Dusk, and four Silvan warriors made their way to the barracks. They looked considerably better now that they had all visited the Halls of Healing. They had even bathed and found aid with their clothes. All in all, they had cleaned up well, and so, with shining, braided hair they swaggered on, looking forward to a night of laughter and drinking and, other pleasurable things.

Halú smiled, for their journey to Imladris had been so hard, their reception even worse. He was tired and irritated, and he knew the others were too, but thanks to Milethiel, their Imladris experience was about to change, he was sure of it. The Valar knew they all deserved it, for even before their trip, life had been a succession of bloody patrols of late. Halú wondered then, if their king's missive was related – perhaps he sought aid and alliance. He huffed at the thought of it, for scant help they would receive from the Noldor, of that he was certain.

As the barracks came into sight, Halú's face dropped to his boots, for there were no maidens to be seen, rather ten tall Noldorin warriors, standing with their feet apart and their arms held straight at their sides.

Dorán groaned and Benár made a sound Halú thought sounded rather like a child sent to bed without his desert. Well who could blame them? It was, quite simply, disappointing.

"No moves, unless I am incapacitated, is that clear?" said Legolas with a warning, sounding almost as if they had found themselves in this situation on more than one occasion.

"Aye," they mumbled as they formed a line behind their captain, their slanted eyes boring into the warriors they approached.

"Galanor, what a charming surprise," drawled Legolas as they approached and stood but feet from the imposing wall of brawn. Halú smirked, for his captain was not only completely and utterly fearless, but he was also flawlessly scathing and ironic when the situation called for it.

"Taú," replied the lieutenant sourly, his lip curling as a twisted smile lent him an almost maniacal expression that sent Halú's eyebrows to the heavens. This Noldo was weird, he said to himself. Did he truly wish to cross Legolas? True he had no idea with whom he was dealing, and then a sadistic grin spread upon his face – well he would soon find out, the hard way, he rather suspected, and he cracked his knuckles in delighted anticipation.

Elhilor, who stood beside Galanor, was next to speak.

"My nose tells me you made it to the baths – go crying to Glorfindel, did you?"

"I seem to remember it was Glorfindel who caught you in the act of allowing your subordinate to insult guests of your Lord's realm. You, sat and ate your sausages as he mocked us. Yet you are his captain. Tell me, captain, does he bully you?"

Elhilor turned red and his face seemed to puff up, the veins in his neck sticking out. Halú wanted to laugh, for he had been reminded of a strange fish he had once seen in the Anduin. He resisted the smirk that threatened to blossom though, for he had his dangerous Silvan façade to keep up.

Galanor held a hand up, demanding silence, and then took a step forward until he was but inches from Tau's face.

"You, are Silvan, and you have no place here, in the lands of the Noldor. You are not to our liking and we respectfully request that you – disappear," he said with a snap of his fingers.

"You misunderstand, Noldo. We would be delighted to leave these lands, and we will, as soon as your Lord sees fit.

"It is you that misunderstand. You see your attitude at breakfast was – unacceptable, your words uncouth. We are here to ensure it does not happen again."

"Oh? Tell me how you will achieve such a thing..." asked Taú rhetorically, moving his face so that his nose was almost touching Galanor's, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

"Like this!" he said, as his fist disappeared into the Silvan's midsection. However, he did not move quickly enough and as Taú doubled over and gasped for breath, he headbutted the Noldo who staggered back in surprise and spluttering embarrassment.

"Hold him!" shouted Galanor, and the Noldo rushed towards the three elves behind Taú, while two took the captain's arms and forced him upright until he came face to face with a furious Galanor, his nose already bleeding.

"That, hurt," said the lieutenant stiltedly, to which Taú simply replied – "good."

It was then, that Galanor's fist appeared once more, this time smashing into the Silvan's nose in vengeance, and Taú groaned in misery as his head snapped to the side. However he could not free himself and could only grit his teeth as the captain punched him again, hesitating only briefly when the Silvans behind his victim shouted furiously at him to stop.

Moments later, Halú, Dorán and Benár had managed to knock their assailants half out, and as one, they rushed Galanor, flying into the air and descending upon him in a whirlwind of hair and barred teeth. The elf fell backwards with an indignant yelp and the two Noldo holding Taú finally let go as they moved to help their leader.

It was to no avail though, for the Silvans were furious and could not be stopped as their own fists flew this way and that, and with Benár now in the middle of it, it was not long before all ten Noldo and four Silvan elves lay upon the ground, groaning in pain.

"Taú," called Benár.

A groan was all he received and so he tried again, this time trying to get his captain to sit up.

"I did it again," came the nasal reply as Legolas lifted his head and groaned once more, and all three warriors hissed in sympathy. Indeed their leader had once more managed to displace his nose. Over his left eye, a cut was dripping blood and his lip was split and bloody.

Their captain was a sight, but then Halú wagered they did not look much better, and as they helped themselves into the main house, elves scattered this way and that with a gasp or a yelp.

Inevitably, they had still not made it to the Healing Wing when they stumbled across Glorfindel in the company of Elladan and Elrohir.

"What has happened?" growled the general as he approached the hobbling group of four beaten warriors.

Legolas' head rose with difficulty and Benár and Halú tightened their grip upon their unsteady captain.

"Just a little – cultural exchange – between – Noldor and – and Silvan warriors – my – Lord."

"Cultural exchange..." repeated Glorfindel, scowling when Elrohir snorted. "Report immediately to the Halls of Healing, I will go and have... tea... with Galanor," and Elladan guffawed, and then covered his rebellious mouth with his hand, turning to help the Silvans along, while Elrohir followed Glorfindel.

WOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW

Galanor had picked himself up and was now in the process of brushing off his velvet cloak, holding a handkerchief to his nose as the other warriors helped each other up. He stopped abruptly though, when a furious Glorfindel strode towards him, Lord Elrohir at his shoulder.

"My Lord," said, bowing painfully when his pummeled mid-section protested the movement.

"Explain," was all he said, or rather growled.

"We, eh, had a .... a little misunderstanding, my Lord, you see..."

"Oh I see," snarled Glorfindel. "I see your hatred for all that you do not understand, I see your intolerance and your insubordination. I see your hunger for command – I see you, Galanor. Report to my office in 30 minutes – you too, captain," he added, his disappointed eyes falling on the one he himself had named captain not three seasons before.

Turning to the other warriors, he nevertheless spoke to Elrohir at his shoulder.

"Lord Elrohir, I will leave the punishment of these men to you, to do as you see fit," he said respectfully.

Elrohir pulled a face that was neither a smirk nor a snarl, but a frightening hybrid that had the warriors' scalps pulled tight and their complexions suddenly pale.

"With pleasure, General, with pleasure," said the young Lord, his agile mind already working on the punishment he would inflict – not, perhaps, for having trounced the Silvans – for he could not, honestly, give a damn. It was more for Galanor's absurd insubordination - he simply disliked the lieutenant for his pretensions and his lack of respect towards Elrohir's father. Elrohir had a cruel streak in him, one he almost always gave free rein to when faced with the enemy, for what they had done to his family, to his mother, but he was also fiercely loyal and a good soldier. There was no room for lieutenants like Galanor in this army.

WOWOWOWOWOWOWWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWWOWOWO

When Elrond entered the Halls, he found the four Silvans occupying four stools, a healer attending each one. There were bowls of bloody water and stained cloths lying around, and hushed conversation, mingled with a gasp or a groan as their wounds were tended to.

Elrond sighed long and deep. Glorfindel had informed him of the 'cultural exchange' between the Silvans and a group of his own warriors and he sat now, his eyes drifting from one warrior to the next as he watched his healers work from a distance.

They were a sorry sight, but according to Glorfindel, their own warriors had looked even worse. Four against ten were not good odds, but it seemed these woodland warriors had been particularly – savage – in their hand-to-hand abilities.

Even so, they sported an interesting array of cuts and bruises, and Taú, their enigmatic leader, had an obviously broken nose, for the bridge was displaced, and his healer now stood poised to snap it back into place.

The youngest warrior, or so Elrond guessed, had stuck his fingers into his ears, and another warrior laughed as a sickening crack resounded and the captain hissed in pain.

How could they find humour in this, wondered Elrond as he continued to watch them. They were all young, he realised. They would be no more than novices had they been Noldor, yet they were clearly seasoned warriors and it made him wonder at the life they led in Mirkwood. They were tough lads, he mused, and grudging respect took hold of him.

It gave him a new perspective on their behaviour, he realised. He was slowly beginning to understand that the only thing that separated his own world from theirs, was the hardship Elrond suspected they confronted in the Great Wood. He realised with a start, that Elrohir had much in common with them. All that hunting and bloodshed, all that hatred and vengeance he sought to inflict – it had made him brash and impulsive, too.

There was, however, a difference. Elrohir suffered, often channeling his negativity in ways Elrond considered inappropriate – he had not learned to deal with the pain yet.

For the Silvans, it seemed to be an ingrained quality – their brutal honesty, their lack of diplomacy no longer seemed to be irreverent or aggressive, but a necessary defence mechanism in order to live any semblance of a happy existence.

Yes, he knew, he did understand and he smiled, for these Silvan warriors had helped him to better understand his own son. Who would have thought, he said to himself, as a timid smile escaped him.

WOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW

Galanor stood rigid, in spite of his swollen and smarting face, Elhilor at his side in a similar state.

Glorfindel sat scribbling noisily upon a parchment that lay before him on his large desk, registering the orders Elrohir had issued. He had decided to place the offending warriors on stable duty for the next ten days, in addition to which they were to polish every single piece of metal that lay in the arms halls. An arduous task that had Glorfindel minimally satisfied.

Elrond's sons now stood behind him, learning the ways of disciplining officers from their general.

Standing slowly and then planting himself uncomfortably close to Galanor's face, Glorfiindel opened his mouth to begin the tirade. However it was not to be, and Glorfindel's eyes narrowed in irritation at the interruption from the doorway.

"What is it?" he asked curtly.

"My Lord. Orcs! Not half a day's ride to the south-west – the biggest group we have seen this season..."

"South-west?" asked Glorfindel, his face turning pale with the implications.

"Yes, my Lord – closer to Lady Arwen's entourage than to us. We cannot reach them in time..."