The next morning, the patrol kitted out in their heaviest gear and set out stealthily through the thickening, darkening forest, towards the South and the dreaded Mirkwood. Before they reached it though, they were to stop off at a nearby village where they were to gain information on the enemy's movements and establish whether or not its inhabitants needed help in the way of provisions or manpower. Being so close to the encroaching cloak of darkness, these Silvan foresters held great insight into how the enemy moved.

It would be the first time in weeks that the patrol would come into contact with civilians, and the thought was a good one, for there would be hot food and comfortable beds. There may even be a day of rest in which they could bathe, wash their clothing and care more extensively for their weapons.

Legolas' hair was a success, for he was able to gather up the thick top braids and tie them at his crown with a leather string. It was perfect and Lainion had joked that it pulled at his eyes, making him look Avarin.

Turion confessed to being absurdly confused, for Lainion had never joked. He was severe and curt, enigmatic yet fierce, frightening even, yet when he was around The Silvan he transformed. He decided he liked the contrast.

After two days, the western patrol emerged from the dense trees and into a glade, where some sunlight still managed to filter through the high boughs. They had been smelling the wood smoke for many hours now, and the predominantly Silvan troop had reminisced of their own homes, so similar to the village they now entered.

Legolas lifted his head and relished the timid warmth of the sun on his face, smiling before opening his eyes and looking around the settlement.

The Silvan foresters looked on as the warriors walked single file towards a large wooden construction Turion had surely imagined would be their community hall. As a Silvan settlement, there would be a village leader and a Spirit Herder. There would also be a master forester; these three figures were the leaders of their people and their starting point would be to find them.

Legolas felt a pang of nostalgia, for although much darker and enclosed, this village brought to mind his own forest home. He understood this society, these people. They were the very reason he had chosen to do what he now did and of a sudden he could not wait to take his vows and be counted amongst the king's warriors as an equal rather than a novice.

Children scampered around the warriors as they marched by, brushing their hands over worked leather and wooden cloaks, and when one of the more daring imps reached for a sword scabbard or a quiver, they were batted away with a good natured scowl. The children giggled and squealed until their mothers scolded them and ushered them away with apologetic and sometimes flirtatious smiles.

And none received more of these inviting smiles than Hwindohtar, who blushed at the attention, much to the glee of his companions, who shoved him and flicked at his hair, their mocking as incessant as it was light-hearted.

Soon, they arrived at the large hall, where two tall elves stood waiting. Turion stepped forward and placed his fist over his heart.

"Well met. I am Captain Turion of the Western Patrol. We have come to ensure your safety and assess your defences."

"Well met, Captain. I am Lorthil, leader of these people, and this is Narsorén, our Spirit Herder. Be you welcome brothers."

The entire patrol bowed to the two Silvan leaders as they were led inside and ushered to the long tables that ran almost the entire length of the hall. It would be used for meetings and festivities, for politics and parties, for spiritual events and entertainment. These buildings were the heart of any Silvan village. Today, however, women were placing food and bread upon the tables, filling cups with fresh water, and occasionally smiling up at the warriors as they went about their duties.

"Will you sit, warriors, and share a meal with us?" said Lorthil, gesturing to the tables. The warriors' eyes had gone round and their stomachs rumbled loudly, the promise of food at a table making their mouths water.

"We would be honoured, Lorthil," said Turion as he turned and nodded to the warriors, the hint of a smirk on his otherwise rigid features.

A Sinda warrior reached for the bread, but Faunion's hand shot out to stop him, bidding him wait. Sure enough, a soft voice lifted against the silence.

"Mother, we thank you for the bounties of the forest. May we take sustenance from them, and replenish these lands, nurture your creation and praise thy name, Kementári."

With a smile, Narosén lifted his head and smiled, the sign any well-educated Silvan knew meant the meal could begin. Abashed, the Sinda warrior smiled ruefully as he reached once more for the bread, slower this time, offering it to Faunion before tearing off a piece for himself and stuffing it into his mouth so that it bulged, and Faunion giggled at his hunger.

Muted conversation broke out as the warriors ate and the leaders spoke of their plans for the day. Legolas had one ear on his companions, and the other on Turion and his procedure, tucking away all his words and nuances. He may, one day, find himself in this very situation, as a Captain, he reminded himself.

"Tell us of the enemy, Lorthil. What of them?"

"We lost three elves in the fields a week past now. It was not a coordinated attack but a pack of scavengers. However, the darkness is pressing in- we can all feel it - there is something coming this way but we are unable to identify the root of it."

Turion scowled as he turned to the Spirit Herder. "What say your omens, Narosén?" he asked respectfully. The captain was Sinda, but he was well-versed in the culture and rites of the Silvan.

"They speak of many things of late," he said softly so that only Turion and Lainion could hear. "They speak of a blight, a dark wave of festering evil - something approaches, gnaws at the forest for the trees whisper..."

"What do they say?" asked Turion.

"We know only that they fight their own battle, Captain, on a plane we cannot perceive. But the more sensitive of our folk speak of resistance, a desperate fight our woodland sentinels seem to have taken up..."

"It sounds dire," said Lainion. As an Avari himself, he understood these people's superstitions, believed some of them even.

"Yes, but there are whispers of something else - it may be of no import, but they speak of - of an awakening..."

"What sort of awakening?" asked Turion, a strange tingling turning his skin suddenly too sensitive.

"We know not, Captain. Only that - we are, as yet, unsure as to how to interpret it."

Turion simply nodded, but Lainion glanced for a moment at Legolas, watching as the boy ate, seemingly oblivious and he wondered...

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

They had slept well, upon pallets of leaves and blankets, soft and warm, their bellies full and their minds filled with memories of home. Legolas indeed, had awoken to the sound of his own mouth working as if he ate - the aromas of spring pea soup almost perceptible upon his salivating taste buds.

Now, after a refreshing bath in the nearby river, Legolas lounged back against a tree, listening to his companions talk quietly of mothers and fathers, of sweethearts and lovers, of nut cakes and venison pie. For Legolas it was Amareth's pea soup, and a dreamy smile was back on his face.

He had watched Turion at breakfast as he spoke with the village leaders, had asked after their defences, the recent attacks, ascertaining the general mood of these foresters, even with the Spirit Herder, a controversial figure at the best of times, for not all the Sindar respected their ways.

Rising slowly, he murmured to his companions, "I am going for a walk," to which Angion replied, "stay within the perimeter, Hwindo."

Legolas nodded and strolled away, walking slowly as his mind worked.

He thought of his performance as a novice, of what he had learned, of the thing that haunted him now - the strange malady that had taken him not so long ago. He thought of Turion and Lainion, of their lessons and guidance, and he thought of Amareth, of Idhrenohtar and Ram en' Ondo whom he missed.

He stopped of a sudden, his inner musings abruptly ending as his eyes focussed sharply at what stood before him, for there towered a mighty oak, its size and beauty taking Legolas' breath as his eyes took in the magnificent specimen.

"'Tis awe inspiring, is it not?" asked Narosén who had appeared at Legolas' shoulder silently, making the boy flinch.

"It is... majestic," whispered the novice, his mouth barely moving, his eyes fixed on the massive expanse of its branches and leaves, his eyes alight in wonder.

Narosén, however, was watching the young warrior carefully, his own, honey-coloured eyes anchored firmly on the strange green irises of the Sindar boy.

"'Tis strange to come across a Sinda who admires a tree the way you do, child."

Legolas scowled, ripping his eyes momentarily from the tree to the strange Spirit Herder beside him.

"I am Silvan," was all he said.

"You do not look Silvan," came the all too familiar retort which always managed to exasperate him. Calming his irritation, he explained as briefly as he could so that he would be left once more to admire the tree before him.

"I am both, Sir, but my heart lies in the forest, with my people."

"A Silvan at heart then, if not of blood."

"Of blood too, Narosén," said Legolas somewhat curtly.

"I do not mean to offend, only to comprehend, warrior. I - I have been observing you for some time now. You are restless and in your wandering you have come here, to this tree - why?" asked Narosén softly.

"I did not come to the tree, Narosén, I simply came across it."

"That is a matter of perspective, I suppose," he said with a smile. "Come, join me?" he asked as he held up a skin with what Legolas could only hope was wine. He was not on duty and would be permitted to drink, in moderation of course.

"Legolas gave Narosén a tight smile and nodded, following him under the boughs of the oak until they sat near its base.

Legolas accepted the skin with both hands and a nod, before taking a long draught, savouring the rich, woody aroma that warmed his chest, before handing it back and watching as his companion drank.

"Why do you watch me?" asked Legolas in genuine curiosity.

"I am not sure, eh, what should I call you?" asked Narosén with a frown.

"I have many names," said Legolas with a smile. "Hwindohtar, The Silvan, Legolas... you may choose," he said with a smile as he drank once more.

"The Silvan?" came the surprised question.

"Yes, I know - I do not look Silvan. My father was a Sinda and my mother a Silvan. I have inherited his face but her eyes. It is more a question of the soul, Narosén. I feel Silvan, they are my people, the ones I wish to protect..." he finished, his eyes turning inwards with his own thoughts.

"Then Silvan you are, of that there can be no doubt. I knew from the way you admired our sentinel," he said lightly, but his eyes betrayed him, for there was a heaviness in them, a deep, almost hungry expression in them.

"Sentinel?" asked Legolas, his eyes focussing once more on Narosén.

"The more sensitive members of our society say this tree is our guardian, the one that looks over us."

"What do you mean by sensitive?" asked Legolas, his right hand smoothing over the mossy ground beside his legs.

"There are those that can feel the trees, that feel their emotions. They can sense their moods, feel their joy, suffer their fear..." he whispered finally, honey eyes wide and almost aflame as they sank into Legolas' green irises.

Legolas' own eyes were wide, not quite sure of how to interpret Narosén's words but one thing was for sure - it was a plausible answer to his own predicament - was he himself one of these sensitive elves?

His hand brushed over the ground once more and Narosén's eyes followed it. A long finger reached out and brushed over a root and the young warrior froze, as if struck.

"Legolas?" whispered the Spirit Herder.

"Child... do not be afraid..."

He heard, as if from far away, but he could not answer and the colours were back, that green and purple halo appeared once more, surrounded everything but when he looked at the sentinel now, it was shining a dazzling white blue, transparent though and something moved within, the sap pumping up and down the trunk, pulsing into the branches and into leaves, a living life force of pure light.

He had not breathed for some time and he sucked in a laboured breath, standing shakily upon legs that threatened to give way. Narosén followed suite, his eyes never leaving those of the boy.

"Do not be afraid..." said the Spirit Herder, watching in fascination as a white-blue light was reflected in the boy's green eyes, a light that he himself could not see.

"What...."

"It is a good thing, Silvan. Feel it, let it in... for Kementári has blessed you."

His mind was filled with emotions and sensations, of sureties and doubts, of something arcane he could not fathom and it was suddenly too much, and with a cry he fell to the forest floor, only his strong arms keeping him from falling flat on his own face.

Narosén was beside him in a flash, his own face alight in wonder and awe, the strange blue light now dwindling in his own eyes. He spared a glance into the brush to his right, where an elf stood watching, and Narosén nodded at him, watching as Lorthil returned it, and then melted away into the darkness of night.

"Now I understand," murmured the Spirit Herder, his face shining with wonder. "There is hope, hope for the Silvan people." He smiled then, before looking down upon the beautiful child that sat upon the ground beside him. His long hand reached out and smoothed down the strange locks of blond and silver, before his fingers traced the outline of his large green eyes and then ran down the side of his smooth rosy cheek.

"Legolas of the Woodland Realm," he whispered, watching as the singular face turned to meet his gaze, open and trusting.

"You, are ours!" he announced solemnly.