A/N: I know I really shouldn't be starting a new story since I still have P&P and FOH to finish, but (A) I couldn't resist writing this down when the idea popped into my head and (B) I'm only three chapters away from finishing FOA, so to all my FOA fans please don't fret! I've made a plan to finish it in January! :)

Quick Notes

1. Sarama - In Hindu mythology she is described as the mother of all dogs.

2. Saluki - Royal Dog of Egypt or Persian Greyhound is one of the oldest known breeds of domesticated dog. Salukis are "sight" hounds, which means they hunt by sight, run the quarry down, catch it, and kill or retrieve it. The normal size range for the breed is 23–28 inches (58–71 cm) high at the withers and 40–60 pounds (18–27 kg) in weight. - If you have more time of want more information google them, they have a fascinating history! Here's a picture:

www. .uk/ Uploads/daxlore_now. jpg (delete the spaces)

3. This story will be Thorin/Thranduil an Gimli/Legolas in later chapters!

Saruman White was a businessman. He spent 25 years climbing the corporate ladder, and 15 more at the top; as CEO of White Inc, a print and label company for aspiring brands. His ingenious ideas and ruthless leadership garnered him a rather notable reputation across Europe, and had the shareholders rue the day of his retirement. Still a sensational party was thrown in his honor, and after a stringent toast by the ever heavy-lidded retiree, some brave, curious, soul piped-up from the back of the room, to inquire after his future plans.

"I intend," intoned Saruman, "to sate my competitive nature by involving myself in breeding prize winning dogs."

A year later he was comfortably settled at Isengard Estate. An old family home in Windsor, that, among other things, possessed an impressive extent of land. A few months' later passers-by began to notice that on occasion a flash of pure white could be seen flying over the countryside, like a streak of lightning on a foggy moor.

Isengard Estate

Thranduil was pacing the wide expanse of the drawing room, occasionally pausing to watch the door, both ears raised in hopes of catching a sound; when none came, he would resume his pacing.

So it went for some time, until the soft click of the latch caught his attention. His master stepped out, hands covered in blood and placenta.

"You can see her now, but be quick about it; I would have her buried before nightfall," he drawled dispassionately, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

Thranduil slinked by and through the gap in the door, trotting briskly past the many cabinets of historical artifacts and ancient treasures. At the end of the room, tucked into a corner, lay a white, stationary form on maroon beddding; the only movement rising from the shuffling at her middle, accompanied by a litany of weak mews.

Lowering himself to the ground, Thranduil made the rest of his journey crawling. His elegant front paws scratching against the marble, slipping and struggling to drag himself forward; like a man swimming against the current. When he was finally in reach of her, he stretched his neck until the tip of his nose was pressed against her cold cheek and dragged the length of his tongue over her muzzle. She did not stir.

Wailing, he made another effort, but in vain. Out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil caught a tiny movement at her side. Rising and leaning over he began snuffling the blankets aside. Beneath the linen cloth lay a row of seven puppies; seven tiny, pink-skinned, little critters, all fighting for a chance to suckle on their mother's tit.

Thranduil noted when one of the babes disengaged and started crawling with determination towards his mother's face. Lying down, he carefully placed his muzzle in the way of his expedition; but the puppy, as he found out, was not to be deterred; and with but a few laborious whines, scaled the taxing hurdle.

Narrowing his eyes with silent delight, Thranduil waited until the puppy was stretched halfway across his muzzle, before lifting his head and carefully transporting the adventurous little tyke back into the pack.

'This one,' he decided 'was special.'

1 year later

"Legolas!"

"Yes father."

"What are you doing? Get down from there!" barked Thranduil, pacing the floor. The little brat had found a way to climb the stack of barrels in the barn, and was now proudly parading himself on the second floor.

"But father, look how high I am," whined the youth; and to emphasise his point climbed further up, atop a bale of hay.

"Legolas!"

"Look father look," sang his son, hopping up and down and shaking his head; ears fluffing up with the vigor of his movement.

"I can see you," growled Thranduil with a long suffering sigh, "now for the love of Sarama, come down here!"

"Why?" whined the youth, tilting his head in genuine curiosity.

"Firstly because it is not safe, and secondly because I wish to speak with you before the hunt."

"Hunt!" exclaimed Legolas, his entire body shaking with excitement, "really I can come on the hunt? Really?"

"Yes," confirmed his father with a regal nod, "the master thinks you are ready."

"Yes!" barked his son and began to somewhat hazardously climbing down from the barrels. Hopping elegantly from one to another, which even with his miniscule weight had the barrels shaking somewhat rancorously. Thranduil whined and paced on the spot, his nerves coming through at the sight of his only remaining child gallivanting on a mountain of dancing wood.

"Master wants me to go hunting with him!" he yelled, "He must have seen my poten…Ow!"

Legolas recoiled at the sudden pain in his ear. His father only ever nipped him when he was especially angered or concerned by his behavior; this did not bode well.

"This is not a joke Legolas," growled his sire. At 12 months Legolas was almost at his full height, but still a few good inches shorter than his father. Cowering, he hung his head. "The hunt is not a sport for us like it is for the master. It is dangerous and sometimes fatal!" he growled. "The master is not a forgiving man; he shoots the horses who go lame in the chase, and sells the dogs who fall short of his standard. If you fail to bring forth all your skill, he will not have a reason to keep you, and I," his voice changing tone, until it was nor but a subtle whisper, "I cannot loose you."

"Father!" Legolas' head shot up to look inquisitively at his sire; his father's eyes had dulled into lifeless orbs. Stretching out, Thranduil ran the top of his tongue over Legolas's crown; who in turn bowed his head to study the cobblestones.

"My shining star," Thranduil spoke at length, "you mean everything to me. I do not know how I could live on without you here to rake my nerves with worry, and shade my whiskers grey," he playfully nudged at Legolas until he looked up; "but I know the master, and he is not a kind man; generous and wise, but not kind. He does not see value beyond purpose, and regards anything below perfection as implacably flawed."

Legolas shuffled his feet nervously.

"That's why today you must follow me exactly, and do everything I say without question; do you understand?" he asked gently.

Legolas nodded vigorously, making his ears flap up and down.

"Alright than, let go to the stables. The master would be about ready to set of I'd imagine, and it's never wise to keep him."

Together they left the barn. Legolas respectfully falling one step behind.

The Hunt

Legolas plunged through the air like a fish through water; the cool autumn wind biting chillingly at his nose and watering his eyes. His swift pace swept golden foliage underfoot into flurries of clouds. The hare ahead of him feigned a left, before leaping back on course. A beast with less keen eyes might have fallen for this diversion and sent his master astray; but he was a Saluki and he was bred for this.

To the right of him ran his father, keeping equal pace with his son, though his longer legs afforded him greater stride.

"Keep course," he instructed, "there is a burrow up ahead for which he is heading. I will cut him off," then he fell back and vanished in the foliage. Keeping his word, Legolas obeyed his sire and kept track of the hare. Behind him he could hear the thunders beat of the master's beast. Vaguely he wondered how many dogs before him had been trampled, simply for stopping to soon. The thought unsettled his callow mind, and caused him to loose the rhythm of his pace. For a moment he froze, fearing his thoughts might befall his own fate, when his feet, as if of their own volition, began moving themselves once more.

Up ahead he spotted a flash of white, and as he ran, Legolas began to distinguish his father's form standing tall and proud, besides a well-concealed mound of soil, which he concluded, must be the afore-mentioned burrow.

"Halt!" ordered the master, pulling his horse to a stop. Legolas didn't stop; his father had already explained to him that when the master said "halt" it was only meant for the horse. Behind him he could vaguely here the clink of metal; then a bang like a clap of thunder rang out across the terrain. Something whizzed past his ear and stupefied the hare, slumping the little body to the ground.

Legolas slowed his pace, and trotted the rest of the way to the quarry. His father watched him from where he stood, but made no move to meet him.

"Legolas," called the master, "retrieve."

The youth immediately clasped the warm and twitching mass between his jaws and traipsed obediently to his master's side. The man did not stoop, but extended his arm, and Legolas forced his neck to stretch as far as it would go, to place the hare in his palm.

"Very good," praised his owner, in the same indifferent manner that was common of him. "I was right to have kept you. Thranduil never fails to select the best." He stashed the carcass in his saddlebag and turned for home. Legolas waited for his father to join him, before asking with trepidation:

"What did he mean father?" knowing his sire would have heard the master.

There was dullness in his father's eyes, and his strained posture gave him a standoffish countenance.

"Nothing you should concern yourself with," he said, "you should be proud of your achievements today. You ran like a true hunter."

Legolas felt unsettled by his father's detachment, and they spent the rest of the walk in ominous silence.

10 Months Earlier

Thranduil was lead into the barn; his master's hand steady on his leash. Inside it smelt like milk and dry oak, with a lesser odor of urine-fermented straw and feces. The puppies were everywhere; on bales of hay; buried under piles of straw and old newspapers; nosing at empty bowls of food and drinking from the bucket of water. They were wrestling, sleeping, grooming and exploring. The place was a bustle with life.

Thranduil noted that most of them were white in color like himself, with only a couple of puppies in darker shades. He wished he had gotten to know them, but the master was strict in keeping them apart; and two weeks after the birth had them placed in the barn, with only the servants allowed inside to maintain them.

"I felt it prudent, since you were so well versed in choosing my last hunter, that you should be allowed to do so again," said the master and walked him into the room. They circled the barn a couple of times, with puppies running up to sniff at him cautiously before bashfully scampering of again; when he spotted a white pup putting all his weight against the single window and scratching tirelessly at the glass. His eyes were bright and determined, a wrinkle of concentration on his pale brow.

Pulling his master forward, he propped himself against the side of the barrel on which the little one was seated, and nosed his flank. The puppy spun around from the window and began to sniff curiously at the stranger.

"That one?"

Thranduil barked.

"Very well. I christen him Legolas," muttered Saruman and clasped a collar around the fidgety creature, fastening a leash a moment later. Clinically he lifted the puppy by the scruff of his neck and placed him on the floor beside his father.

"In time we will see if you are truly your mother's son" he said, leading them from the room.

R&R