One full cycle of the sun and still, Turion sat alone, away from Lainion and the warriors and the Avari understood him well. The Sinda was proud to a fault and did not want to be in anyone's company whilst he mourned the loss of their novice, for with every passing moment, mourn he did - Lainion knew him better than most.

Lainion however, had yet to believe that Legolas had perished. It was absurd, incomprehensible, after all they had been through. They were on the brink of carrying out their plan, one which would restore a strong and powerful king upon the thrown, curb the growing Sindar domination so that they may strive for a better, freer nation. He did not want to think about the boy himself though, for to do so would undo him, and he could not let that happen, not when he was lieutenant of a patrol.

So absorbed was the Avari in his own inner turmoil, that he visibly flinched when Faunion abruptly rose from the ground, standing taut, as tight as his bow string, his head tilted upwards. But Lainion had no time to wonder, for the early afternoon silence was suddenly shattered by a cry from a distant guard. The lone call echoed around the glade, long and melancholy, and their hearts froze - Someone approached...

Seconds later, frantic bird call exploded around them. Eagles, owls, finches and crows became an orchestra of nature, blending now with the Silvan villagers who stood and mimicked their woodland neighbours; it was not the enemy that approached but something benevolent, for surely this was nothing if not a hail, in the purest of Silvan fashion.

Those inside the village hall walked outside, their faces lifted to the trees in awe, for they had not heard this sound for many many years, not since darkness had begun to encroach upon their forest. It was a union of Silvan foresters and birds, elves and animals singing together in harmony, as if they understood one another perfectly. It was beautiful and they smiled as they came to stand beside those that were already outside.

Placing one booted foot before the other, slow and tentative at first, Lainion inched forward, his body leaning from one side to the other, as if the movement would help him to discover the identity of what approached.

And then it was silent once more, so quiet it was not natural and the warriors and villagers were left standing amidst the echo of their ancient melody.

From the mist of the trees, an outline became visible, a form slowly defining itself. A warrior, a warrior carrying something and although his face could not yet be seen, Lainion was already bounding forwards, one word flying from his lips, a hoarse cry of utter relief.

"Legolas!"

An overwhelming sense of gratefulness infused him and he smiled as he ran. The Valar be praised, not dead, not dead! he rejoiced.

"Hwindo!" shouted the warriors. "Hwindohtar!"

The villagers moved forward more cautiously until two women broke free and ran towards the slowly approaching figure, their lithe figures rapidly overtaking the others as they shouted the names of their children, their arms held out before them. It was enough for the spell to be broken and they all rushed forward.

Lainion had skidded to a halt and now looked on in awe, his leather skirts still fanning around his knees.

The children had been wrapped in wet clothes, their faces almost completely covered, their eyes red-rimmed but sparkling with life - they lived and the women shrieked as they pulled the children away, desperately clawing at the cloth that held them to the warrior's body, pressing them to their chests and shouting praises to the heavens as they ran back to the healing halls, not once looking back.

Legolas, now relieved of his two charges, slowly sank to his knees and bowed his head in utter exhaustion.

Turion stepped forward, his face the very picture of shock and disbelief.

"How? How did you survive that?" he asked slowly.

Legolas lifted his gaze, his eyes red and puffy, his face almost completely black. He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a painful sounding rasp that rapidly turned into a fit of dry coughing that sent him to his hands and knees.

A healer was soon by his side, but little could she do out here and so she gestured for the warriors to bring him in, hurrying after them as they supported the barely standing warrior.

Soon, Legolas sat upon a freshly made pallet on the ground. His weapons had already been removed and carefully stored in a corner. The straps of his quiver and knives soon accompanied them and now, as Lainion, Turion and Faunion sat at a cautious distance, the healer began to unlace his outer protection. Legolas made to help her but she stopped him.

"No. The more you move, the more you will aggravate that cough. Stay still, let me do it."

It seemed he had not the strength to object, and so he sat there in a state of utter submission as his under tunic was finally removed, leaving him naked from the waist up.

The healer gasped, and then tutted as her eyes raked over the muscled torso of her patient. Now whether the gasp had been elicited by the bruises, scrapes and burns that covered him, or the impressive form of their warrior, Faunion could not say and he stifled the strange urge to chuckle, in spite of the situation.

"Now what are we to do with this mass of locks, hum?" she asked kindly, for she needed it out of the way and so, she gathered the plaited braids on top until they were bunched at his crown, taking a longer piece of straight hair and using it as a band, she secured it with a clasp from her own hair. Leaning back, she smiled wickedly as she contemplated her makeshift up-do.

"Aren't you a handsome one, child!" she chuckled as she worked. Faunion did laugh then, but it didn't last long, for Legolas had not reacted at all to her words.

"Now boys. I need some time with, eh, Hwindo?" she asked.

"Aye, Hwindo," said Faunion with a smile. "It's," he began, holding his hand up, "it's a long story..." he smiled, and the healer smiled too, nodding, and then ushering them out, for the young Hwindo was not feeling well, and was obviously too proud to submit himself to the attention he so obviously needed.

Alone now, she turned back to her patient and smiled. "So you are the one..."

TSTSTSTSTSTSTTSTSTSTTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

Dull light filtered through the small window at his bedside, and Legolas opened his eyes. They were sore and still stung, and he resisted the urge to rub at them. The heaviness in his chest was still there, and only the slightest of movements had him straining to cough, something he did not want to do, for with it came pain.

Clearing his sore throat, he looked to the side, in search of water, startling when he realised there was a stranger sitting there, watching him.

The man was tall, with long chestnut hair that hung straight and silky around his shoulders. Light grey eyes stared back at him steadily.

He did not know what to think of him, for he spoke not, and yet his open, heavy gaze told him this elf was old, with a wisdom that comes from a humble life in the forests, indeed he reminded Legolas of Erthoron, his own village leader. Yet this was not Lorthil and Legolas sat up to meet the gaze with his own, less weighty yet just as compelling.

His eyes slipped to the side and the water that stood there, and the elf finally moved, pouring a glass and handing it to Legolas in silence. Taking it, he drank gingerly at first, testing the effects of the cool liquid as it slipped down his burned throat. It felt good and he drank more - too much - and soon enough he was coughing and spluttering, the mysterious elf now beside him, patting his back worriedly.

Before long, the healer was back with a mug of steaming liquid which Legolas eyed with trepidation. She laughed as a mother would at her wayward son and then sat on the edge of the bed.

"Drink it - it is honey and citrus, with some herbs in there to help clear your chest. Drink it all now. And you, Saroden, do not keep him long, he should eat and sleep."

The strange elf simply nodded, and then sat once more, watching as Legolas slowly sipped his hot drink, both hands wrapped around it, enjoying the warmth it lent his hands.

"Saroden," Legolas finally managed to rasp, and the elf winced at the painful sound, holding up his hand for silence.

"Do not, child. I wished simply to speak with you. I am Chief Forester of this village, the father of a child you saved yesterday," he said softly.

Legolas started, his eyes darting momentarily from the mug to Saroden.

"I cannot, will not simply thank you for what you did for it seems - pathetically insufficient. I have spoken to my fellow foresters, those that were at the tree when you arrived. They have told me what happened, of the uselessness of their circumstances..."

Legolas tried and failed to articulate a word, and Saroden held his hand up once more.

"Don't. Please just, listen. I do not - we do not understand how you did it. Perhaps one day we will know the truth, for you see I do not doubt the bravery of my colleagues. I know that if there had been any way to save them, they would have. As it is, it was all they could do to make their own way safely back to the village. So you see I cannot thank you, for that will not express my feelings, but know this. One day, I will lend you a service equal to that you have given to my family. I do not know how, when, or what that will entail, only that we will remember."

Legolas felt his face hot with embarrassment. He could not articulate a single word and perhaps he thought, it was just as well, for he would surely babble and make an ass of himself, and so he settled for a bashful smile and Saroden smiled back, his stern mien now that of a father who smiles upon his prodigal son.

"You are so young, still a novice, and yet - you have won the heart of the Silvan people, child. You have won our respect and our love for your service was selfless, and nothing can be more worthy in the minds of the Silvan people - but this you already knew, did you not, Silvan?"

Legolas smiled wider and nodded. He did indeed know, it was the basis of his own philosophy, what he wanted to achieve as a warrior. He did not want to be a simple fighter, executing the orders of his commanding officers. He wanted to believe it.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Later that day, Legolas was given leave from the healing room, with strict instructions not to exert himself, or try to speak. With a nod and a bow of respect, Legolas had left, in search of the stream where he would wash away the bitter smell of smoke that lingered on him.

Armed with soft cloths and soap he had been procured him with, he walked slowly to the stream, nodding and smiling at the elves that greeted him on his way. He was glad when the stream came into view, for he would finally be alone, alone with his thoughts.

Ridding himself of his clothes, he walked gingerly into the river, wincing as the scrapes and burns stung on contact with the crisp water. His shoulders were soon under the water though, and he let out a sigh of utter relief, one which turned into a long groan of bliss when he loosed his hair and it cascaded down and around him, and then ducked his head below the surface and allowed himself to sink to the sandy bed.

The water was crystal clear and he smiled as he observed the fauna, small, colourful fish darting between the swaying plants that brushed tenderly over his ankles.

Surfacing once more, he relished a rare moment of sunlight, feeling its warmth upon his wet skin. It was a moment of bliss he strove to prolong as he washed himself, his hair, as he dried himself and then donned his now clean uniform, leaving only the outer protection and his weapons.

It was over, and now, reality came back to him and he heaved a long breath.

Why now? Why did everything conspire against him and his dreams?

I do not want this, he said, the words echoing annoyingly in his head as he sat, clean and beautiful, sad and pensive.

He had only ever wanted to be a warrior, a captain perchance, but he did not want this attention, it was not why he had dreamed of serving all his life. It had never been about fame or fortune but about meaning something, belonging, as he had only recently come to realise.

He felt miserable and moved to lean back against the tree at his back, but he stopped himself of a sudden. This tree had startled him just two days ago and a thought occurred to him then. With a deep breath, he let his upper body lean back until the strong wood supported him. He sat rigid for a moment, until nothing happened and the still weary warrior relaxed his muscles and closed his eyes, rueful of his own childish apprehension. It was a tree!

Whatever it was that Narosén had muttered to him that day, he could not let it spoil his plans and a great sense of relief flooded him then and he smiled - it hadn't really been that bad, when he truly thought about it. A somewhat uncomfortable headache, altered vision and this new perspective of the trees that twice had assailed him. Nothing had come of it, not seriously...

The first time had been in battle with the spiders, and according to his superiors he had carried himself well. The second time he seemed to have sensed danger well before it had showed itself, and, with mounting trepidation, Legolas recalled how the third time it had shown him the way to save the children. Indeed, why had it even occurred to him to leave the pump in the first place?

It is a gift...

Every time it had happened, something good had come of it, in spite of the fear it had evoked in him, still did. Had the trees communicated with him on some level he failed as yet to be conscious of?

Do not be afraid...

He wondered then, if his negativity of just five minutes had suddenly turned into hope. Hope that perhaps he could dominate this thing, use it to help and to serve.

It sounded absurd even to his own ears. What was he to do? Speak to the tree? he snorted in genuine mirth then until a thought popped into his mind.

Why not?

He started, and then struggled to decide whether it had come from him, or from some outside source, the memory of Narosén perhaps.

Trees do not speak, Legolas, he ground out to himself in exasperation.

Trees do not speak, they communicate.

He stood abruptly, spinning around and pinning the tree with a disbelieving glare.

It was me and my own thoughts, he said to himself, a dialogue with myself, nothing more...

Chuckling out loud now, he sat back down and leaned back once more, this time more confidently.

It lasted but seconds though, before his body went ramrod stiff and he froze where he sat.

Child of the trees....

He scrambled to his feet and only just resisted the urge to run, anywhere, far away from where he was now but he forced himself to think.

Narosén, Narosén would help him... and with that, raking his now shaking hand through his unbraided hair, he strode into the village, in search of the Spirit Herder, for Legolas was sure, sure that he was, effectively, losing his mind.