Half a month later.
Sunlight poured through the crystal dome of the palace, breaking into a thousand soft gleams. Aragorn stood beside the Sacred Tree, watching the golden veins upon its leaves grow clearer in the morning light.
The trunk was already thicker than it had been two weeks before, and beneath the transparent floor its roots wove a spreading web, slowly reaching outward. Wherever those roots passed, even the hardest stone took on a faint green hue.
"It is drinking the strength of the rock," came Gimli's gruff voice behind him.
The Dwarf was hugging a heavy sack of ore to his chest, stuffed full of glowing stones he had gathered over the past days. "The Sindar craftsmen say that if we bed these around the roots, the Sacred Tree will grow faster."
Aragorn turned just in time to see Gimli standing on tiptoe, stuffing shining stones into the gaps where root and crystal met. His iron axe leaned casually against a nearby column, the star-sapphires in its blade kindling small lights of their own in the dawn.
"King Elurín says that in a hundred years this tree will spear the clouds," Denethor remarked, stretching as he walked up along the white pebble path. "By then the forests of Minhiriath will be one endless sea of trees, and even the shadows of the Misty Mountains will be cleansed."
He had spent almost every waking hour of the past fortnight in the Sindar archives. The murals painted with star dust, telling of war and glory in the First Age, had changed his understanding of Middle-earth. The men of Gondor, he now knew, were heirs to a time when his forefathers had fought side by side with Elves who could speak with the earth itself.
"Where is Legolas?" Aragorn asked.
"At the archery ground," Denethor answered, jerking his chin toward the west. "He has been matching shots with the Sindar hunters. Seven contests so far, and he has won them all. They say he might stand shoulder to shoulder with Beleg Strongbow of the First Age."
Beleg Strongbow... greatest of the Elven archers of that elder time, a Sindarin bowman whose fate was tangled with that of Túrin Turambar. Even among Elves his skill had been sung of as near to unmatched.
When the three reached the practice ground, they found Legolas in the midst of a shot.
A silver arrow hissed through the air and pierced the third falling leaf, pinning it cleanly against the straw butt. The prince's white robe fluttered in the wind around him, mingling with the grey-white garments of the Sindar bowmen until the whole field seemed a laughing sea of light.
Seeing them approach, Legolas lifted his bow with a smile. "Will you try a few?" he called. "These Sindarin bows are hewn from the heartwood of hundred-year yew. Heavier than the woodland bows of my home, yet they carry a shot a third again as far."
Gimli folded his arms and snorted. "No bow, however fine, has the honesty of an axe. Yesterday I helped them refit their forge. Now it can melt black steel harder than iron of Vanyar."
"That is because you showed them all the tricks of a Dwarven bellows," Legolas answered with a raised brow. "The craftsmen say that once they finish their first batch of black-steel arrows, they will send you a hundred as a gift."
The Dwarf's beard all but bristled with delight. "A hundred... enough for a proper battle at least," he muttered, rubbing at his whiskers. "Though I do not shoot, so you may as well have them."
Legolas laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "You have your good moments, Master Dwarf."
Before the laughter had fully faded, hurried footsteps rang beneath the palace arches.
Prince Eluréd was striding toward them, his expression taut, his boots striking the stone with an unsteady haste.
"Where is Master Gandalf?" he called. "A messenger from Gondor has arrived with urgent tidings."
At that word the hearts of all three sank. In a land sheltered beneath the light of a Sacred Tree, the phrase "urgent tidings" itself had the taste of ill omen.
"In the under-halls," Gimli said at once. "I saw him there this morning."
They hastened back into the underground palace.
Gandalf was standing in one of the stone chambers, studying an ancient map. Rivers of the First Age were marked there in fine gold thread. As their voices reached him, the spark on his pipe flared and his grey brows drew together in a tight knot.
"I had a feeling," he said quietly, "that the news you bring would not be good."
"Yes," Elurín replied. "Very far from good." He gestured to an attendant. "Bring the messenger."
A few moments later a Gondorian soldier stepped into the chamber, his armour dust-stained and salt-streaked from the road and the sea.
He dropped to one knee and held out a roll of parchment sealed with blood-red wax. Passing it to Denethor, he said, "By order of the Steward, I was commanded to ride day and night without pause. The Dark Númenóreans have mustered a host of two hundred thousand and taken to the sea in several thousand warships. They have skirted Gondor's coasts and are sailing toward Lond Daer."
The parchment passed from hand to hand. The writing was rough, shaken by the speed of the journey, yet each word struck like ice into the heart.
"Two hundred thousand..." Denethor whispered, his fingers whitening upon the scroll. "That is thrice all the strength Gondor keeps in her southern marches. How can they gather such a host so swiftly?"
"The Dark Númenóreans inherit the ship-lore of lost Númenor," Gandalf said grimly. "Their war-fleets can weather storms that would break most hulls. Even Gondor's finest mariners could not easily bar their path."
He turned to Eluréd . "What of Lond Daer's defenses?"
The prince's face had gone ashen. "Barely a third of the harbor works are complete," he answered. "The garrison is less than five thousand. Their aim is not the port alone. They mean to seize it as a foothold and from there strike at both Doriath and Laurenandë."
"The matter is grave indeed," Gandalf said, his frown deepening. For a long moment he paced in silence. Then he halted and spoke with decision. "We must leave here. Before war breaks over these lands, the third Sacred Tree seed must reach Nargothrond."
At that moment Legolas stepped forward. His silver eyes shone with a calm, unshakable resolve.
"I will remain," he said.
All the others turned to him at once.
The Elven prince set his hand upon the dagger at his belt and nodded slightly. "All here are my kin," he said. "I am a prince of the Woodland Realm. In the face of danger I will not turn my back on my own people. The road of the Sacred Tree is perilous indeed, yet I choose to fight here."
Silence followed. Then, one after another, they nodded. They might not like his choice, but they would not gainsay it.
Elurín studied him for a long breath, then inclined his head. "My kinsman of the Greenwood," he said, "your courage will be held in memory by every tree in Doriath's woods." He glanced to Eluréd . "Fetch the star-silver quiver. It is a gift I had set aside for such a day."
Soon Eluréd returned bearing a quiver wrought of pale metal that gleamed like moonlight on water. He placed it in Legolas's hands.
Aragorn stepped up and clasped his shoulder. "Take care of yourself, my brother," he said. "We will be waiting for you in Nargothrond."
Gimli trudged forward as well. "Though it is your own doing," he grumbled, "you bothersome Elf... yet now and then you make even me look at you anew. For all that you look like some maiden from afar."
Denethor gave a small bow. "Farewell. We will bring back what help we can."
"When the dark host has been driven back, I will come to you," Legolas said with a smile that held a young warrior's pride, though it could not quite hide the weight in his eyes.
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