelind asked.

“Galad?” Nestorion prompted gently. “Do you want your daerada to be here?”

“I was by myself,” Galad whispered. “He told me not to be alone and I was.”

“Shhh, that doesn’t matter,” Nestorion soothed him. “None of this is your fault. Bregolas will understand that.”

Tears slipped from the corners of Galad’s eyes as he closed them and nodded silently. The salt of his tears made his cheeks sting where they fell into the cuts that his brother’s fists had ripped into him. He wasn’t aware of Faelind leaving, but after a moment he heard the click of the front door. When Galad opened his eyes, he and Nestorion were alone. “I didn’t think Breigon would go so far,” he said distantly. “He never did before.”

“He didn’t have to be careful this time. I expect he’d have taken you back to his lodgings and kept you there until you healed,” Nestorion replied quietly. “Or he’d have set off for the north immediately and banked on you healing before he got you there. Maybe he thought Thranor would be so pleased with his efforts to return you that he wouldn’t have cared about the cost. Whatever Breigon’s reasons, Galad, it is not your fault. You didn’t choose this. He did. But now you are safe and I am going to take care of you. Shall we deal with what is under your clothes while it is just us two here?”

Galad nodded mutely and shed silent tears as Nestorion tended to him. The willow bark tea had helped enough that he could breathe without feeling as though his ribs were on fire. Nestorion didn’t think that any of the ribs were broken, but he expressed concern over the mass of bruising that had already come out in vivid twilight patches across Galad’s abdomen. The welts from the belt he dealt with in silence, pressing his lips together in wordless fury as he applied a cool salve. At one point he left the room, and when he returned it was with a nightshirt from Galad’s bedroom. He helped Galad into it, and then helped him lie back against the cushions which he had picked up from the floor and propped against the arm of the sofa.

By the time Faelind came back with Bregolas, Nestorion had progressed to tidying up the cuts and grazes to Galad’s face. Most of them looked worse than they truly were and only one of them required sutures. He didn’t pause in gently cleaning them when the front door burst open, simply murmuring reassuringly as Galad stiffened. A moment later Bregolas strode into the room. He stopped and stared at Galad in disbelief, his eyes widening as if he had hoped that Faelind had played a cruel trick on him and was only now realising that it was not so.

“Galad,” he whispered. “I told you-”

“I told Galad that you would understand he is not at fault for this,” Nestorion interjected without looking up. “Do not make a liar of me, Captain.”

“He is right, Bregolas,” Faelind said quietly. “Breigon is the one to blame.”

Bregolas closed his eyes and nodded. There was no room on the settee while Nestorion was working, so he knelt instead at Galad’s head and began tidying the braids that had become loose and ragged. It took Galad a moment to realise that he was grateful for it. His braids were a part of him. Having them restored to some semblance of order helped him feel more like himself. He thought that having something to focus on and occupy his hands was of benefit to Bregolas too; he could feel his grandfather’s deft fingers become steadier as they combed through his hair and wove the strands together.

“Breigon must have spotted you in town the other day and tracked your movements since,” Bregolas said finally. “He couldn’t have guessed that you would be anywhere near Faelind’s house.”

“I saw no sign that he was being followed or watched,” Nestorion said with a soft sigh. “I would have alerted you if it was so.”

“I know you would have,” Bregolas replied. “It is as Faelind said. Nobody is to blame but Breigon.”

“Who will remain under lock and key in the cells until he can be judged,” Faelind added.

Galad stirred and looked up. “How will he be judged?”

All eyes went to Faelind standing at the side of the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “Even setting aside anything that happened in the north, I cannot see that I could pass any sentence other than imprisonment given the severity of his crime today and the danger that he poses to you. Though his sentence would be served in the Glaerobel prison, not here in Amon Lanc.”

The thought of Breigon confined to a small cell was disturbing to Galad’s mind. The thought of being the person responsible for putting Breigon in a cell was even more disturbing, though Galad tried miserably to remind himself of Nestorion’s words. You didn’t choose this. He did. “Punishing him would achieve nothing,” Galad said aloud. “He would blame me and hate me even more.”

“Celegnir said the same when I spoke with him in the north,” Bregolas said. “I do not disagree with it. Breigon is unlikely to take well to any punishment. But something must be done even so, daerion. He cannot get away with this.”

“I won’t support the allegation,” Galad said under his breath.

“Galad,” Nestorion sighed.

“No, I won’t support it,” Galad repeated, staring at his hands. “I’ll say that it didn’t happen. I can’t be the reason that my brother goes to prison.”

“Your support in the matter would be appreciated but surplus to requirements.” There was no trace of compassion in Faelind’s voice now. Galad dared to glance up at him and saw that a layer of frost had turned his eyes to ice. “You forget that I witnessed his violence,” Faelind said coolly. “I will write a full report detailing exactly what I saw. Protector Elthoron will write a report outlining his involvement in this matter. The warden of the cells will examine Breigon and make note of marks to his fists and blood on his clothing and boots – which there will be. Nestorion will document your injuries. Every single one of them. I do not need you to help me condemn your brother, elfling.”

“Then my wishes count for nothing?” Galad whispered.

“If your wishes put you at risk of further harm, then yes, they count for nothing,” Faelind snapped. Galad wondered at the look that Bregolas must have given Faelind, for Faelind briefly met his eyes over Galad’s head and then glanced away. When he spoke again, his voice was more restrained and a fraction less cold. “There are guidelines that exist to help with sentencing. They are only guidelines because the law recognises extenuating circumstances and mitigation. It acknowledges that no case is the same as another. I can use my discretion and judgement in the passing of sentences. But what I cannot do is use my discretion and judgement in a way that might lead to further offending on the part of the perpetrator and further harm being done to the victim – to you, Galad. If I believe that either of those things are a possibility – and in this case, I do – then I am legally obliged to take the proper steps to ensure that such a possibility does not become reality. You are correct that Breigon might blame you for whatever sentence he receives. But if imprisonment, coupled with mind healing and rehabilitation, is what it takes to keep you safe then that is what must happen.”

“What if there was another way?” Galad asked tentatively.

Nestorion had finished tending to him and looked up from where he was returning his supplies to his healing bag. “What are you thinking?”

“I…I don’t know,” Galad admitted. “But maybe some sort of order that prevents Breigon – and our father, I suppose – from coming near me. Because I do understand that what has happened is wrong. Today, all of it, I understand that it is wrong both morally and legally. You can all think me weak or soft hearted if you will, but I don’t want any of my family to be imprisoned. I don’t want any of them to receive judicial punishment. Not even Breigon. Despite everything, I do love them and I can’t think of them like that.”

“Then don’t think of them like that,” Faelind said under his breath.

“Faelind,” Bregolas said mildly, though there was a note of warning in his voice.

“Elder Faelind, please,” Galad whispered.

Suppressing a sigh, Faelind ignored Bregolas and looked at Galad. “I can produce an order to that effect. It would have to be watertight. No written communication sent directly to you or indirectly by way of other individuals. No travel to Amon Lanc. No activities that might bring them into accidental contact with you. No revocation of the order until they can prove that they have undergone mind healing. And it would have to include all three of them – Thranor, Breigon, and Celegnir.”

“Yes. Yes, whatever it takes.” Galad swallowed and looked around the room, at Nestorion’s lips pressed together and the stormy cast to Bregolas’ eyes as if clouds had rolled across a summer sky. “I know that nobody else is happy. I’m sorry. But Daerada, you have said yourself that you can’t stop what you feel for my father – for your son. I can’t either. I can’t stop loving my father or my brothers. Please understand that.”

“I do,” Bregolas said. “I only hope that you do not come to regret this decision, Galadaelin.”

“As do I,” Nestorion added. “But I will support you in whatever choice you make.”

Galad turned a pleading gaze upon the last – and perhaps most important – person he had to convince. Faelind held his gaze for a long and inscrutable moment before looking away. “Very well,” he said flatly. “I will write the order. Breigon will remain in the cells until it is done.”

“How long will it take?” Galad ventured.

“As long as I want it to,” Faelind retorted, and his hair swished around his back as he turned sharply and stalked towards the door. He didn’t go through it. Instead he stopped with his hand resting on the door and slowly turned back. “Galad.” The vaguest hint of compassion had returned to his voice. “I know that you want to keep this from Lutha. Alphros too, no doubt. But you need support.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galad said quietly. “I have it.”

“Yes, you do. Bregolas, Nestorion, Noendir, your aunts and uncles…they are all on your side and they support you,” Faelind said. “But they have different roles to play in your life. Important roles, yes, but they are not your friends. No one person can be everything to you and nor should they try. Believe it or not, I do know how hard it is for you. I understand the fear and shame that an elfling abused by their family can feel. It is a lonely road. It is lonelier still without friends to hold your hand and walk with you through the hardest and darkest times. You don’t want to look back on this time and wish that you had confided in Lutha and Alphros, that you’d had them at your side when you needed them. Are you afraid that they will forsake you?”

Galad looked away from Faelind’s intense gaze and bit his lip. He immediately regretted it. Wincing, he touched his hand to his lip and was relieved that it hadn’t started bleeding anew. “I am afraid that they might think differently of me.”

“Well, and perhaps they will. Perhaps they will think that you are stronger and braver than they had imagined,” Faelind said. “They are not your friends because they think that you had a happy home and a blessed childhood. They are your friends because of who you are. This will not change that. Give them the chance to prove it to you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Galad whispered. “And…and thank you for saving me.”

Faelind inclined his head. “Be well.”

Exhaling slowly, Galad looked down at his hands and listened for the click of the front door as Faelind left. Nestorion had finished packing away his supplies and moved to sit in his usual chair, leaning forward to prop his chin on his fists. Bregolas had finished his task too, having restored Galad’s braids, and he sat on the edge of the settee as Galad glanced up to meet his eyes. “Will Elder Faelind really make it take a long time, Daerada? The order, I mean.”

Bregolas sighed and exchanged a look with Nestorion. “Faelind is excellent at what he does. If he has a professional flaw it is that, on rare occasions, he takes things too personally and feels too deeply. Cases where a child has endured harm at the hands of a family member are difficult for him. That does not mean he is not the right person to manage this. He just needs to get things straight in his head and work off his frustration with a few rounds of sparring.” Bregolas patted Galad’s shoulder gently. “Don’t you worry about Faelind, daerion. I’ll handle him. Though, I think it would do no harm for Breigon to spend some extra time in the cells.”

“This would be so much easier if I could hate him the way he hates me.” A thought came then to Galad and he looked at his grandfather, both afraid of the answer that he might get and desperate to know the truth. “Breigon said…he said it was my fault that our mother died. That isn’t a new thing. He has toyed with that before without ever going beyond vague allusions to it. But today he said that she was out in the storm because of me. I don’t know how that can be. Do you know?”

“I have not heard it,” Bregolas said, and there was no deception in his gaze. “I had always been under the impression that Pelassiel was hunting when the storm broke.”

“Yes,” Galad said, exhaling in relief. “I thought so too.”

“It sounds to me that Breigon told you whatever he thought would do the most damage,” Bregolas said quietly. “But the truth is that even if Pelassiel had been in the storm for any reason remotely connected to you, it was not your fault. You were five years old, daerion-laes. Little more than a baby. The only way you could have been responsible is if you called lightning down from the sky and commanded the heavens to shake with thunder. Unless I am mistaken, I do not think that is in your power.”

Galad shook his head with a reluctant smile. He caught his breath then. Smiling hurt. “No. I can’t do that.”

“I didn’t think so.” Bregolas got to his feet and leaned down to press a kiss to Galad’s head. “Get some rest. I will come to see you tomorrow.”

Soon enough, Galad was alone again with Nestorion. His master had moved to stand at the window and was watching Bregolas ride away, his arms folded over his chest. Nestorion didn’t turn back even when Bregolas was out of sight. His shoulders lifted in a sigh and his head bowed. “I thought that you were safe, Galad,” he said softly. “I saw you go inside with the housekeeper. I waited until the door was shut and only then did I leave. I would never have left if I had known what would happen. I truly thought that you were safe. You should have been safe.”

“But Master, you couldn’t have known,” Galad protested. “I was safe. Mistress Lothwen said that I could explore the gardens while Lutha was in lessons. I ventured off the path and got lost trying to find my way back. That was when it happened. If Breigon has been following me then it would have happened eventually, but it only happened today because I didn’t stay in the garden.”

“I am sorry that it did happen,” Nestorion said, returning to the settee and kneeling at Galad’s side. His leaf green eyes were silvered by a veil of unshed tears as he took Galad’s hand in his. “I am so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Galad whispered. “I’m sorry that I came to my apprenticeship with this burden, a burden that you didn’t ask or expect to carry but which you’ve had to all the same.”

“No! I would change nothing.” The protestation had been fierce and vehement, but then Nestorion sat back on his heels with a rueful laugh. “Well. I would change this.” He moved his hand in a circular motion, encompassing the cuts and bruises that Galad had received that day. Galad managed a small laugh as well, and the moment of tearful tension passed.

True to his word, Bregolas returned the next day. He brought news that Faelind had started working on the order that would protect Galad from his father and brothers and that it would be completed by the end of the week. He said also that Breigon would remain in the cells until that time, after which he would be escorted home by a small company of Protectors who would deliver the order straight into Thranor’s hands. Galad wondered if Bregolas had visited Breigon, or would before the week was out, but he didn’t ask. That was Bregolas’ business.

A while after Bregolas left, Galad received a visit from his friends. He had known that it was coming and tried to swallow his nerves as he heard Nestorion greet them outside. Alphros was first through the door. He ran straight to Galad’s side and dropped to his knees, tears shining in his eyes as he grabbed Galad’s hand. Lutha came more quietly and stood in near enough the same spot that Faelind had occupied the day before, one arm tight across his chest, his opposite thumbnail caught between his teeth as he chewed on it. Galad met his eyes briefly, but Lutha looked away. Nervous once more, Galad returned his attention to Alphros.

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” Alphros whispered, tears leaving opaque tracks down his cheeks. “I knew from the letter you showed me that your father was going to have your brothers take you back to the north, but I never imagined something like this would happen. I thought…oh, I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t realise it could be this bad. Galad, you could have told me.”

“I know,” Galad whispered back. “I should have trusted you and told you everything.”

“Promise me that you will from now on,” Alphros said.

“I promise,” Galad said softly.

“Can I hug you?” Alphros asked, anxiously running his eyes over Galad. “Will it hurt?”

Yes. But Galad had been hurt before without any reward for it, so he shook his head and accepted the hug that Alphros offered even if he did have to suppress a wince as his bruised ribs ached in protest. He looked over Alphros’ shoulder towards Lutha who was studying the floor. Lutha must have felt Galad’s eyes on him because he glanced up only to look away again. Galad sighed quietly, unable to shake the feeling that any positive progress he had made in his friendship with Lutha had been spoilt though he couldn’t imagine why. As he drew back, Alphros followed his gaze.

“Lutha?” Alphros gently prompted.

Swallowing, Lutha came forward a few steps. “I was thinking about the talk that we had the day we went into town. Do you remember, Galad? About how sorry has lots of different meanings.”

That wasn’t what Galad had expected him to say. He nodded guardedly. “I remember.”

“You said you were sorry that I had been whipped, and for a moment I got mad because I thought that you felt sorry for me. You explained that you can be sorry that something happened without pitying someone. So…I am sorry that this happened to you,” Lutha said haltingly. “I understand now what that means. And if you want me to kill your brother then I could probably do that. Just don’t tell anyone it was me or they might make me leave.”

“Lutha!” Alphros said again, nearly falling over himself to smack the younger boy.

“I’m just saying,” Lutha said defensively.

“No,” Alphros scolded him.

Rather than being appalled, Galad found himself laughing and he didn’t care that it hurt. While his friends bickered, Nestorion came in with a tray bearing sandwiches, small cakes, slices of melon, and a choice between cordial and milk. He smiled to see Galad at ease and left the three boys alone. As they made their way through the food, Galad told Alphros and Lutha of his past. He didn’t tell them everything. There were some things that were too painful, that he did not care to remember. But he told them enough that they could understand and know him for who he was. He spoke also of that last dreadful night, the one that was so vivid in his mind that he could still feel Thranor’s hands around his throat.

“Was that the worst thing your father ever did to you?” Lutha asked softly. “Am I allowed to ask that?”

“I don’t mind that you asked. I suppose, physically, it was the worst thing he ever did since it was the only time that he hit me or strangled me.” Galad started to lift a piece of cake to his lips, but his gaze went distant and he slowly lowered the cake back to his plate as he stared into the past. “When my mother was alive, I spent most of my days with her. The workshop was no place for a little boy. I think that my father must have missed me, because in the evenings he would take charge of baths and bedtime so that we could have time together, just the two of us. It was so fun. I had toys that he had made for me – boats, fish, ducks. He would kneel next to the tub with his sleeves rolled up and we would play together. Then, after my mother died, I was small enough that I still needed help to bathe. Sometimes my brothers handled it and sometimes my father did. But he didn’t play with me anymore. He sat on a stool on the other side of the room and stared at me with his arms folded. One time, I…” Galad stopped and looked up, willing away the tears that threatened. “I was sitting in the bath, playing quietly so as not to upset him. I summoned my courage and asked him if he would like to play with me. It had taken so much for me to ask him that, but he just shook his head and said nothing. I looked away because I knew that I was about to cry. He wouldn’t like that. Sure enough, he left when the tears came. Just got up and walked away. And I think that was the worst thing he ever did because it was the first time I realised that my father, who I loved with all my heart, didn’t like me anymore. That…it is a painful realisation for a small boy to have.”

“That’s so awful,” Alphros whispered.

“Yes. I suppose. But I never really thought that any of it was awful,” Galad said. “Not until I came here, anyway. It was just the way my life was.”

“You don’t think something is awful when you’re so used to it,” Lutha spoke up. “It feels normal. Even when you hate it, it’s still normal. Sometimes it takes someone else pointing it out for you to realise how wrong it really is.”

Galad thought of what he now understood Lutha had endured in the name of survival. He didn’t speak of it because he didn’t know how much Alphros knew, and it was not his place to reveal Lutha’s secrets. But their eyes met in a moment of shared pain – different pain, to be sure, one no more or less than the other – and as Galad inclined his head by the barest fraction, Lutha responded with a there and gone again smile of understanding.

That evening, Galad was quiet. He had reached a decision. He thought that he had reached it upon recalling that sad night so many years ago when a little boy had been left to cry alone in the bath with only his ducks and fish for comfort. Nestorion had not forced Galad to share what was on his mind, simply telling him in a gentle voice that if there was anything he wanted to talk about, they could. Galad had thanked his master without taking him up on the offer. Nor did he now. It was not so much that he had something to talk about but something to do.

“I’m ready.”

Nestorion looked up as Galad stepped into the sitting room. The paddle that he had been forced to bring from the north hung loosely from his hand. He dared not tighten his grip lest he find himself unable to let go. “You are ready to burn it?” Nestorion asked softly.

“Yes.”

It was a warm night and there was no need for a fire, but Nestorion wasted no time in building one. When the flames flickered orange in the hearth, Galad stood before them with Nestorion at his side. A slight ache in his fingers told him that he had done the one thing he hadn’t wanted to do; he had tightened his hold on the paddle without realising it. He wished that he hadn’t. He had only made it harder for himself. Easier if he could have simply let the paddle tumble from his fingers as effortlessly as letting water slide through them. Now he had to make a conscious decision to uncurl his fingers and put effort into doing so.

“You can do this,” Nestorion encouraged him.

“Can I?” Galad whispered. “I thought I could. I thought I wanted to. But…”

Nestorion put an arm around his shoulder and leaned down to speak softly to him. “I am going to tell you something that I don’t think you have heard for a very long time. If ever. You can do anything that you want to do. You have the strength and courage to make it so. You simply have to reach inside yourself and grab it. I have faith in you, Galad.”

Closing his eyes, Galad focused on the weight in his hand and the smooth grain of the wood against his skin. He tried not to think of the work that his father had put into crafting the paddle, the time and effort it had taken, and he forced his mind away from the picture that it conjured of Thranor thinning his lips and narrowing his eyes in disapproval at hearing that the instrument of so much pain had been destroyed. Galad was suddenly very aware of his thumb and his fingers as he forced them to open, aware of every muscle and nerve. But slowly, they did open.

He knelt carefully before the fire and stared into the flames, and just like that his hand was reaching out and his fingers were uncurling and the paddle was falling. Stifling a gasp, Galad stood so quickly that his bruised ribs didn’t even have time to hurt. Nestorion’s arm was waiting for him and came back around his shoulders. As the flames spat and hissed, and his father’s craftsmanship cracked and broke in twain, Galad turned against Nestorion’s chest before he realised what he was doing. Nestorion didn’t hesitate. His other arm came up to wrap Galad in an embrace that was all at once warm and firm and careful of his injuries.

“You did it,” Nestorion said softly.

“I…I did,” Galad breathed.

“I am so proud of you.”

Nestorion drew back just enough that he could lift Galad’s chin. He put his hand tenderly on Galad’s cheek, mindful of his bruises, just like he had the day before in the summerhouse – it seemed so long ago now – when Galad had revealed that there had never been a special caress just for him, no special touch to mark him as one of Thranor’s children, only pain, only fear. But it didn’t feel false. It didn’t feel like something that Nestorion did simply because he felt obliged. It felt…natural. Natural like the hug that Galad had buried himself in. This was what he had always wanted, he thought with a pang. Nestorion wasn’t his father, no, and Galad was under no illusion as to the nature of their relationship; when all was said and done, they were just master and apprentice, and he did already have a father. Even if that father had rejected him in every way it was possible for a father to reject his son. Perhaps this was enough, then.

It would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Second Age 2096 – Glaerobel, Northern Greenwood

“Roasted chestnut?”

Galad looked up from the medicine that he was mixing. He eyed his best friend leaning insouciantly against the doorframe and then glanced down at the bag that Lutha was holding out. The rich brown chestnuts within were speckled with sugar and nutmeg. “I hope you didn’t offer those to my patients. The ones who just survived being roasted alive in a house fire.”

Grey eyes widened. “As if I would have the audacity to be so tasteless!”

“If there is one thing you have it’s the audacity,” Galad said.

“You wound me,” Lutha sighed, but now his eyes gleamed with amusement and mischief.

“I don’t. You know it’s true.” Galad turned his attention back to the medicine and continued stirring the blend of peppermint and wild cherry bark that he hoped would help his patients with their breathing. They were in the northern town of Glaerobel. They had travelled there a few days before with Luthavar’s adoptive father Elder Faelind, and Elder Nestaeth and Master Healer Nestorion, following a devastating fire at Elder Nithaniel’s childhood home. Nestaeth, Nestorion, and Galad were there to help the Glaerobel healers look after Nithaniel’s youngest brother and sister who had been trapped in the house as it had burned around them. Faelind was there to judge the elderly and nearly toothless Woodman accused of setting the fire. Lutha was there to…well, Galad wasn’t sure why Lutha was there. But he had been glad of his company even so. Even if it pleased Lutha to distract and generally be a pest. “What do you want, anyway?” Galad asked finally.

“Nothing,” Lutha said, idly examining the contents of his bag. “But I was eavesdropping earlier-”

“Luthavar!”

“No, it’s a good thing,” Lutha said. “I was eavesdropping and I’m not going to tell you what it is because you’ll find out soon enough, but I just wanted to tell you now that I’m happy for you.”

“You’re happy for me,” Galad repeated blankly.

“I am. And…” Lutha tucked the bag of chestnuts into his pocket and surprised Galad by wrapping his arms around him from behind. “And I love you. I think perhaps I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You say it most times you see me and you once sat on me and pinned me down until I said it back. I think you tell me plenty.” Lutha wasn’t letting go, so Galad patted his arm. “Are you all right?”

“Wonderful,” Lutha said, his voice slightly muffled in the fabric of Galad’s tunic.

That was a relief. Assured of his friend’s wellbeing, Galad felt quite comfortable to banter, “I meant mentally.”

Lutha laughed and pulled back, but not before gently flicking Galad’s ear. “I have to go. Ada and I are heading home this morning. See you back in Amon Lanc.”

“See you there. And Lutha…you too.”

“Me too what?” Lutha asked, turning back with a knowing smile. It deepened as Galad gestured vaguely. “Me too what, Galadaelin?”

“I…don’t find you intolerable either.”

“And…”

“And I more than like you.”

“And…”

“And I love you too,” Galad said with a rueful smile.

Lutha’s eyes lightened with pleasure, and he blew a kiss over his shoulder as he left the storeroom. Galad laughed and looked down to finish preparing the medicine. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of silver from the delicate chain that disappeared inside the collar of his shirt. He was not usually prone to distractions, but this was a distraction too great to ignore. Setting the medicine aside once more, he drew the locket out and carefully opened it. It had belonged to his father. Thranor had never been without the locket though it had remained shut for so long that it had become stiff with disuse. Now it was Galad’s, his father having found it within himself to give it to Nestorion to pass on to Galad. The lock had been fixed so that Galad could see his mother whenever he wanted.

He looked down into painted eyes that were a mirror image of his, set in a warm and kind face with a mischievous smile that reminded him of his brother Noendir, surrounded by a tumble of pale brown hair and delicate freckles across a sweetly upturned nose. It had startled Galad to discover that his mother had had freckles. He didn’t remember them, and whenever his brothers had described Pelassiel they had spoken only of her twilit blue eyes and lilting voice and the way she had thrown her head back when she had laughed. Galad loved that she’d had freckles. He loved that he no longer had to guess at her face and fear that he had guessed wrong.

The door opened again and Galad hastily closed the locket and shoved it back inside his shirt. “I thought that you were leaving. Can you not pester Elder Faelind instead? He signed up for that when he adopted you.”

“He will be thrilled to know that he has had another son all this time. Though I’m not so sure that he is quite old enough to have adopted me.”

Galad gasped and spun around. “Master Nestorion!”

“Peace,” Nestorion said, his green eyes sparkling with mirth as he closed the door. He took Galad by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “And how many times must I tell you, hmm? Drop the ‘master’ when it is just the two of us. I don’t need to hear that. Not from you.”

“Forgive me,” Galad replied, feeling his cheeks colour. “In my defence, I have only been your student a mere forty years. Perhaps in another forty I will have learned.”

“You had better not make me keep reminding you for another forty years or I shall turn you over my knee,” Nestorion said, mock severely. He hadn’t taken his hands away from Galad’s shoulders. Galad felt his fingers flex slightly; not painfully, but enough that he was aware of it. He looked closely at his master and watched Nestorion’s gaze become distant and thoughtful. But only for a moment. Nestorion focused and gave him a rueful smile. “Now I must ask your forgiveness. My thoughts have been…occupied this morning.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I think so. That is…” Hesitating, Nestorion reached under the bench and pulled out two wooden stools. “Sit down, Galad. We need to talk.”

Galad obeyed though he was unable to shake his nerves. “You said yesterday when you returned from visiting my father that there is a lot for us to talk about when we get home.” Galad had not accompanied Nestorion on that visit. Faelind had, to support Nestorion and keep the peace as Nestorion warned Thranor to call off his eldest sons following their recent attempt to bring his youngest back to the north.

“Yes. There is a lot to talk about. And perhaps I should wait until we are home. I don’t want to be the reason that you are distracted from your work. But…” Nestorion sighed and sat down as well, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. “The truth is that I am distracted. I fear that I will continue to be distracted unless we have this talk now. And still in the spirit of truthfulness, it is a conversation that I have wanted us to have for a long time. Perhaps that we should have already had.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Galad whispered. “Are you not happy with me? Have I done something? Is my work not-”

“Galad, no,” Nestorion interjected hastily, lifting his head. “No, not at all. It has been my absolute privilege and honour to teach you and watch you grow. Not just as an apprentice at the start of your career but as an elfling…a courageous young elf, overcoming all the challenges that life has thrown at you and going from strength to strength despite them. I am so proud of you and so pleased that you came into my life.”

Galad took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I wish that your words put my mind at rest. I fear they don’t.”

“And I am sorry for that, but I promise you that this is a good thing. At least…well, I think it is and I hope that you will too.” For a moment Nestorion sounded uncertain and looked it too, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he blinked twice, quickly, in undisguised anxiety. Exhaling softly, he took Galad’s hands in his. “Galad. You know that I have had apprentices before. I have always got along well with my apprentices. The relationships that I have had with them have been anything from formal and courteous to friendly and relaxed.”

“Like us,” Galad ventured.

“Yes, like us.” But then Nestorion shook his head. “No. Not like us. You see, I always cared for you as a master should care for his student. But at some point – I don’t know when, precisely – I stopped caring about you in that way. I started to care more strongly,” Nestorion added, tightening his hold as Galad began to pull away. “I thought that perhaps what I felt for you was like unto the way Feredir behaves as an older brother to Alphros. That seemed right but not entirely accurate. So I wondered if my feelings were those of an uncle towards his nephew. That wasn’t right either. And then…then I watched Faelind with Luthavar. I realised that what I saw in his eyes when he looked at Lutha, what I heard in his voice when he spoke about Lutha…I identified with that because it was what I felt for you.”

“Elder Faelind is Lutha’s father,” Galad whispered, hardly daring to move.

“Yes, he is,” Nestorion said softly. “And I would give the world to be yours.”

Galad caught his breath as his hands involuntarily tightened around Nestorion’s. A rush of happy and disbelieving warmth flooded him from head to foot only to be driven out by the harsh coldness of reality. “But you couldn’t be.”

“It was easy for Faelind,” Nestorion said. “Baralin had not yet returned. There was nobody to contest any claim that he might make on Lutha, nobody to stand in the way of the adoption. But Thranor has parental rights over you. Despite all that happened before, despite the order of protection, he is your father – by blood and by law. That means I cannot adopt you. Not without Thranor willingly signing away his rights. And that he will not do. Certainly not now and perhaps not ever.”

“Then why are you telling me this?” Galad breathed. “Why even talk about something that can’t be? It’s not…it’s not fair.”

“Because there is another way.” Gently drawing one hand back, Nestorion used his thumb to brush away a tear that had slipped onto Galad’s cheek; a tear that Galad hadn’t even realised had fallen. “To become your adoptive father, I need Thranor to give his permission and relinquish his rights. But I don’t need either of those things to become your foster father. I only need consent from your legal guardian in the south.”

“Daerada,” Galad said distantly.

“Yes. If Captain Bregolas permitted me to foster you,” Nestorion said, “I would be as good as your father.”

Galad stood and paced the length of the storeroom a few restless times. His whole body felt on fire, his nerves alive with energy, his heart and mind flooded with it. He quivered like a plucked harp string as he turned abruptly to face Nestorion. “Would he grant permission? He would, wouldn’t he? But what if he didn’t? What if…no, he would. I know he would.”

“Galad,” Nestorion said, his voice soft. “Does this mean that you want it?”

“Yes. Yes please,” Galad whispered. “But why do you want it? Why do you want…me?”

Rising, Nestorion went to Galad and held his face in both hands as he looked down into his eyes. “Because you bring me joy. Because you are kind and good and gentle. Because in my heart I already love you as my son. Because you deserve a father who will love you unconditionally, who won’t ever hurt you. And because you even have to ask that question at all.”

Tears spilled over Galad’s lashes as he closed his eyes. “What if Daerada says no?”

“Then…” Nestorion sighed the word out and hugged Galad close. “Then he says no. But I would never have even mentioned this, would never have raised your hopes, if I thought it likely that they would be dashed. I would not be so cruel to you.”

“Can we write to him?” Galad asked. 

“How about,” Nestorion replied, “when we leave for Amon Lanc in a few days, we take a detour and visit Bregolas at the eastern garrison.”

“I would like that,” Galad said, though his heart fluttered with nervous anticipation.

So it was settled. When their business in Glaerobel concluded at the end of that week, they did not head straight for the south. Instead their road took them east where Captain Bregolas had been leading border patrols and commanding the eastern garrison for the last few months. The whole way there, Galad tried to think positively. He tried to imagine his grandfather giving him the answer that he wanted – and the answer that he wanted was yes, a resounding yes, even if a confused and complicated part of his mind feared that his desire for a new father might be a betrayal to the one he already had – because he was afraid that if he imagined a bad outcome it might somehow make it so. If Bregolas was even there when they reached the garrison, he thought, silently fretting as he rode at Nestorion’s side. But when they arrived, the warrior who greeted them said that Bregolas was ‘busy but around somewhere’ and invited them to wait inside.

They didn’t have to wait long. Bregolas burst into his office so quickly that it made Galad jump. He spared a single nod for Nestorion before turning to Galad and holding him at arm’s length. “What’s wrong? What has happened?”

“Nothing!” Galad protested. “Nothing is wrong, Daerada.”

“You’re all right?” Bregolas asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked Galad up and down.

“I promise,” Galad said hastily.

“All is well, I assure you,” Nestorion added.

Bregolas nodded slowly. Galad didn’t think that he looked particularly convinced, but he at least released Galad to give him a hug and say, “Then, not that I am displeased to see you after months apart, I must ask why you are here.”

“I…” But now that it came to it, Galad faltered and looked to Nestorion. “Can you?” he asked softly.

“Of course,” Nestorion said immediately. “Perhaps we might sit.”

There were two chairs in front of the desk. Bregolas gestured to them and leaned against the edge of the desk with his arms folded over his chest. “Go on, then. Speak.”

“It has been forty years since I took Galad as my apprentice,” Nestorion said after a moment. “In that time he has come to mean a great deal to me. I think that must have become clear to you, Bregolas. I do not intend to relinquish my responsibility to Galad as his teacher, but I can no longer in good conscience pretend that he is just another student to me. I-”

“Yes.”

Something in that word made Nestorion and Galad glance at each other. “Yes?” Nestorion repeated.

“I know what you’re getting at,” Bregolas said quietly. “Might as well save you the trouble of spelling it out. You wish to adopt him. Very well. Yes. You have my support.”

“Just like that?” Galad whispered. “You would make it so easy that we don’t even have to convince you?”

“If I needed to be convinced, if it was not something true and real that I could see with my own eyes, it would not be worth supporting you,” Bregolas said with a wry smile to match his tone. He looked down then, sighing as his smile faded. “But I have seen it. I have seen the love and respect that has grown between you. The trust that has built, the healing that has been done. Nestorion, I have recognised in you the painful longing to have a son who belongs to another. And in you, Galad, I have seen your desperation for a father who will raise you and love you as you always deserved. So…yes. But my support is not unconditional.”

“Very well,” Nestorion said guardedly. “What will it cost?”

“Only your assurance that though Galad may take your name and be your son and a part of your family, that he will remain a part of mine too,” Bregolas replied, steadily meeting Nestorion’s eyes. “I very much wish to remain in his life. I have no hesitation in speaking for Noendir, nor for Galad’s aunts and uncles and cousins, who I know will feel no less strongly about it.”

“Eru, Bregolas! You don’t have to ask me that,” Nestorion said, letting out a breath of laughter as the tension fled his body. “But…” His expression softened. “For what it is worth, you have my assurance. Galad is your grandson. You mean everything to him. Even if I wanted to keep him to myself – and I don’t, I swear it – it would be impossible.”

“It’s true, Daerada,” Galad said softly. “This isn’t about replacing you or Noendir or anyone else. It’s not even about replacing my father. It’s about giving me something that I don’t have, something that I will probably never have, and about giving Nestorion something that he doesn’t have either but which we both want very much and which will make us happy.”

“Then,” Bregolas said, “I fully support it. Whatever you need from me, you will have.”

Nestorion and Galad exchanged glances full of warmth and smiles that lit up their eyes. For a moment the only thing that mattered was that Bregolas had said yes, that their dream had been given life. But Galad’s smile slowly faded as he looked back at his grandfather. “It won’t be a real adoption. Not in the same way that Luthavar was adopted, unless Ada ever gives his consent. In the eyes of the law I will only be Nestorion’s foster son. Though,” he added with a shy glance for Nestorion, “I know that it will mean much more than that to us. But whatever it is…is it difficult for you, Daerada? To know that in supporting me you might be hurting your son and driving the wedge between you both even deeper?”

“Yes,” Bregolas said, quietly and without hesitation. “But nothing about this has ever been easy, daerion. As pleased as I am that you and Nestorion have found one another, in a perfect world you would have been raised by Thranor and Pelassiel, surrounded by all the love that you were born into, protected and doted upon by all your brothers – even Breigon, who so delighted in you during those first few years.” Bregolas paused as Galad swallowed and looked away, letting him have a moment to compose himself. Galad wondered if it would ever stop being hard to hear how loved he had once been. “And perhaps,” Bregolas continued gently, “you would have found Nestorion anyway in the course of your career and he would have become a heart-father to you. But that is not what happened. That is not where we find ourselves. And where I find myself is having to choose whose needs I prioritise, who will suffer most if I do not choose them.” Now it was Bregolas who glanced away, and when he looked back his summer blue eyes were dark with an old and deep sorrow. “In reaching a decision, I think of my own father.”

“Elhael,” Galad ventured.

Bregolas lifted his chin in a slow nod. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “I rarely speak of him. It is…painful. He was the very best father you could imagine having. I did not know how lucky I was to have him until I lost him. But that is what every child deserves, Galad. They deserve a father such as I had. They deserve to think, as I do, that their father is the best in all the world. Thranor made his choice to not let you have that. And you…you never had a choice. So there is only one choice now that I can possibly make.”

“Thank you, Daerada,” Galad whispered, and he stood and hugged Bregolas tightly.

That night, Nestorion and Galad stayed at the garrison in an empty room usually occupied by warriors. Room was a generous word. Galad thought that it looked rather more like a cell with two thin beds pushed against opposite walls. But he was not ungrateful. It was winter, and he was glad to be warm and dry as snow skirled outside the narrow window. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he methodically undid his braids one by one and put each of the decorative cuffs and beads into a small wooden box. Removing them at night was a matter of minutes. Restoring them in the morning took longer and meant rising earlier, but sleeping on them was uncomfortable enough that he didn’t mind. Besides, it gave his hands something to do when he was deep in thought.

“What should I call you?”

“So that’s what you have been dwelling on.” Across the room on his own bed, Nestorion leaned forward and propped his chin on his fist with a wry smile. His hair, loose and unbound, fell forward over his shoulder like finely spun silk. “Honestly? I don’t care what you call me. I don’t expect you to start calling me Ada or even Adar if you’re not ready. That is a name that has belonged to Thranor all these years and it is how you think of him – even when his behaviour has not been worthy of it. Ada Nestorion would be a nice compromise. I won’t pretend otherwise. But if you need time to get there it is understandable and valid. I won’t rush you. Why would I when we have forever?”

“Forever,” Galad repeated with a small smile.

Nestorion returned the smile. “Here, let me help.” He moved onto the other bed and took over unfastening Galad’s braids. They sat together in companionable silence for a few minutes until finally Nestorion chuckled softly and ran a lock of Galad’s hair through his fingers. “I like how it gets all these little waves and kinks. It is sweet.” Galad responded with a small and self-conscious laugh, and when Nestorion had brushed his hair and tied it back, he gave Galad’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Into bed now. We leave at first light. Bregolas is letting us stay here tonight on sufferance because he won’t have us travel through a dark winter evening to find shelter, but the garrison is no place for his youngest – and, dare I say it, favourite – grandchild.”

A faint blush suffused Galad’s cheeks. “He will have to resign himself to it. One day I will be at military garrisons. And even on patrol with the warriors.”

Nestorion had started to tuck Galad in, shielding him from the winter chill with the somewhat scratchy but not uncomfortable blankets that covered the bed, but that gave him pause. “You are interested in combat healing, then?”

“No. Well, yes,” Galad amended. “From an academic point of view mostly. But if I want to be a master healer like you – and I do – I will have to achieve mastery in all areas. Including combat healing.”

“M-hmm. I will let you break that news to Bregolas,” Nestorion said dryly. He smiled, and in the cosy glow of the lamp his green eyes were soft and warm. He leaned down and pressed his brow to Galad’s for a tender moment before kissing his cheek. “I didn’t think that this day would ever happen, but you have made me so very happy. Goodnight…my son.”

Galad caught his breath. “Goodnight.” The word came out as a whisper and he rolled onto his side, biting his lip as he stared at the minute cracks in the wall. “Ada.” A thrill shot through him as he dared to say it. He couldn’t see Nestorion’s smile but he heard it echoed in Nestorion’s softly indrawn breath and felt it in the slight tremor of the hand that stroked his hair. He closed his eyes to the gentle touch of someone who loved him without condition, someone in whose presence he was safe and protected – come what may. A father. His father. And when he fell asleep, it was a peaceful sleep and a smile was on his face.