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For many lifetimes of Man, peace descended on the Woodland Realm. Guided by the maturing leadership of Thranduil, and by extension the respective wisdoms of Nellas and Anthelísse, the folk of the Greenwood prospered. All came to know their fair measure of happiness under their Sindarin king and his Noldo lady. Even those who had once frowned in disapproval at the marrying of the Noldor into the monarchy or a predominantly Silvan and Sindarin realm came to admit that all was seemingly well with the world.

Like the phases of the moon and the waves of the sea though, all things move in cycles. Peace begets war just as much as war eventually begets peace. No amount of stability can deny the inevitability of chaos; indeed waters that become too calm almost seem to invite ripples. That is why the defection of Morgoth was so paramount to the making of the world. Without the utter darkness of chaos, the daylight of peace would seem a pale, wane thing. To truly appreciate the dawn, one must first walk the bitter reaches of the night.

It was a cool November when the first ripples of chaos touched the calm of the Greenwood. Thranduil and Anthelísse were at leisure in the palace gallery when a Silvan scout was brought before them. Her green tunic betraying dark shadows of blood, the scout delivered her report with deceptive calm.

"The ruins of Amon Lanc, Aran-nin, something foul has made its home there. I know not what, only that it is drawing all manner of evil to the Southern Greenwood. My patrol was ambushed by orcs not once but twice as we completed the old route. The first time we thought to be a fluke. The second we knew it could not be so. The orcs behaved too boldly...almost territorially."

Thranduil listened in grave silence, exchanging a look with Anthelísse. They both felt the cold prickle of a gathering storm across the back of their necks. The centuries of peace the realm had enjoyed had been purchased at the highest cost; the cost of blood. Elves' memories are long though, and their numbers slow to recover. Thranduil and Anthelísse both knew that they did not have the strength to repel an attack, even one festering within the Greenwood's own borders.

"Gurithon." Thranduil said, standing up from the coach on which he had been reclining with Anthelísse. "Why have we not been alert to such movements before now? How can darkness have crept past our eyes onto our very back porch?"

Gurithon stepped up to stand directly behind the still-kneeling scout. The captain's long face was grave such as it had not been in centuries.

"My lord, since the Last Alliance we have not had the scouts needed to keep up regular patrols in the south. Amon Lance has not been occupied by anyone since ere your father came here from Doriath. Some might be bold as to say it was only a matter of time before we either rebuilt the old fortress...or someone else claimed it for their own."

"Some might be so bold, but not yourself of course." Anthelísse rebuked Gurithon solemnly. When the Silvan captain did not flinch from his earlier statement she sighed. Long hands kneading at the red velvet of her dress, the queen-in-waiting spoke. "Unfortunately I agree with you Gurithon. It was out of the question that we should have had the resources to reclaim and maintain Amon Lanc."

Focussing the full force of his attention back to the scout, Thranduil leaned in. The years had sharpened away his youthful self-doubt, giving the king a deeply focused bearing. Thranduil had proven himself heir not only to Oropher's charismatic charm, but also to Nellas's fey power of character.

"Tell me, Thenniel...how close were you to Emyn Duir when the second ambush occurred?"

The scout inclined her pointed chin to look Thranduil in the eye. She was possessed of a head full of bright russet hair; a rarity among Silvan elves.

"Two days' run as the crow flies, Aran-nin." She replied.

A palpable intake of breath went around the long gallery. Even the tapestries and paintings cast in the pale light of early winter seemed stilled.

Straightening, Thranduil unconsciously fingered the silver ring on his index finger. It was a habit he had developed in moments of stress. When he spoke again, it was in a voice so low that human ears might have missed it.

"Thank you Thenniel, you are free to go. Take a fortnight away from active duty to mourn your comrades and re-gather yourself."

The red-headed scout bowed once more, then rose to leave. Passing Gurithon, the two elves shared a brief glance.

When Thenniel had gone, Anthelísse let out a long breath.

"The orcs are bold indeed to attack our people so close to Emyn Duir. They must have become numerous these past centuries, multiplying like cockroaches under a rock."

"Yes, but it is not their numbers that I fear." Thranduil said, moving to look out of a half-opened window. The many glass panes cast their scattering of light across his face. Soon there would be frost on the branches of the trees, to be followed by the yearly blanket of white snow. "Come winter, any movement from these orcs will slow. We need not fear any encroachment for the next several months at least."

"But what of spring?" asked Anthelísse, rising with a rustle of velvet. "You heard the words of the scout; these creatures have found something larger and fouler than themselves to rally to, and are using the ruins of Amon Lanc as their staging point."

For a moment Thranduil was silent, watching the bare trees in the gardens beyond rustle nakedly. Then he cleared his throat.

"Gurithon, I want you to organize a party of your finest. You will send them south toward Amon Lanc, with orders to rout any orcs they encounter. Have Thenniel go as well; she knows where the orcs were last sighted and can lead the warriors."

For the first time in the entirety of his service to the house of Oropher, Guriton hesitated. "Thranduil...the patrol that we lost was two dozen strong. It would have taken considerable numbers to slay so many of our people." When Anthelísse opened her mouth to speak, Gurithon hurriedly continued. "If you command me, I will prepare this routing party. However, I wish to ask one thing of you; let me lead them in Thenniel's stead."

Thranduil frowned. "Why should that be, Gurithon? I count you as both my most loyal warrior and one of my oldest friends, and will gladly grant anything that you ask. I am not well disposed to the suggestion that I risk your incredibly valuable neck though."

Anthelísse visibly rolled her eyes with a little smirk. When Thranduil looked at her incredulously, she elaborated.

"Have you forgotten Imladris...Elrond and the Lady Celebrian?"

Thranduil most certainly hadn't. Seeing his Captain of the Guard in a new light, he considered Gurithon before speaking.

"Is the risk so high that you deem it worth placing yourself in the path of danger in front of another, mellon-nin?"

Gurithon nodded slowly. "I do. My people have lived in this forest since time unmeasured, Thranduil. If the south has become so overrun that a full complement of our scouts can be murdered along those paths, then I hesitate to send more of our folk into danger. We do not have the strength to fight another war."

Anthelísse went to Thranduil and took his hand. In the grey light, the heightened pink across the bones of her cheeks was just visible. She permitted Thranduil's hand to wander free of her grasp to caress the slight swell of her belly. There was even more at stake now than just their own lives and the lives of the people of the Greenwood. Love had permanently turned the gazes of Thranduil and Anthelísse toward the future, and the lives of future generations.

"What are we to do?" Anthelísse murmured, to herself just as much as to Thranduil and Gurithon.

Thranduil sighed, tracing the crescent of Anthelísse's navel. It was an intimate gesture, one he had done many a night as they lay together since she had told him of her pregnancy. After so many centuries of peace, they had finally dared to commit to that climatic expression of ultimate devotion. Fate was cruel that such dark tidings should come now, when an heir to the throne of the Woodland Realm was preparing to enter the world.

"We have the winter." Thranduil said, meeting Anthelísse's gaze sadly. "If spring brings with it a rise in enemy activity to the south, we likely shall find ourselves forced to act one way or another."

"By then, however many orcs are already swarming in the ruins of Amon Lanc will likely have increased twofold." Anthelísse remarked. It was a harsh mockery of the slow, peaceful ripening of elvish pregnancy that the servants of darkness should be as prolific as rats. "Emyn Duir is not Gondolin or Nargothrond. If evil spreads, we will be poorly situated to defend ourselves here in this city without high walls or natural protections."

"My lord, my lady." Gurithon spoke up, his tone laden with sudden inspiration. "I have an idea. It may be drastic, but it also holds the possibility of avoiding confrontation entirely."

Thranduil's arched brows knitted together. "Speak then, old friend."

"There is a place in the north of the Greenwood, far beyond easy reach from Amon Lanc. It was once a sanctuary of the Silvan peoples, when Morgoth walked the face of Arda..."

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