With the sound of the twin's laughter and Wren's inquiries behind him, Legolas quickly made a hasty a retreat out into the winter sunlight. There were a fair number of people about, including a few whom he recognized and greeted him with a nod or a smile. Rodorin was sitting outside one of the houses, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he chatted with a young woman in the middle of sewing. Nerwen, whom he now knew to be Wren's mother, could be seen through a window bent over a hearth, and Beringil was up on his rooftop patching a leak. It was remarkable, how fast the Dúnedain could go from Rangers of the north to simple folk living life.

"Do you need help carrying anything, Master Legolas?" A young voice piped up at the elf's elbow, coming surprisingly close to startling him. Gelwin, the young girl whom Legolas had 'escorted' to dinner that first evening, stood looking up at him with bright eyes, a helpful smile stretching her rosy cheeks.

Legolas looked down at the small bundle in his arms and wondered at the sense in the girl's request. He could easily carry what he had, under one arm.

"No, thank you." He answered as politely as possible, still slightly ruffled from his conversation with the twins. Despite the lack of encouragement in Legolas's non-committal response, she was tenacious and followed him all the way to Strider's doorstep, talking the whole way. When Strider opened the door of his house, he turned to Gelwin, with a gaze of thinly concealed amusement.

"Thank you for seeing our guest safely here Gelwin. But is that your father I hear calling for you?"

With a squeak, the girl was off running back through the village on skinny adolescent legs. Breathing a sigh of relief, Legolas paused in the central room with his bag tucked under an arm. Strider chuckled, shutting the door.

"Careful my friend, I do believe you have an admirer."

Unable to say much to that but shrug helplessly, Legolas set down his bag on a bench set against the wall. Looking now at the honest, open gaze of his host, the elf prince felt profoundly uncomfortable. Elladan and Elrohir were right; he had no right to be keeping his identity from this mortal who was offering him a place in his village and even his own home. As much as he might want to forget whom he was for a short time, it was time for the truth to come out, even if it meant offering another apology, his second one in a few weeks.

"Strider?" Legolas said uncertainly, not sure how to begin. "There is something that I must tell you..."

Strider gestured to a seat by the hearth, he waited for Legolas to sit before doing so himself. "Of course, Legolas. What is it?" Seeming to sense that a confession of some gravity was about to be forthcoming, the man spoke no more, allowing the elf to gather his thoughts.

With a deep breath, Legolas began.

"There is something about myself that I had not yet shared with you. You have been generous to me, since my arrival, and I can no longer in good conscience keep you ignorant of it." Strider remained silent, bidding the elf continue without need of words. "I admit that I have been enjoying some degree of anonymity, here among your folk. It helps to calm the mind, and has in some measure freed me from that which I came here seeking to leave behind."

"And that is?" Strider spoke in a low tone, his grey-blue eyes watching Legolas.

"Myself."

For some reason, the answer had got to the present moment, ahead of its speaker. It was true though. In so much as Legolas had told himself that he needed time away from grief. Time away from the freshness of Tauriel's grief and the hundreds of years of Thranduil's. It was actually his own identity that he had been hoping to forget. The lingering loss of his mother, which Thranduil could never properly put to rest, had hardened the king and embittered his heart. Perhaps in the process it had begun to do the same to his son. He had seen himself hardening like clay in a mold made in Thranduil's image. Perhaps that was why Tauriel had been unable to return his affection for her. Legolas liked to hope he was not near as imprisoned behind his own eyes as his father was. Continuing, Legolas did not notice the beginnings of the slightest fracture about the edges of his mask of self-defence.

"I told you that my name is Legolas of the Woodland Realm, and in that I spoke the truth, but only part of it. Properly, I am called Legolas son of Thranduil, who presides as lord and king of that realm." Spreading his hands in a gesture of appeasement and helplessness, Legolas met Strider's gaze. "I have forgiveness to ask; it was not my intention that I should be keeping information from you as chieftain of this village."

Strider sat in thought for a long moment, watching Legolas with an unreadable expression as he stroked his index and thumb along the stubble of his chin. Standing, he went to the hearth and tossed another log onto the fire.

"Would it surprise you, Son of Thranduil, if I told you that I recognized you by your name the very first time you introduced yourself?" Legolas's head jerked in astonishment.

"Legolas, son of Thranduil, son of Oropher, who first departed from Doriath with a host of followers to take up residence among the Silvan folk of the Greenwood." A sudden wry smile twitched at the corner of Strider's mouth. "I have been educated at great length regarding the history of the Eldar as well as their current politics and houses of note. My tutor saw to it that every last name was committed to memory." He chuckled, clearly evoking an old memory.

"...Then why did you not say as much when first we met?" Legolas was confounded.

Sitting back down once again, Strider leaned forward to balance his elbows on his knees. "Because you did not make a mention of your royalty, if anything seemed keen to avoid it. So, I decided to allow you to set the tone of your presence here. Given the lack of any escort or heraldry of any sort, I gathered that you were not here officially representing the Woodland Realm. We live simply in this village, Legolas, and titles perhaps mean less in the wild than they do in the wider world."

"You are not angry then, that I was not entirely forthcoming from the first?"

Strider laughed then, a rolling, comfortable sound that filled the room. "Angry? Of course not, my good elf! We all have our secrets, kept for reasons that are sound for each set of personal circumstances."

"If I might ask you a question then?" Strider paused, but nodded. "Why do Elrond's sons call you 'Hope' in our tongue?"

Whatever question Strider had been expecting, Legolas seemed not to have asked it, and the man's shoulders relaxed. "Now that is a very good story, if you have a moment to sit and listen to it?" When Legolas nodded encouragingly, Strider cleared his throat. "It was actually a name given to me by my mother, when I was a very small boy. Elladan and Elrohir have been traveling north to visit our people since before I was born. When my father died, they brought my mother and I to Rivendell to live under the roof of Lord Elrond. I was fostered there in the Hidden Valley."

"Ahh..." Legolas smiled slightly. "That does explain much. But, if I may ask, why is it that Elladan and Elrohir felt you and your mother should be brought under Lord Elrond's protection?" Gesturing out the window, he looked at Strider questioningly. "I grant that these are harsh lands, full of orcs at the best of times, but mothers seem to be bringing their children up quite effectively in this village."

Before Strider could respond, the sound of laughter drifted closer to the house and an urgent knocking was heard on the door. Strider rose and opened the door; Wren stood there with her eyes sparkling. The twins hung slightly farther back, grinning.

She briefly faltered as she saw Legolas, but then continued, unable to contain her excitement...

"Strider, look what Elladan and Elrohir gave me," she said as she eagerly displayed two elven long knives, each the length of her arm. They were beautiful weapons; carved ebony handles encased the sleek steel that was etched with an intricate, flourishing, leaf pattern and a single word in elvish was engraved upon both of the blades.

Strider turned them over in his hands and admired them.

"What a gift!" He marveled.

It's for her twenty-fifth birthday," Elladan said, "It's our custom to celebrate being a quarter of the way to elven maturity," he laughed as he dodged an elbow in the ribs from Wren.

"No matter your elvish customs, I am keeping them regardless of my maturity." She grinned.

"I gave her the one of the left," Elrohir said, gesturing at the weapon that was clearly indistinguishable from the sword on the right.

As they laughed together, a call for dinner was heard rippling through the village.

"Come, let's eat," said Elladan, "And find out if that deer you shot for us was a lame, old, sick one!" He tousled her hair and ducked another fist.

They all left for dinner, Legolas had to force his feet move so he could follow. He was completely absorbed as he digested the scene he had just witnessed. He had a growing suspicion, but now he was convinced that Wren was not her real name, no more than Strider belonged to its current namesake.

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Any thoughts on whether Legolas's suspicions about Wren are correct? I would love to receive your comments and please VOTE on this chapter if you enjoyed it. Each vote and comment helps the wider circulation of my story, I really appreciate them!

Thranduil Artwork: kindly used with permission from the very talented 'the wise snail', please see her other beautiful work on https://wisesnailart.deviantart.com/

DEDICATION Abauzon : Thank you so much for your great comments and feedback, and for trusting me with your treasured Tolkien characters!